The Little House in the Jungle is Back in Business

That business being shooing out geckos, disposing of their poop, squashing, poisoning, sweeping up and in every way possible, eradicating ants. Millions of the little buggers. (Apologies to those who feel all creatures have as much right to live as do humans. I agree. Just not in my kitchen nor my computer, nor upon my person.)
The office where I work is a work of art—if one considers multiple wires dangling here and there, pieces of paper stuck in every little corner, the phone just out of reach from where I sit, and brand new speakers I can’t persuade to function, though I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. (When I do, Meghan, I’ll be on Skype, wanting to chat with you.) The wireless is finally working, thanks to a sweet young man named Christian, though we do need about 30 feet of cable to get the router out to the patio where our hammocks await. The connection speed out there is poor, possibly due to all the metal bars between the office and the patio, not to mention concrete-sheet walls.
Speaking of which, concrete that is, we are very lucky people who could easily have come back and found an enormous mess inside the concrete shell of our interior walls, and been forced to buy a tent to live in. One day, when our neighbor Colleen was here doing her thing with geckos and their poop, ants, spiders, and dust, she smelled something burning, took a look and discovered our electrical connection was on fire (probably because a gecko had climbed inside and shorted it out, according to Filipe, her husband and our part-time care-taker, full-time Godfather.) These electrical things are considerably different from what anyone in North America can picture, for that reason, here’s a picture of ours with all its plastic burned off. The only damage was a small section of melted fabric screening and some minor scorching on the painted wood of the outside wall. We shudder to think… If Colleen hadn’t been here… But she was.
The connector that feeds power to the house is now attached to our concrete block pump-house and the household wiring comes in from that point so if such a thing happens again, all will be well. You have to get a really hot fire to burn down a concrete block shed.
And hot it is here! I love it. I wallow in it! I wear almost no clothing and welcome any small breeze, but still relish being warm—sometimes too warm—and that’s when I turn on a fan. Come evening, though, if I’m in my office, the fan makes it too cool. Probably drops the temperature down to about 22 C. Brrr!
However, before I got home, I did spend a few other warm days near St. Petersburg, Florida, in a fantastically beautiful resort at St. Pete Beach, hanging out with old friends, meeting new ones, and learning an amazing amount of stuff I didn’t know I didn’t know about the state of the writers’ marketplace—and it wasn’t (as has so often been the case), all bad. Nor were the food, the drinks, the ambiance anything but good. In fact, if I didn’t live here, I could happily live there—in that resort, of course, so long as they’d let me do it for free. Novelists, Inc. got us a great deal on room rates, and any food or drink on the premises was 20% off for Ninc members. The resort also fed us two really wonderful dinners, included in our conference fees. Both were served on the beach, with the sun setting into the Gulf of Mexico. I took several photos, but none of them came out. Despite the lovely red glow in the sky silhouetting tall, black grasses, it was simply too dark. Tara, I know, would have made it happen.
Speaking of Tara, we spent four, much-too-short days with her, Ata, and André where we all went into hysterics watching that baby go into his own brand of hysterical laughter over Tikka chasing a bouncing ball. He’s funny, adorable, and I miss him. like all my family, like mad. This picture, however, of Grandpa and Daddy letting André lick the beer bottle may help explain why he's such a happy little boy, always laughing (well, nearly always). Should have heard him when they tried to take it away!
Back here, again, I found my mango tree, which had been little more than a slender trunk with a few spindly branches and leaves eight months ago, is now way taller than I am (Shannon and Alan, and especially Sean, stop snickering! I know that‘s not saying much.) I have no idea how long I have to wait for my first fresh-off-the-tree mango, but it’ll be the best mango I’ve ever eaten, I’m sure.
Veronika, another neighbor, welcomed us home with patees. How’s a person supposed to manage her weight with neighbors like her? I may have to learn to say no. But, gee, that’s hard.