The Next Day We Started His Tradecraft

If a tree falls in the forest will monkey troupes far and wide hear it? 

Yesterday there was a crash across the river behind our western mountain. I thought, landslide? But Rusty saw the big tree falling. We could hear the crashing destruction of the under-story trees and brush as the big tree fell toward the forest floor. Thirty-six hours later the monkeys are still complaining. Well, perhaps that’s too judgmental. Perhaps they’re not complaining at all. Perhaps they’re initiating a monkey recon to locate new digs. Or, perhaps their monkey tradecraft is so perfected that they maintain assets throughout the montaña, and Plan B is already in place. In any event, they’re very loud and visible today. Monkey business . . . probably not as random as it appears.

I went on a semi-covert recon of my own today . . . picking up intel on a pet spay/neuter clinic for Samara. The clinic will be my first volunteer assignment. Costa Rica is blessed with traveling vets who do nothing but spay/neuter pets to keep the dog and cat population under control. The aim, obviously, is the reduction of homeless pets. And what intel did I uncover? I discovered that there are nearly zero beach dogs near Samara, this issue having been resolved in the past through adoption programs. I discovered that I need not reinvent the wheel as this project periodically comes to Samara . . . we just need more volunteers (and funding, always funding, right?).

Speaking of trade craft, Rusty cleverly installed a pet door in one of the terrace screen doors. I couldn’t wait . . . simply could not, would not wait to purchase a proper door especially made for screen doors. Oh no. I just pulled the trigger and purchased the first cat-only size door that I found . . . leaving Rusty to retrofit it into our screen. I believe that wood-carving was involved, so he probably had a grand ol' time.

Since Rusty possesses better than average intelligence (he's a natural at his craft), I believe that he revels in these little operations, which I graciously bestow by my willy-nilly decisions. He indulges my OCD nature by stowing suitcases above the laundry room in a manner such that they are nigh invisible from any part of the home . . . by organizing as much as humanly possible his 800,000 pounds of tools on the southern terrace. He genuinely loves these little challenges. Or maybe I’m drunk or on drugs, or both . . . or need to be. 

I have a sister-in-law who prides herself on accomplishing about a zillion tasks on a Saturday morning. If you speak to Patti around noon on Saturdays, she'll rattle off about a million and one things that she has already accomplished. I've skimmed the pool, trimmed the shrubberies, vacuumed and washed the cars, cleaned the baseboards with a toothbrush, and re-roofed the house. And I always thought, you little tradeswoman, you, I don't care! I don't need nor do I want to hear your list of accomplishments. I had mimosas and watched a hummingbird. That was my big morning. Well, I still don't understand Patti's boundless energy around the house. Patti, is there a pill for that? Was her insane list of achievements Patti's crafty way of challenging me to be a better homemaker? Who can say? Now however, here at Mil Colinas, I do appreciate the pride that Patti feels from her myriad morning tasks. 

My nesting is almost complete. Almost. So much so that I may need to take-up Dr. Freddie's offer to volunteer with women's and children's groups. That, or start soap and candle making. Yesterday I planted ginger, birds of paradise, blah, blah, blah. . . you don't give a care, and I won't bore you. Suffice to say, the home is taking shape. Most of the artwork is hung (Rusty did that), the Africa photos are on the wall in a special place of honor surrounding some of the gifts from African chieftain pals. Yes, animal skins abound -- so sue me, PETA.

Now before I go off on my whiny tangent below, let's look at some of the came-with-me-from-the-US-and-I-refuse-to-let-'em-go items. I concede that I'm as guilty as the next expat . . . I simply don't pine for what's not here (except for that pot rack). We'll start with my Tin Tin books and posters and move on to the bed linens. Tin Tin books? I know . . . who am I to judge (keep reading). I'll tell you who I am. I'm the gal who made a show-place from a mud hut in Burkina Faso. And did it largely with locally re-purposed items. 

Here’s my other recon observation of the day (you’ve been holding your breath, right?): There are too many expats in this land who never seem content. Not in Samara . . . I wouldn't suggest that any of you live here in Samara . . . but you know who you are. Did you folks really come all this way to demand a grocery trade in Oscar Meyer bacon, Bumble Bee tuna, and Starbucks? Can I offer you some Fox News and a BigMac? How about a dry-cleaning bag so that you can totally isolate from the Tico culture?

Whoops. Someone needs a cocktail . . . maybe get out of the blog trade until someone develops a better attitude. Lo que hay.