Maybe it’s me, not Africa

I seem to always have stories of crazy things happening rather frequently to me. (Though not enough time to write about them all.) And I also tend to assume that these things happen because I live in Dar and well, it’s Dar. (Not better, not worse, just a different latitude.) But this past weekend I realized that maybe it’s me, maybe it’s not Africa.

To make a long story short I was in Spain recently. And for those of you that know anything about world events, the final of Euro 2008 was at the same time- Spain against Germany being played in Vienna. I would have loved to be in Germany seeing as I’m a huge Germany fan (largely due to the fact that my future husband is captain of the German team- and coincidentally a Chelsea player), but I was in Spain with my cousin which I wouldn’t trade for the world.

To start the trip my bag was lost en route to Madrid. The printer at the ticket agent counter in Dar wasn’t working properly so the baggage tag didn’t actually have a complete barcode or number on it which made it rather hard to transfer the bag in London. But bags are sent to Kalamazoo all the time on accident so I didn’t think much of it. And the beauty of Madrid more than made up for the clothing issue. I have to say that the atmosphere in the Spanish capital was electric, with people wearing either red or their Spain jerseys on Saturday around town (I’m glad I wasn’t watching the match next to those people on Sunday) and Spanish flags flying everywhere- attached to car antennas, balconies, backpacks, etc.

Sunday arrives and all anyone is talking about is the players and injuries and experience and who will be starting for both teams. Despite the fact that I was offered money to wear a Germany jersey to watch the match, I chose not to. Yes, I did recently purchase a dirt bike and I’m planning on riding it in Dar, but I do in fact value my life- and wearing an opposition jersey in a football-crazy country that hasn’t won anything significant in 44 years is a pretty sure way to die a rapid death. So no Ballack jersey for me, just clean clothes from my finally-arrived suitcase.

I headed down to the bar a few hours before the match because there was no question that I was going to get a prime seat. I seated myself front and centre and proceeded to drink delicious Spanish wine while the bar filled up with locals. The match started and was enthralling. Granted, I would have been happier if Torres hadn’t scored, but he’s one of my favorite young players and he deserved his moment of glory.

Half-time started and I decided to change (Spain is cold compared to Dar!). I get in the elevator, push the button and then suddenly movement stops. I push a few buttons, nothing happens. I push a few more buttons and still, nothing happens. Broken elevator.

So there I am, stuck in a meter by meter and a half elevator and it’s the beginning of halftime of one of the biggest matches I’ve ever watched. The two teams that I was most hoping made it to the final were actually playing in the final. And I was in an elevator with halftime ticking down.

I ask you- how frequently does an elevator break in Europe? I can’t imagine it’s a very common occurrence. However, there I was- the beginning of the second half and I was still stuck in the elevator. Still there 10 minutes into the match. 20 minutes… still there.

So what does one do while stuck in an elevator listening to the crowds watching the match? She texts friends for updates on the match. It was, to say the least, torturous to be laying on the floor of the elevator and listening to near misses, yelling, excitement and the general roar of the crowd in the bar. (And some advice, choose carefully who you want to give you updates on scores… some people are downright evil!)

40 minutes into the second half… the elevator finally creaks to life and moves a few feet thanks to a technician who at the moment he got my call from the elevator started cursing the day I was born. The door open slightly and the elevator is between floors so I climb out and race back downstairs, only to see that the score is still 0-1 Spain. My heart breaks just a little watching Ballack collect yet another 2nd place medal this season.

But the next time the power goes out due to a blown transformer only my street (which has happened twice in the past 18 months) or the rain floods our yard and the pump doesn’t work, or the store is out of the only type of cheese that I like… I think I should consider the fact that it may actually me… not Dar that is causing these stories.

But just in case its not only me, remind me not to get into an elevator in Dar...

Drunk Ants

I think I may have mentioned ants and bugs a few times in my posts since they are such a large (and unwanted) part of my life here. I love the house I’m currently living in, but it does have a lot of ants. Many of the ants met a not-so-unfortunate death during the time we had lake-front property, but unluckily for me there were still many that survived. And now that it’s only raining a couple days a week the yard has completely dried out and the ants are free to multiply again.

