The Little House in the Jungle survived quite nicely again without us, thanks to Filipe and Colleen, our neighbors, who kept the place well trimmed and neat.
Our blue flowered vine grew beyond expectations, too, and affords us a lot of privacy. A strange thing happened while we were away, though. Everyone’s aware of feral dogs, feral cats and feral horses, be we have a pair of feral hens. For some reason, a couple of pullets decided they like the area around our gate and fence. They’re pretty cute in a ragged, unkempt way.
We thought they were starving, maybe having been hen-pecked (or worse, rooster-pecked—right, Auntie O?) and kicked out of their flock. Feeling sorry for them, we began offering them bits of this and that, left-over left-overs. To understand left-over left-overs, you’d have to live in our house. When I cook rice for one dinner, there’s normally enough for at least another one meal, reheated in the microwave, or fried with veggies. When the rice doesn’t all get eaten the second time it’s served, it becomes left-over left-overs, and hence earns the right to be thrown out without having to have strange cultures growing on it first. (I am almost constituently unable to throw out good food, so I wait till it goes bad.) At any rate, the hens, Liza and Prudence, love left-over left-over rice. They’re also fond of celery trimmings, carrot peels, left-over cole-slaw (that never becomes a left-over left-over because the cabbage tastes yucky the next day), cut up broccoli stems, green beans, raw or cooked, and a wide variety of other left-over left-overs. Tomatoes with bad spots on them are another favorite, but they expect those tomatoes to be cut into small pieces. Even when they are, they squabble like siblings over one little chunk before moving on to the next one. “Taking turns” or “Finding your own” are not concepts they have caught onto yet. They are a lot of fun to watch. They do not, however, eat lettuce. It can sit out there in the ditch by the fence until it rots, and they will not touch it.
Because Bob gets up early, the hens have come to expect him to be at the gate the minute he rolls out of bed. If he’s not, they cluck disapprovingly and wait about as patiently as bluejays. Since they have come to rely on him, the other day when we went grocery shopping, he bought a bag of chicken feed. The second time he went out the gate to toss a handful to them, they were so anxious one of them pecked his hand. Well! That, he claimed, was that! They were not getting fed the next day. I suggested that chickens are pretty well bird-brained and might not make the connection between one of them “biting the hand etc.” and the lack of breakfast the following morning. Of course he forgave Prudence or Liza—they’re pretty hard to tell apart—again the next day. I suspect he likes them. At least, whenever we come home from somewhere, he greets them politely, saying “Hello, ladies,” or if he’s feeling less formal, “Hi, girls.”
Our neighbors to the south, Carlos and Veronica, are really great, too. Every couple of days Carlos shows up with a basket of nice, warm paties, (pronounced pah-TEES) which Veronica bakes.
We love them and usually buy four, enough so we can each have one for breakfast or lunch until he comes back. Having one of Veronica’s paties every day is one of the best Caribbean experiences. If we’re hungry when he first gets here, we eat one each right away while it’s still warm from the oven, then refrigerate the others. The next day, a 30 second zap in the microwave is all it takes and breakfast is ready. Yesterday, Carlos brought us a bunch of really sweet, juicy oranges, which we turned into the best orange juice I’ve ever had. Bob offered to buy them but he wouldn’t hear of it. They are a “regalo” (gift) because Bob loaned him twenty-five-hundred colones for something he needed and Veronica had gone away with all the household money. He also paid back the loan, which amounted to maybe four bucks. Today, Filipe brought us a huge bag of mandarin oranges. Having a big family, he doesn’t seem to get the idea that there are only so many pieces of fruit two people can eat before it rots. We’re doing our best, and he told us to go help ourselves when we want more, because there are “mucho” on the “arbol.” If I get back to BC in March looking slightly orange-colored, you’ll know why.
But back to the chickens—One day when Carlos was here he wondered aloud why two of his chickens have decided to live in our driveway. So much for our “feral” hens. We never let on that we save scraps for them and actually buy feed. After all, they ran away from home before we returned, so we’re not responsible for their being here. Bob tells Carlos that they just like us. This morning Carlos asked if they were laying yet. Oops! I guess we should start looking for eggs and taking them back where they belong if we find any. So far, though, we haven’t heard that distinctive “Look-look-look-what-I-did!” cackle, which is what my dad always claimed a hen was saying after she’d laid an egg. Being one of those people who have ovulated more than a time or two, I figure they’re saying “Glad, glad glad that that’s done!” I’m also glad I only had to ovulate once a month. Poor little hens, producing an egg a day. No wonder they holler. They may be saying something quite different from what either Dad or I imagined, but in Spanish. Roosters here don’t say the same thing as Canadian roosters, either, so maybe Pru and Liza are telling us they’ve laid eggs and we’re just not listening for the right clues.
While we were away, my new mango tree about doubled in size. I’m hoping for fruit next year. That would be such a treat!
Because our house is known locally as la casa amarillo, we sort of feel obliged to leave it as “the yellow house” so people can find us.
However, I really disliked lying in my hammock staring at an ugly yellow wall, yellow not being among my favorite colors. So now, that wall that’s inside our screened porch is pale green with lovely rich green trim and because no one can see through our screens from the outside, only those who come to visit are aware that la casa amarillo is only three-quarters yellow, and we’re not telling.
The beaches haven’t really made it back, especially at the Cahuita end of the park. Where we swim, though, it’s still okay, though much deeper much quicker, and the undertow is stronger. Believe me, I don’t go play in the big surf the way I used to. It’s much too dangerous, but I still swim and play when it’s not stormy. I’m thinking of getting myself a boogie board because I find my muscles aren’t quite as strong as they used to be and some extra floatation to get me back inside the surfline would like be a benefit.
Bob's big bicho
More from the Little House in the Jungle another day…
