Killer of cockroaches.
Yes that’s right. I have in the past 2 1/2 weeks killed 15 cockroaches. Drowned them, squished them, sprayed them. trapped them and fed them to the alligator fish…you name it, I’ve murdered one of the massive buggers that way all with the help of may incredible roommate who suffers from night terrors. The other night I was woken up to the news that there was “a man wearing a mask in the room.” W.T. actual F.? I took this news surprisingly well and explored the room reluctantly with sleepy eyes and the light from my phone. Upon inspection there was no man, just a mosquito net. Perhaps it was at one time wearing a mask, but by the time I shined the light its way it had cleverly removed it. She and I are an awesome team though, she gets scared and I sleep through it usually. I really have pity for the poor bastard who takes my place in the room once I’ve cleared out unless they are a heavy sleeper. She says some insane stuff in the wee hours, but I adore her. Crazy nocturnal behavior and all.
As well as cockroach genocide; I’ve also been doing other stuff. I’ve been playing with a parachute, clinging for dear life to the outside of bus doors as we snake through the streets and my butt gets grazed by countless bike’s handlebars. I’ve been doing the Hokey Kokey (Pokey to those of you in the US and those of you who do it RIGHT), I’ve been being bullied by children and laughed at by adults for no other reason than that I’m white. It’s all a bit different, but it’s never boring and at times this place feels like home. Hot, sweaty, stinky, crazy home.
My house mother enthralls us with tales of her unhappy marriage and has advised me to get my own “special friend” in Sri Lanka, as going without “the sex” for three months for a married lady is the worst thing she can possibly imagine. Although she herself is not having any of “the sex” with her own husband. Opportunities are rife in Sri Lanka. Not a day goes by when someone doesn’t get felt up on the bus or shouted at in the street. The sight of our reflective flesh apparently really does it for them. Porn is very new here and all the porn that they get is western, so they are under the impression that all us white girls are up for it. Even the monk at the temple I teach at is a bit flirty. Naughty monk.
I have become accustomed to the dirt and now eating with my hands is a less messy affair, though now I’ve gotten a bit complacent. At one point I was using anti-bac every 15 minutes. But now I’ve gotten a bit slack. Eating without washing your hands here creates the same fear as I imagine having anonymous unprotected sex does (never done it for the record.) At the time you know it’s wrong and dangerous, but you’re too focused on the joy of the act to pause and potentially ruin the moment and the pleasure. Why stop at a sink that never has any soap? It’s more about ritual than practicality then. It’s a risky game, this bacterial roulette and every time it happens I spend days wondering what the consequences of my poor hygiene choices might be. Touch wood I’ve not been sick yet. Or gotten lost. All in all I’m doing OK. In fact I’m doing bloody marvelous. I may just open my own extermination business once I return to the UK.