But at the moment I would like to honor a few intelligent and worthy ants. (I hope that’s the only time in my life I use the words ‘intelligent’ or ‘worthy’ with respect to ants.) I’ve mentioned before that psycho-mutant Tanzanian ants eat everything and if you leave anything open or on the counter they pretty instantly manage to find and devour it. But there are a few select ants that deserve credit.

We didn’t finish a bottle of red at dinner the other night (sacrilege I know) so we left it for later- put the cork in the bottle and left it on the counter. I grabbed it last night and found a tiny hole burrowed in the cork with cork dust on the edge and counter around the bottle. On further inspection there was an ant crawling into the hole and another ant crawling down the bottle who was having a lot of trouble making it down in a straight line.

After my first flash of anger at having my wine ruined, I realized that these few intelligent ants knew that one of the true pleasures of life is a good red wine. And instead of being angry at them I should celebrate our common love. Unfortunately for the dozen or so floating in the bottle, some of them don’t seem to be smart enough to swim. Alas, I’m sure they’re not the first souls to meet their demise in the pursuit of good wine. But knocking the drunken ants out of the gene pool just means more wine for me!

Kansas 2003 National Basketball Champions

2003, March. National Championship Game between Kansas and Syracuse… two seconds left on the clock with Kansas down by 2… Hinrich shoots a 3 and… scores!!!! Kansas wins the National Championship title!!!! Blue and white confetti falls from the ceiling, suddenly all the players and coaches are decked out in shirts and hats that say ‘Kansas National Champions 2002-2003’ while cutting down the nets. It’s a happy moment for all Kansas fans.

Only, wait… I seem to be revising history. In reality, Hinrich twisted his ankle earlier in the game and his final shot was off… Syracuse won the title. The shirts and hats that suddenly appeared were orange and blue and had Syracuse written all over them. But haven’t you ever wondered what happened to the Kansas hats and shirts that almost magically appeared? Or to all the other ones that are printed for various other championship games or league titles? ‘Patriots perfect season’… they’re out there somewhere.

Well, wonder no more. At least not about one shirt- it managed to make its way to the east coast of Zanzibar and be spotted by one of the few people in the world that would actually know it was incorrect. How it got there is still up for grabs. But this seems to be the part of the world were tee-shirts, shall we say, make their way to die.

Surplus shirts- either from sporting events or from family reunions or from whatever- seem to make their way here. Charities frequently bundle higher-quality/rarely worn (i.e. family reunion) shirts and sell them to wholesale dealers. A buyer here buys a bundle, usually having no idea how many or what type of clothing is inside, hoping that the quality of the bundle is high. He/she then sells the individual pieces, and since this is Dar, they’re usually sold on the street. It’s a win-win situation since the charity earns money and is therefore able to continue its work while a job and income is created for both the middle-man and the final seller.

I would love to find the KU or ‘Patriots Perfect Season’ shirts, but despite looking at all the shirts I see, I haven’t found a fun one yet. My guard’s favorite shirt is ‘Parker Family Reunion Atlanta 2001’ and when I explained the meaning of the shirt he thought it was funny

And somewhere there’s a Parker that’s probably blissfully happy to have the extra closet space while simultaneously hoping that his/her family doesn’t discover they no longer have the all-important family reunion tee-shirt.

I always wanted a lake-side house

Before I start this post, an apology...

Yes, its been a wee bit of time since I last wrote or updated this blog. Please accept my apology. I have no good excuse except to say that since I last wrote, I've moved into a great house and started working more normal hours so I'm now sane and have time to sit and think about writing posts that hopefully aren't torturously boring.

So for those of you that have faithfully stuck with me, thank you. I've got lots of good stories waiting to be posted.


Last week I woke up to a beautiful lake view. A lake surrounded by snow-capped mountains, with the sun rising over the mountains on the western shore, painting the snow and its reflection in the water a rose colour. Today I'm looking at another lake view. Only this lake is my front yard. And back yard and side yard.

It rained Wednesday- the first hard rain of the season. (To recap, there are four seasons in Dar- the hot season, the long rains, the cool season and the short rains.) And it really does get cool in the cool season. 75 as a high for the day sometimes- we all put on jeans and long-sleeve shirts. (Yes, it really does feel cold, I'm not the only crazy one.)

