Home Sweet Home

My roommates and I have finally moved in to our own home.   It’s quite a fantastic place.  It is a 3 bedroom home, sitting on maybe an acre; one third of which is jungle, and 2/3 of which is our front and side yard.  The yard has maybe 25 coconut trees, a handful of pantana trees, and one breadfruit tree.  Most of them are very mature, and as tall as 30 feet high.  In the back, we have some banana trees and papaya trees.  We’ve been told there is a mango tree somewhere as well, but we haven’t been able to locate it yet. 
At the front end of the yard is a road, and directly on the opposide side of the road is the reason why I came – beautiful, clean, untainted ocean. 

Move in day was a bit of a mixed bag.   I was very excited to finally have my own place, but the reality of the fact that I am really here for a year finally hit.  Which wasn’t negative, per se – just a little overwhelming.  It’s a fantastic place to be ‘stuck’ for a year, I digress. 

On the topic of everyone’s least favourite beetle:   Cockroaches are in every home here.  You usually only see 1 – 5 per night, and in everyone else’s home, I didn’t find them to be a bother at all.  My philosophy was that they’re too big to crawl into my ears or mouth while I’m sleeping, so what is there to worry about?  After 10 mins of our first night in our home, and spotting the first two monsters – I quickly transitioned from the gentle, pacifist girl who values living harmoniously with nature to the “Here use my shoe to squash that roach” girl.  Ah, how an island changes a girl.  Last night I even tried an old wackeroo on my own, but successfully managed to send the damn thing flying all around the house.  Karma, I tell you. 

Last night, I partook in my first Sunset Cruise event (a regular Thursday event with the overseas teaching staff, and other ex-pats).   I learned on said cruise, that one glass of jungle juice leads a little island girl to think eating sashimi (see: RAW FISH) is a grand idea.  Raw fish was my only no-go on the fish front thus far, but there goes that boundary.  I did eat it in sushi rolls, so I must admit, I did not taste it nor notice the texture – and still can’t see myself chomping down on a giant piece of raw flesh. 

I have to admit, the fish diet is working quite well for me.   I cringe to think I’ve latched on to a pescetarian lifestyle, so readily – but it’s truth that I feel extremely healthy, and have been enjoying the fish.  Fish here, I can only imagine, is an entirely different kind of meat than at home.  I know at home, shipping, freezing, defrosting, and laying out for too long are all part of a grocer fish’s shelf life.  I know now that the smell of fish we know in North America, is actually the smell of rotting fish.  The fish here, is caught sometimes 30 mins before being ordered, and has zero ‘fish taste’.  Tuna and Wahoo is huge and fresh and everywhere, as are maybe 25 different kinds of small, brightly coloured reef fish.  You can fish ‘em yourself, or buy them from anywhere – even the gas station!  I’m definitely not at the ‘clean it yourself’ phase, but made have an arrangement with my roommates to the slogan of “you clean it, I cook it”, which I think will work just fine. 

I hope this arrangement isn’t taken advantage of, as one of my roommates just walked out the front door toting a machete, and saying “You won’t be waking up to the sound of chickens in morning much longer, girls”. 

The machete is the island equivalent to the North American fork, as far as I can tell.   Walking down the street past men swinging giant machetes is one of the few things I haven’t gotten used to just yet.  I have latched on to so many other foreign concepts quite readily – ie: instead of Elgin St. Diner post-libation poutine indulgence, last night involved standing in the back of a flatbed pickup and driving through a few towns to buy ice cream from a road-side stand that also sold “Pork Butts”, for the low, low price of $2.45.  Whether that’s for one cheek or two, it’s a pretty good bang for your buck.  Needless to say, I settled for the mint chocolate chip cone.

A brief on naming children on island.  I now have my local name – Tulpe (pronounced, Tull-pay), or Melanie Arney Jonas (the first and last name of my Host Father).  All in all, I’ll take it.  Naming sometimes follows a pattern of naming people after relatives, as in my case – but sometimes takes a dramatic turn towards naming people whatever the hell sounds appealing.  For example, my landlord’s children are named Johnny-Boy, and Donkey. 

With that, I bid you all Tuwoh.  

(photo:  My front lane, Lelu.)