Category: Atlántida

Those ceiling spiders

I have nothing against spiders. They eat lots of critters, and that’s a good thing. What’s less good is when they decide to hang out at the tall peak of our bedroom ceiling, and we end up with insect inedibles drifting toward the floor (fortunately not directly above where we sleep).

I finally decided I had struggled with our foldable ladder (which gives us access to above-stairs storage) one too many times. So off to the workshop, and after a few fits and starts, this:

homemade bug spray extender

The lever and plunger are slightly off to the side, so the spray doesn’t hit the wire. And why wire instead of string? Simple — I don’t have any string!

So now I can stand on a chair that lives a meter away, reach up, and spray with much more accuracy than when I had to lean back off the ladder against the wall. Not exactly pretty to look at, but hey, it works!

I don’t like the idea of spraying poison. My ultimate solution will be a lightweight vacuum cleaner extension, but I can’t make that from stuff I have lying around. Up north, I’d wander around Home Depot until I found something that worked. Here, I have to tell someone in a store what I’m trying to do, have them rummage around and come back with the wrong thing, try again, try again—.

 

 

The last box

Since we have to go into Montevideo, today was a beach walk day. Strong wind. Heading back, near the zoo, I saw a trash container that had apparently been blown over. I decided to right it, a bit of a challenge with one arm, since I had Benji on a leash. But I did it.

One shoe box remained on the ground. I picked it up, noticed keys, old photos and a copy of a cédula.

box with personal items

The cédula number is 698,315. I didn’t see the birthdate on the back, but seeing as my cédula number from seven years ago is over 5.8 million, and Uruguay’s population is only 3.5 million, I’d say she had a pretty long life.

 

 

The Great Backhoe Heist

We were working feverishly at our chacra (mini-farm, 14 acres with small house) in preparation for the arrival of a tenant, the second Canadian-dwelling family member of Germany-Russian neighbors who really wanted to rent. Alas, also the second Canadian-dwelling family member of Germany-Russian neighbors who cancelled his trip at the last minute. (Can you guess to whom we won’t be offering to rent in the future?)

I thought it a good idea to flush the rooftop water tank (which overflows back into the well) by letting the windmill run nonstop, but the windmill suddenly started making dinosaur noises: give me grease! I immediately thought of my Namibian friend Burkhart, who lives a kilometer or so up Ruta 11. His farm hand dealt with our windmill a year ago, when Burkhart briefly lived there. Lubricate it myself? At age 63, while fit, I’m not particularly (read: AT ALL) comfortable messing around at the top of an 8-meter windmill tower, with the disengaged fins still pivoting in the wind.

(I’ll work on that: I should be!)

I had phoned Burkhart moments before for advice about our hot water heater (giza in southern Africa), but felt that asking help with the windmill warranted a visit in person.

So I drove to his place. Heading out our dirt road, I noticed a couple guys messing around with our neighbor Jerry’s backhoe.

Burkhart wasn’t at home. Nice chat with his wife. Noticed an accident a couple hundred meters further. Cops, fire truck, some truck off the side the side of the road, or something. Headed back.

Back on our side road, passed someone driving away with Jerry’s backhoe. Behind, a pickup with flashers on. I waved at both.

Got to our place. Phoned Jerry: is this legit, someone driving away with your backhoe?

Jerry: know nothing. Heading north or south on Ruta 11? If north, maybe going to Burkhart’s place.

Back in the car. Photograph the perps.

pickup, backhoe, Uruguay

Call Jerry: they’re turning north on 11. If they proceed past Burkhart’s, I’ll go on ahead to alert traffic police that they’re stealing the backhoe.

At Burkhart’s driveway on the right, I pull off to the left and park. They pass Burkhart’s driveway. I speed on ahead to report to the police that the approaching backhoe is a stolen vehicle. I have to repeat it, perhaps because I’m not mumbling enough to be understood by a normal Urugayan. Another policía transito appears. I repeat my accusation of a theft in progress.

 

No no, he says, he’s a friend of the owner. The gringo?

And the backhoe turns off the road to help clean up the mess.

It took two hours for the clean up, Burkhart later tells me. Who’s paying the time? The fuel? The machine hours? I doubt Jerry cares, but…

….apparently it didn’t occur to them to tell the backhoe’s owner what they were doing?

Why do I even bother to pay attention?

 

Children for sale?

Niños sign, yard in Uruguay

With no call to action, this sign had me a little puzzled. The nearby parking attendant explained that it’s to remind people that there’s a school nearby, with children learning the classic Uruguayan practice they will carry into adulthood, namely wandering around in traffic, oblivious to it. Well, OK, he didn’t say exactly that.

Regardless, assuming that an Uruguayan driver will make the connection between the word niños and the thought that perhaps he should slow down strikes me as an entirely unreasonable proposition.

 

 

 

Benji’s new collar

Benji has managed to lose two (or is it three?) collars in his crazed running around on walks. Once was on the beach. I retraced our entire route and couldn’t find it! Most recently, it was secured with a safety pin. Which worked really well — until it didn’t.

So, new collar, safety pins.

Green dog collar and safety pins

Benji was so excited to have a new collar he immediately wanted to model it for you.

Seriously, this is what he did as soon as I put it on — not moving, just lying there.

Turns out the safety pin wasn’t such a great idea. It came loose almost immediately. So I sewed a few stitches into it. Ya veremos — we’ll see.

 

 

 

The wine prescription

I had to go the doctor to get a piece of paper documenting the dog bite on my leg, sustained when three loose dogs tried to attack Benji, who was on a leash. The paper adds weight to my denuncia filed at the local police station. The bite was superficial, and from my dog (again), but I didn’t share that detail. Not important. Those dogs should not be loose.

The doctor was concerned about my blood pressure, and took his time so that he could measure again. We talked about a few things, and he asked me if I smoked — no — or drank — yes — and he asked white wine? Curious question because yes, I do like white wine, and very few locals do. So he asked me what I thought of Uruguayan wines. Not much; I prefer one from Chile.

Oh, he said, have you tried this and this and this? All sold at Tienda Inglesa, and he even told me the prices. I asked him to write them down, and so he did.

wine prescription

On a prescription pad.