So first I should point out that I arrived back here Tuesday morning at about 9- and at about 10 a transformer blew in the neighbourhood and the power went out. As everyone put it... welcome back to Dar. Shockingly enough when I climbed out of bed today, hoping to start the weekend on a good note with power, well... there was no power. But a story about a 5th day without power just wouldn't be interesting.

About noon last Weds it started to rain. Not dainty rain, not even hard rain, but buckets of water. Buckets. Like in a bad Hollywood/Bollywood movie where all seems lost for the leading couple until the romantic lead runs through the rain to kiss the girl and wins her heart forever. Only in the movie the water never seems to be muddy and full of small, dead animals. And I imagine doesn't carry cholera and dysentery and other fun things. But I digress... suffice it to say, it rained a lot. Buckets of rain. Inches and inches and inches of rain.

I didn't think much of the rain (or the flooded streets, but the flooded streets deserve their own post) until I arrived home on Weds. My yard was full of water- flooded, just like the streets I had driven through. I live in an area called Namanga, which I've now found out is prone to flooding. 'Prone to flooding' is a bit funny for me to write after I've seen my guard wading through two feet of water in places the past few days. I think two feet of water counts as flooding, but I would almost want to be able to give it a stronger adjective- excessive flooding maybe. But I feel like I should save the term 'excessive flooding' for when I see four feet of water, which I'm expecting to see any day now.

Our house, as well as a few other houses around us, sits slightly lower than the road. You drive over a ridge when coming in our gate- the ridge is to keep water from the road out of our yard and it works surprisingly well. When I drove through the gate on Weds I was hoping to come home to a calm oasis in the storm. However, I drove into a lake. Or what I thought was a lake on Weds- I would now describe it as a pond. The house sits in the center of the lot and is on the highest point in the yard. The yard was relatively full of water, but there were still areas directly surrounding the house that were dry. The lack of electricity meant that there was no way to pump the water out of the yard, and therefore we had to wait until the landlord arrived with a pump to remove the water.

Thursday morning I went to work hoping the dark, ominous clouds would find another home before they decided to release their water. Sadly for me, at about lunch they decided to destroy my dream. The clouds opened and when I left work, I had an image of my roommate and I bailing water out of our living room. (My image of us bailing included me wearing my Wellington boots that I brought back from the states, which are the talk of the neighbourhood. Navy blue with pink edging, compliments of Gap, they are quite bright. And this week they were the most wonderful thing that I own, since they kept my legs dry and away from all the floating dead things when I had to walk through a foot of water in some parts of the yard.)

When I arrived home it was no longer a pond, it was truly a lake. (And let's all hope that I never start an entry saying that it was no longer a lake but rather an ocean.) But thankfully the lake was only surrounding the house and not inside the house. The house is rimmed by concrete and sits about 6 inches off the ground at its lowest point- the water was between 1-2 inches below the level of the porch and close to two feet deep around the edges of the yard. (1-2 inches below the porch may sound like a lot, but here that can be 30 minutes of rain.) The pump had arrived, but took awhile to get working since the first hose was too small, the second too large. Once the pump started, for a long time it looked like nothing was happening since the rain was coming down about as fast as the pump could remove water from the yard. But finally the rain cleared and the water started to slowly, slowly recede.

The irony of having water everywhere was that there was no water for the house. The way internal plumbing water works for many houses in Dar is that it's pumped from either a truck or the city system into a tank on the ground and from that tank it's pumped up to a tank on the roof. Gravity then forces it through the pipes and out the faucets. When there's no electricity, the water sits in the tank on the ground and there's no water for the house. Last night the water in the tank ran out, so I have no water.

As of now, I'm still living my life-long dream of a lake-side house. Though the water lapping at my porch maybe is a bit worrying and the fact that I have to wear my Wellies to get to my car is also a wee bit worrying. And of course there still isn't power and I'm terrified to open the fridge since we haven't been able to clean it because there hasn't been trash collection. And oh dear, it just started to rain again. Maybe I should put a bucket outside to catch some clean rain water to bathe.


An update...

