It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and it’s dark. Dark enough to require electric lights inside. Welcome to the wet season y’all.
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It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and it’s dark. Dark enough to require electric lights inside. Welcome to the wet season y’all.
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This was another hike that Drude and I took at the end of April 2006. Camino de Cruces (the Road of Crosses) is the gold road – it's the second of two roads the Spanish built to haul gold and silver from Panamá City to Portobelo where it could be shipped off to Spain to fund the Empire. The hiking trail follows the old road out to the Chagres river – there are parts where you can see some of the old cobbles still in place (though most of the road was never paved). So many pack trains went through there that there's one narrow rock cleft where you can still see mule prints carved into the stone.
Let me say up front that I don't have anything against geckos. I LIKE geckos – they're cute, they've got bright little eyes, funky splay-fingered hands and feet, and they make this adorable chirping sound in the middle of the night. It's hard to be afraid of something that cute that's only 2 1/2 inches long. Plus they eat mosquitoes – which BELIEVE me, I appreciate.
But enough is enough. This isn't the occasional gecko hanging out on a window, chirping. This is like some sort of horror movie: Day of the Gecko
It's a plague of geckos.
They're on the wall, on the sink, behind the light switch, hanging out by the trash can, scuttling across the ceiling, perched on top of the knife block so they fling themselves off and land with a little "thwap" sound every time I reach for a knife. (There's something very disturbing about that thwap).
I can't leave a glass on the end table for five minutes without a small lizard investigating the little puddle of juice at the bottom. I almost swallowed one once because I went to take a drink without looking first and ended up spitting out a mouthful of gecko and juice — leaving the poor gecko paddling around in it like it was doing some sort of demented doggy paddle. There are two of them that chase each other up and down the legs of my end table hissing at each other (fighting over the best juice stalking spots I imagine).
I'm tempted to try and catch them and put them outside but 1) they're territorial – they'd probably find their way back or else new ones would move in. And 2) I'm afraid their little tails will fall off if I touch them. Pathetic, I know, but I'm squeamish.
I was incredibly lucky to find my house – I looked for almost three months at one overpriced, badly decorated, high-rise apartment with a pokey kitchen after another before finally deciding to take my current house – I originally thought it was too big for one person (it kind of is) but it was way better than any of my other options. So in addition to having cool neighbors like Drude, La Pirata de Panama, and the eejit, I'm surrounded by green space even though I'm smack in the middle of Panama City. My landlord is inordinately fond of fruit trees – which attracts lots of birds. These are just a few of the things I've seen in my backyard – nothing particularly rare or exotic, but after having grown up in the north-east US, the variety just amazes me.