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Published: February 2nd 2007
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Living in Squalor. . .Our Volunteer House
Our volunteer house is located in Santa Teresa as is owned by a couple named Gabi and Hubert. They are both French, and skilled acrobats. Hubert held the world title several years ago, and now he works as a trainer for Cirque du Soleil. They hold classes in the front yard and there is even a trapeze which instead of swinging, is used to practice flips and other tricks while the trapeze lays dormant.
For the last two and a half weeks, Gabi and Hubert have been in Canada working with Cirque du Soleil. Their two small children, ages three and five, stayed behind with the live in nanny who also has two small children around the same ages. Gabi's mom came to visit for a bit, but most of the time it's just Annette taking care of the children on her own. (Poor lady) Ne, is the housekeeper. He comes Monday-Fri to clean and organize and walk the dog, Puto.
Most of the time the house is in good condition even though they are a bit stingy with the toilet paper. They store it upstairs, in Gabi and Hubert's part of
the house and only give it to us when we make a direct request. The problem is, many weekends have come when there isn't any paper in the house, forcing us to go out and buy. (Why two rolls can't be left downstairs on a weekend is beyond me.) The living room, which has a wall size opening onto the garden reminds us of a deep veranda. Because the weather is tropical, it's never too cold, but boy do we get some uninvited guests!
Never mind the geckos and centipedes, but the mosquito problem here is terrible. We (Rita, Nicole, Jed, me) are bitten so often that all you hear are us scratching at sore skin, spraying repellent, slapping bugs off the backs of our necks, all creating a cacophony of sounds worthy of STOMP. Even worse, we have waterbugs! And if you think the huge cockroaches in NY are scary, add 1 inch and you've just met his Brazilian cousin. Beastly! And even worse, as frightened as I am, I am the one who has to kill them. With Nicole screeching and working my last nerve, and Jed's complacency, I'm bound to go crazy. So far, I've killed
seven waterbugs this week, all with a broom. I even had one crawling on my foot while using the computer and when I went to hit it with the broom, another one flew out of the broom while a third stood there watching the action unfold. I swung that broom so many times, slamming them into the ground, that when I was done I wanted to beat my chest and roar.
On top of the waterbug problem, the house has been falling apart this week. First, we lost our hot water. Then we lost all of our water!! No precious, clear liquid to cook, clean, shower, or even flush the toilets. We then learned that the bathroom in the other rented bedroom works so we use the sink to rinse our lettuce leaves, and fill pots to cook pasta. We take only two minute showers because we don't want to deplete our only reserve. The dishes have been piling and piling up, and they are meal encrusted, pleasantly tantalizing for the 3" monsters on patrol. We had one "wb" in our kitchen wall so long that I named him Harry. He was too high for me to reach with
the broom, and since he saw my killer swing (Barry Bonds, who?), he hadn't moved in days. But the minute he did, I was ready. Bam! Boom! Splack!
Moreover, with Ne gone on the weekends, there's no one to walk Puto, and he poops all over the front yard and in the garden. I've named it the
Jardim do Merda, and refuse to use the hammock for that sole reason. But every time I come home when its dark I have to be on poop patrol for Puto's human sized fecal deposits. (I've already stepped in it twice) Even worse, they never bathe him, so he's so smelly that he leaves a trail of funk if you get too close. But he's really sweet, big, and dumb and just wants attention and love, which he never gets. Poor Puto . . .
To add insult to injury, a huge bat flew in and circled our heads several times while we ducked and cowered and screeched. He finally left and headed for the
Jardim do Merda, for a whiff of Puto's manure.
So, with no running water, the filthy kitchen, the filthy bathrooms . . . wait! Let's talk about the bathrooms! We have our ensuite bathroom and one adjacent to the kitchen. The one adjacent to the kitchen was used by Nicole for several hours Saturday night as she proceeded to puke her brains out. She, including Jed and myself, did vodka shots and planned to leave for Lapa (a neighborhood with cool parties) to hang out. But she was in the bathroom for two hours and then it was too late.
The next morning, she was in there for four hours straight! The whole bathroom reeked of vomit, and it was disgusting. Our ensuite bathroom reeked of urine and was so gross we had to keep the door shut tight so the smell didn't waft into our room. We wanted to use a pot of water to flush but didn't know how much water we had left in the tank and preferred to save it for our showers and tooth brushing. Even worse, I realized Jed was still using the busted bathroom even though we had a functioning one right off the garden. The second time he did it, we asked him why he is peeing in a toilet that doesn't flush, in a bathroom with no water. His answer? "I'm not peeing in the toilet. I'm peeing in the shower." No wonder the whole thing reeks like an amusement park urinal, your lazy behind is peeing on the floor and leaving it there to bake and ferment in the heat! Did I mention we had no windows in our bathroom? Well, one that looks out onto the living room, so the smell wafts in and smothers the unfortunate individual using the computer in a funk blanket so pungent I swore it had a color.
So we all reamed Jed out for peeing in the shower, where when the water was restored, we would have to use. Nicole was more frightened for her shampoo bottles which were resting on the floor and were undoubtedly splashed by the golden shower. We did allow him to fill up a pot of our precious water so he could rinse the shower and alleviate it of some of the smell.
Needless to say, we were so depressed this weekend we renamed the house
Favela Deprimida. (favela of depression) Sadly that was the only thing that made us smile.
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