I wrote this post yesterday morning and since then there have been a few updates. (Lack of power preventing me from posting in a timely fashion and all.) Yesterday's rain was minimal and power returned last night. We were able to pump water to the roof, meaning the internal functioning of my house is now normal. (Well, except for the fridge which can easily be classified as a biological hazard.) As for the lake, the water is still being pumped out of my yard. Yes, still. But hopefully enough will be removed that the sun can start to dry out parts of the yard. As for today's power situation... it doesn't seem to want to stay on for more than a few minutes. But hey, at least I'm not floating.

So if anyone's interested in occasional lake-front property... I can arrange a showing.

ruling the road

I find driving in Dar is actually quite enjoyable, except for the potholes the size of the Titanic. When you factor in the lack of road signs, speed limits signs, lines on the roads and functioning traffic lights, it becomes an interesting cross between downtown Manhattan and bumper cars. There are driving laws, yes, in theory. But like most laws in Tanzania it is nearly impossible to get a copy of the actual laws and more importantly, they are enforced only to the extent that you can bribe the traffic officer. Yet surprisingly enough, the selective enforcement (or lack of enforcement) creates a road situation that is relatively orderly.

Well, maybe I’ve lived in Dar too long if I think that driving here is orderly. But there are two definite principles that rule the road: aggressiveness (a.k.a. guts and stupidity) and size of vehicle. So for me, I’m actually pretty close to the top of the pecking order. The largest vehicles on the road are trucks, but since they are older than I am, they are slow at accelerating and maneuvering in traffic. The next largest are dala dalas. They have crazy drivers (VERY crazy), but they are hindered by the fact that they usually have 30 people in a vehicle built to fit 10 and are also old and slow. The next largest vehicles on the road are the large SUVs (Toyota Land Cruiser size). But these are usually owned by older expats or older wealthy Tanzanians, so they tend to be slow and cautious drivers. (Or the old folk are being driven by a driver who tends to be even more slow and cautious.) The last group is the sedans and smaller cars, which loose based on their size alone.

So that leaves the small SUV category, into which my baby and I fit. Most of the people in this category are younger expats, such as myself. And I will further split this group into two: those that can drive and those that shouldn’t be behind the wheel. Now, many Americans and Europeans initially fall into the latter category as they learn that driving on the left means the steering wheel is on the right but that the car should always be on the left side of the road. (You would be surprised at how long it takes some people to realize that.) But most of the expats here are females, and… as much as I hate to say this, most of the female drivers in Dar I’ve met also fall into the latter category of ‘please, please take the keys away from them’. I usually hate that stereotype, but I honestly think I only know one other girl in Dar that actually understands how a car works and also understands that you should look at the road on which you’re driving. (Again, you would be surprised.) And anyone who has an automatic has weak acceleration here, so they tend to fall into the latter category as well.

They say that power corrupts and that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Well, I have to say, that falling near the top of the pecking order of driving has definitely corrupted me a bit. (My baby may loose a little on size, but driving in South Africa and San Francisco… let’s just say that dala dalas defer to me.) But, unlike my dear brother, I have not gone over to the dark side and adopted the motto “screeching tires are happy tires”. No- to me screeching tires still mean you need to be nice and stop the car and let your little sister out before taking the 25mph turn at 60mph.

But seeing as Dar doesn’t exactly have an advanced trauma unit in case of accidents (you get sent for treatment in another country if you get a complicated fracture of your arm), the best way to drive is still defensively.

But when it’s a beautiful day with a nice breeze and you’re on a road with the beach and the Indian Ocean on one side… it’s nice not to have driving laws.

who needs instructions?

As the last post describes, I recently purchased a new baby. Now, seeing as this is my baby, I was tempted to purchase an anti-theft system involving flame throwers and darts that would ensure that if anyone tried to steal even the most minute of parts, it would leave such an impression that no one would ever think of going near the ‘pyscho black CRV of Dar’ again. And yes, they do make anti-theft systems with flame throwers- legal in good ‘ol South Africa, but for rather obvious reasons illegal in the US. So I purchased a standard system with a wonderfully loud alarm and a switch that disables the battery if anyone tries to override the system.

