When I really like what I am eating, I tend to dance. Not standing up, but sitting down. I dance in my seat. And if there is music, all the better. So Wednesday morning I was taking my morning oatmeal (chocolate flavored) and scooting about to the radio when I was struck still by a realization. Although I had not considered myself a subscriber of jazz, the Costa Rican jazz station had found a willing set of ears. However, after three days of listening, I recognized the music as different familiar genre. This class of music, this “jazz,” was the tranquilizing background music of doctor`s office waiting rooms, mall corridors, and elevators… really any place that would cause me anxiety. As such I had avoided it with passion back home. But as that world is now far removed, and the association with jazz and uncomfortable spaces dissolved over time and distance, jazz can be enjoyed.
On side note, I have suffered my first machete wound. This week I played the antagonist pitted against a barbed wire fence (my skirt bore the brunt, but my hands and forearm bare scratches), a shovel (my shin and knee are graced with a purple blue crests… I am hillside digging challenged), and my very own machete. I was filing my beloved machete, which I believe is a much more dangerous act than actually wielding it, and I got all caught up in rhythm of filing. So much so that I nearly missed the edge of my right thumb slice itself right off. However, the subsequent outpour of red gummed everything up so much that further filing was suspended. Nevertheless, the wound is little to speak of. Previous accidents with kitchen utensils have created much more excitement.
But yet further animation was caused by an ant yesterday as I scurried out of my community in six a.m. semi darkness for a day of machete shopping in Changuinola. I closed a gate on the goat pasture encircling my house, and as I placed my hand on the gate, a very gracious ant placed its stinger around the tender tip of my ring finger. A throbbing exploded from my finger and the air in my chest could neither leave nor be refreshed. This contender of an insect was a bullet ant. It`s name comes from the effect of its sting, which purportedly feels like being hit by a bullet. Although I lack the bullet wound for comparison, I would not dispute its naming based on my recent experience.
I spent the rest of my hike staggering not unlike a drunkard and resisting the constant urge of dragging my finger through the mud puddles to cool the burning pain. Eventually the pain traveled up though my hand and to my forearm. I kept trying to just shake it out. As I sat in taxi leaving my site I discovered the most peculiar bit of my new injury. My swollen, hot pink finger was wet. Initially I attributed it to rain water dripping into the taxi. But once I eliminated that possibility, I inspected to sting to check for seeping. No such luck. My finger was sweating, rather profusely, but only the finger tip above the first joint.
I am glad to report my left finger has returned to its previous condition with only a pink pinpoint mark to denote yesterday`s encounter with yet another one of Panama`s ant species. However, my right thumb still complains bitterly with each tapping of the space bar.
calculating and discussing financial losses in cacao due to unmanaged disease... which can easily exceed $1000/hectare... equivalent to the annual income of some of my farmers
identifying critters (pests and beneficials) in the cacao field
my job security... a disease called black pod
monilia, enemy number one, in its last stage on the far left. it is a fungus that all out attacks cacao fields
a pretty fungus on a decaying log
