Written at site, August 14th 2011, 7:24pm
So, I’ve decided that my least favorite time of day is
between 6:30pm and 8:30pm. The reasons are thus: At 6 or so, the sun begins to
set. Ordinarily, this time of day is beautiful, but it also means the onset of prime-time
mosquito buffet hours. Although I take a very powerful malaria prophylaxis,
it’s still only 95% accurate at best. These two things tend to drive me inside.
I am forced to acknowledge the waning hours of being able to read without
squinting and with a sigh, I retire indoors. This leads to the second regret of
the 6:30-8:30 hours: my false entomological bravado. Yea, I may have trapped
and released way-faring bugs in a previous life, but I’m still a wuss. A big
one. A line from an Alanis Morisette song comes to mind: “I’m sad but I’m
laughing, I’m brave but I’m chicken-shit,
I’m sick but I’m pretty, baby!” That’s the Peace Corps for you. Chicken shit.
Once I go inside I usually find myself sitting in my blue
and white wooden slat chair in my kitchen/living room/mud room/workout room.
The chair is reminiscent of one from pictures of upper-middle class families
who wear white and khaki for a “candid” family photo with the perfectly posed
and well-behaving chocolate lab on the beach in Destin, Florida. You know the
ones. To be fair, those chairs are pretty comfortable. But we’re missing the
point here: no one dresses like that in real life, chocolate labs never sit
that still, and Chelsea is not in Destin. Thinking about sitting in a chair
like that on a beach, perhaps with a cold beer in hand is quite relaxing. But
between the hours of 6:30-8:30pm, I am not relaxed, no matter how many Coronas
deep I imagine myself to be. My Destin chair is makes me feel safe, but I can’t
leave once I’m there. It’s like watching the cooking channel: it’s so
comforting and they make it look so damn easy
but you know it’s going to get you in the end because no one can watch Paula
Deen without gaining weight through osmosis. My chair is like that. A temporary
safe place that has a downside you don’t want to admit. As I read by headlamp
(squinting) the sounds associated with living in a mud-brick, tin roof home in
the middle of nowhere West Africa are, to say the minimum, amplified. Since
it’s dark, I’m alone, and yes, I’m a girl, they’re downright panic-inducing.
Quite the opposite of Destin this time of year.
Yes, they’re mostly the same sounds that I hear during the day: pigeons landing,
geckos slugging their soft bellies against the corrugation, lizards racing
through the eves, their nails on a metal roof worse than the accidental scrape
of Mrs. Yozzo’s nails on a chalkboard. (Mrs. Yozzo was my fifth grade teacher-a
wonderful woman and a model educator with an unfortunate manicure). The sounds
of my African roof make me wonder, though not too curiously, what I’m missing
out on under my other, less alarming American shingled roof. Definitely not
roosting chickens. I can rule those out because my parents’ neighborhood
homeowner association has an ordinance against fowl-raising (and visible
laundry lines, incidentally, though the latter rarely frighten me at night).
At 6:30pm, regardless of my best
pep-talks, I nearly always find myself in my Destin chair, not thinking calming
beach-y thoughts, with my feet tucked as close to the point directly below my
tailbone as is physiologically possible. That is, unless I’m where I am now,
which is cooking dinner at the table (toes curled under tarsals) which abuts
the wall shared with The Cockroach Room.
I’m no fantastic story teller, but I bet you can tell what part of my
house scares me even more than my roof. I’m not sure why I tuck my toes under
my feet. It’s not like I think they’re going to get nibbled off as soon as the
sun goes down (well, maybe I do- Africa and that dang malaria prophylaxis make
you think funny things). Tucking them just makes me feel better in the way that
explaining in a loud voice to another driver why his most recent lane change
made you uncomfortable makes you feel better. You get the idea. All that to
say, the sounds of my night-roof are far from comforting, and I’m beginning to
feel like the visualization of me at the beach in Destin in a crisp bleached
oxford isn’t doing much to lower my blood pressure either.
The Cockroach Room, in brief, is a
puzzling little addendum to my cozy African home. It rests on the east side of
my house and has its own door, no windows, and not other defining feature other
than getting my hopes up when I read my site information packet for the first
time: “Three Rooms house with metal door and windows. Separate latrine is
constructed and floor is cemented.” If I were a real estate agent, I would draw
attention to the smooth concrete floors, say something about them being
warehouse-chic, and declare that such smooth concrete is a real treat for this
neighborhood, and don’t they really set off the mud-brick construction and the
hole you shit in?
Anyways, if you can’t tell from the
generous description, the Cockroach Room is nothing exciting. It’s an empty
room, about 5’x15’ that houses geckos, my bike, and enough cockroaches to make
even the most intrepid PCV shudder. It is a major factor as to why I sit
paralyzed with the heebie-jeebies in my Destin chair, night after night. You
see, the cockroaches like to explore when the sun goes down. They enter my
kitchen/living room/mud room/workout room along the beams connecting the
Cockroach Room to my house. Occasionally, they fall to the floor. Hearing this
tell-tale theck! and the consequent
scuttling makes my adrenal glands pump, my sphincter contract, and my feet curl
even farther under my body. In fact, as of this writing, I’ve moved locations
three times--once because of dinner, once because a cockroach ran over my foot
(good thing my toes were spared) and once because I heard a significantly
attention-grabbing theck! and a
distinct lack of scuttling. This
means three things: most importantly that I’m a giant wuss. Second, the thing
might have died courtesy of my hard, warehouse-chic flooring, or third, and
most probably, IT COULD BE LURKING. Since I’m now tucked under the canopy of my
mosquito net, I’ll kindly direct you my first conclusion and leave it at that.
As has been elucidated, the hours of
6:30-8:30pm are nothing short of harrowing for me. However, I realized while I
was stalking a particularly sneaky cockroach with my trusty can of RAMBO BRAND
bug spray, that if a mere infestation of bugs is my biggest worry, I’m one
lucky gal indeed. All things considered, my life could suck A LOT more than the
very little it does. I also giggled to myself because one, I’m stalking a
freaking insect, and two, my life in America is going to KICK SO MUCH ASS when
I get home, as it is highly unlikely that I will ever live in another place
with a Cockroach Room. Victory.
Someday, in my future Cockroach
Room-free home I’ll look back and laugh at the time in my life when I feared
all scuttling and jumped and the sight of any small, dark object on the floor. (So
what if it’s only a stray jigsaw puzzle piece from a bucolic farm scene my Aunt
Re sent? It looked like it was going to charge). And so what if I’ll never be
able to have a normal blood pressure between the hours of 6:30 and 8:30pm?
(Also, does that count as cardio?) Until then, I’ll try my best to laugh at the
ridiculousness of it all. When 8:31pm rolls around I’ll just tuck in under my
mosquito net for some bug-free sleep, and live to Peace Corps another day!