So on Saturday the mechanic arrived with an electrician and I handed the box over to them and showed them the installation guide. The electrician looked through the installation guide and then asked for the instructions. I told him that those were the instructions and showed him the page with the diagram for the wires. He looked surprised, looked and the mechanic, shook his head and said something in Kiswahili and then put the instructions down. He then pulled the facing off under the steering wheel and started cutting wires. Two thoughts crossed my mind: 1- that he was good enough that he didn’t need instructions, and 2- that my car was never going to start again.

Not to ruin the story, but neither ended up being true. My baby does start. But there were a few rather hairy moments- it took an awful long time for him to find the wire that controlled the door locks. And in the process he cut at least 4 wires and reattached them to each other, smiling sheepishly at me each time he realized that he had cut the wrong wire. He would also occasionally grab the diagram and look at it for a few seconds. Though I think his glances at the diagram were more to give me confidence in him than to actually serve as a guide for him, since he didn't seem to mind if he was reading it upside down or not. (Which, needless to say, did not exactly scream "relax, your car is going to turn on again with a functioning security system".)

But the reason that I am describing this rather traumatic experience in my baby's life, is to describe how completely African the event was.

The process for arriving at a result is very different here in than in the states. In the states there are always instructions and a clearly defined path to get from A to B. Here you use your brain and figure out how to get something done. Granted, this involves a lot of trial and error, a lot more time, and backtracking when you go down te wrong path (e.g. reattaching the wires to each other). But I have to say, as someone that would much rather put something together on my own by playing with it than by using instructions, I find this way refreshing. Because as scary as it was to watch the electrician cut and reattach wires, it was reassuring knowing that he actually knew what he was doing.

Note: this method should probably not apply to any heart or brain surgeries. And I think its track record with chandeliers (cough cough dad cough) has also been shown to be dubious.

how to purchase a car online

I try to (loosely) stick to my rule about not writing stories specifically about my life, but I thought this story was pretty funny and also a tale of life in Dar.

The title of this past was going to be “how to purchase a car online from another continent and pray that it doesn’t fall off the ship on its way to Dar”, but I thought that would be too cumbersome. And it would give too much of this post away.

So the first option for buying a car is to buy one here in Dar (see previous post). The second option is to have a car imported. Cars drive on the left hand side of the road here (right-side driver) so there are a limited number of places from which one can import a car. Japan is the most common option. The process is to view cars on a website (e.g. http://www.japanesevehicles.com/tcl/en/stockList?region=Japan&type=8). You then email the company and tell them you’re interested in such-and-such vehicle and they quote you a higher price that includes freight and processing charges. You then have 48 hours to send them the entire sum of money, otherwise you loose your hold on the car. In my case, I sent them the entire sum of money in 48 hours and then received a polite email telling me that my car had already been sold.

Needless to say, that was not a happy moment. Not a happy moment at all. After a week of haggling, I found a new car that will henceforth be referred to as “my baby”. Now, keep in mind that all this occurred in March and that I had, in essence, purchased a car that I had never seen, never driven and had no information on past the type, year, color, transmission and engine specs. I had paid a rather substantial sum of money to own a car, in Japan. You get no paperwork, only an emailed version of the invoice saying that you own a car. Everyone assured me that was “how it was done”, but really, it was not the most reassuring feeling.

Then the waiting begins for a spot on a ship. So for two months my baby sat in Japan while I sat here. Then finally, you get a shipment date. The car is put on a ship and then, (finally!!), then you are sent the bill of sale and the paperwork saying that you actually own a car. My mean, evil roommate (jokingly) pointed out that with my luck, my baby would fall off the ship and I would never actually get to claim her. Luckily his prediction did not come to pass.

But the battle is not over yet- once a car reaches Dar it has to be maneuvered through the bureaucracy of the import paperwork and import duties. And it needs to do this fast enough so that parts don’t start to “fall off” the car. Luckily, none of my parts succumbed to the incredibly strong pull of gravity (helped along of course by screwdrivers and fingers). (Though I’m told that even if parts do fall off, there is usually little structural damage to the car since if the guy with all the keys gets a cut, there is no need to break windows.) I of course do not possess the requisite skills (aka the knowledge of who to bribe and how much to bribe) to speed the paperwork through the process, but I did have the brains to hire a skilled individual to do that for me.

