Life in the Casita

7-23-10

My days have started to fall into a familiar and (mostly) pleasant routine.

I get up most mornings at about 5:30 am – but usually only long enough to open my front door and kick the rooster who’s perched outside, crowing his little heart out like it’s goin’ out of style.  While I kick him, I usually hurl some colorful English his way and wave my arms wildly in the air.  My neighbors find this a strange ritual.  I find it a necessary one, since I don’t even have two pillows I can sandwich my head between and muffle the sound.

Stupid roosters.  I wanna kill him and eat him for lunch.

I wake up again at 7:00, with my actual alarm clock.  After a quick dash to the latrine (thank goodness the mornings aren’t cold here), I wash my hands and rinse my face at the outdoor faucet, my only source of running water.  I have a bar of soap hanging in the toe of some pantyhose – Girl Scout style.  I come back inside, but leave the front door open – it’s considered pretty weird here to close your front door if you’re home.  I light my little two-burner gas stove to make some coffee, and sweep the floor while it’s percolating.  It’s necessary to sweep the floor a couple times a day here, because of all the dust and leaves that blow in – not to mention the bugs that I kill mercilessly at every opportunity.

After breakfast, I get dressed and try to walk around town a little, visiting people, stopping to practice my Spanish.  I talk to Niña Lencha about her recent hospital visit, and buy some pan dulce from Niña Nitcha.  I talk to Daisy, who’s a few years younger than me, about her one-year-old son Jefferson, while we watch him toddle around on unsteady legs.  I even stop in and talk to Don Sebastian about corn prices and the politics of the local Alcalde – the mayor’s office.  (Alright, you got me.  He talks, and I pretend to understand.)

After visiting, I have to run either up to my host family’s house or down to the river to bathe, since I don’t have a bathing area in my house.  Throughout the afternoon, I usually have some charla or meeting to prepare for, and I make colorful posters about daily nutrition, the food groups, hand washing, or common illnesses.  At some point during the day, Rodrigo usually wanders in, either to chase the chickens, or color with my crayons, or demand a snack.  He’s sometimes accompanied by his twin troublemaker, Ruben.  Other people drop in periodically – not usually because they need something, but more because they want to look at the gringa in her natural habit.  They ooh and aah over my bonito refrigerator (or dresser, or bed, or dish rack), and ask me how much it cost.  Then they try to guess which of my things I brought from the States.  Sometimes Delmi, who’s 27 and studying in the university, will come by to learn a few words of English and then gossip a little in Spanish.  Will also sometimes comes by to practice his English, which is improving rapidly.

While I’m cooking dinner, Negra and Jello, my host family’s dogs, come by sniffing for scraps.  The men returning from the milpa will holler their buenas tardes and salus and nos vemos from the road as they pass.  I’ll have pasta or soup or mini-pizzas – or something else easy to make on the stovetop.  I eat all my meals in my hammock, since I haven’t gotten around to buying a table and chairs yet.  At around 7, I’ll finally close my front door and turn off my porch light – retreating into my little casita, where I can be a gringa again for the last few, undisturbed hours of my night.  I sit down with a book, or write in my journal, or call Joanna to commiserate about the roosters yet again.

Life is pretty sweet in the little casita in El Salvador.