Like a Hola in my Head

Hola, amigas y amigos y familia!

Saying “hola” instead of “hello” is just one of the things that remind me I live in Central America.  Of course, there are other signs.

Like, this morning I was out on the porch drinking my coffee.  I hadn’t had enough coffee yet to be able to raise my

pumpkin head – my neck just couldn’t support it.  So, I settled for looking at the bricks and my feet.  But instead of my adorable feet, with their Flintstone big toes, there appeared below, feet belonging to a Neanderthal Man.  I tried to run away but they followed me, those hairy, callused meat-pads.  After I woke up (I quickly crashed into the side of the house because I still couldn’t raise my head) I realized that the feet were attached to my very own ankles.

After dismissing the alien transplant theories, and the idea that a crazy Panamanian cult needed my beautiful Caucasian feet for some sort of sacrifice to Volcan Baru, in whose shadow I live, I accepted that the feet were actually mine.  It was unnerving.  My toe knuckles each had sprouted little, wispy, black hairs.  Likewise, the tops of my feet had grown a comb-over’s worth of black hairs.

As I drank more coffee I was able to raise my head enough to examine my ankles which are peppered with tiny bug bites…and hair.  All of these new developments are, of course, the result of the onset of “GP” or Geriatric Puberty – and also of not wearing shoes.  I’m not always barefooted, that would be unwise, but in and around the house there is no reason to get dressed up.  Besides, every time I put on socks my little dog, Betty thinks we are going for a walk.

Another, related sign that I live in Panama is the constant itching that occurs between my calves and my caveman feet.  I guess “Medical Professionals” would call that area the “Ankle” but, it’s more of the Cankle.  Anyway, it is not my custom to

wear crew socks and no shoes, consequently my tiny, dancer-like cankles are either in the process of being feasted upon by “little buggers” (That’s what I call them just before I flatten their little bodies against my bronzed skin), OR my bites are in the process of healing, which takes about…, well… I guess I don’t know how long it takes because I constantly itch.

Eventually, I know my cavalier attitude towards shoes will come back to bite me (or more accurately – sting me) in the

form of a scorpion.  But, evolution is a curious thing, and by not wearing shoes the soles of my feet will slowly turn into a thick, rubbery under-coating (I can throw it in if you don’t tell my manager) which will protect me from the scorpion’s stinger.

 

I have a friend, or shall I say ‘had a friend’, who just got stung on the leg, or shall I say on the ‘stump’, and he lived (right up until he didn’t).  I know it hurts, but there is no evidence that it can kill you (God rest his sole, er, ah..soul)

Another sign that I live in the tropics, is that little rack of clothes drying on my porch.  The other day I went to visit a friend (Her husband had just passed away) and to show my respects I brought a couple loads of laundry.  Well, for some reason their dryer stopped working (welcome to Panama), and I had to bring my wet

clothes back home with me (How rude!)

After borrowing a bunch of plastic hangers from her I hung my laundry on any place that looked like it would hold, including my little drying rack.  Low and behold, the next morning, most of it was still there, AND almost dry!  Strangely, later that day, I found two of my socks in the empty lot next door.  They weren’t together, but they were a pair. 

 

I’m guessing the Volcano cultists discarded them as they ran from the crime scene with my feet.

                                           DP