So nearly 3 months to the day from when I paid for my baby I allowed to see her and drive her home. I’m still waiting on plates and the registration, but those should come any day now. And luckily, hopefully (since only time will tell) my baby is not a leemon.

cars in Dar

Most people buy cars by wandering down to a dealer and either purchasing a bright, shiny, new one or looking at a used one. Of course if the car is used, you order a vehicle history report and find out all the sordid things the car did in its past. That’s not exactly how cars are bought and sold here.

There are two types of cars in Dar: old and really old. The “new” vs. “used” doesn’t really apply. Occasionally you see a new car, but chances are that is 1- the person who will be investigated next month for the purchase of some unnecessary radar system for the airport/port/local dala dala stand or 2- an embassy car. There just isn’t enough wealth here (and import taxes are 50% of the price of a car) for people to be able to afford new cars. Also since cars are truly luxury items there isn’t a large enough market to sustain numerous car dealerships.

There are a few dealerships in Dar- and when I say a few, I really do mean 3 or 4. And they each have a handful of cars (10-20) rather than the scores you would find on a typical American car lot. There is however a vibrant car market in dar- expats are constantly arriving and leaving so there is usually a handful of quality cars (mainly suvs) for sale at any moment. When you’re selling a car, you post an advertisement at the local supermarkets and if it’s priced reasonably it usually sells in a matter of weeks.

What I found fascinating was the years of the cars for sale here. Expats tend to own SUVs, which are more expensive but well worth the extra money seeing as a lot of the roads aren’t paved. (And getting stuck in mud up to your doors is not a fun experience in a city with two tow trucks.) Most of the smaller SUVs were models from the mid-90s. 95 and 96 were pretty common, with 97 being considered newer while 98 and more recent models are relatively rare. The model years of larger SUVs goes back even farther, with early to mid 90s being common. (There’s even one car from ‘81 on the market for sale, in shockingly good condition for a car that’s nearly as old as I am.)

When you see these cars and compare them to similarly aged vehicles in the US it’s pretty surprising. On the one hand, people don’t drive their cars long distances here, so two cars may be the same age, but the Dar version only has half the miles on it. The weather is also less brutal on a car here- there are no cold winters, no need for anti-freeze, no salt to corrode the undercarriage. (The opposite problem exists here- cars frequently overheat from the, shall we say, occasional heat.) Yet when something breaks here, the mechanic doesn’t open up a shiny new package with a new part and install it. Chances are you may be getting a part that is as old as you and your car combined. The other thing about Dar that wrecks havoc on cars is the roads- cars, even SUVs with high clearance, bottom out on some of the roads here- and it’s not simply a matter of avoiding the potholes. When a road is one big series of dirt potholes, there is no avoidance.

So sometimes when you buy a car that has braved life in Dar you get lucky. But unfortunately, sometimes that ’97 (that’s really a ’95) is a leemon.

the anniversary of the day of your birth

In honor of Ms. Barca, today would be the perfect day to talk about birthdays in Tanzania, or the lack thereof.

Of course everyone has a birthday, for pretty obvious reasons. But historically birthdays are not celebrated here. It used to be that people wouldn’t know their birthday and some still don’t. Birth certificates are a relatively modern thing. If you think about it, if you’re born into a community, then you’re a part of that community and everyone knows that you’re a part of it. So in villages and rural areas, and even in the cities here, people are born into communities. So paper records aren’t needed since you’re known. One of coworkers said that he didn’t know his birthday until he was 10 since his dad forgot it and only his mom’s family remembered it. It is only the year that matters.

Since the day and the month aren’t crucial, no one celebrates the individual day of their birth. Everyone turns another year older on the first of the year. So if you’re born in January or in December of the same year, you’re the same age.

Which brings us to the translation of “happy birthday”. There isn’t an easy translation- the closest way would be to say “congratulations on the anniversary of the day or your birth”.

So Ms. Barca…
Hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya wewe, hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya wewe…
Hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya weeeeeeweeeeeee,
Hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya WEWE!

bertha and gimpy

Bertha and gimpy are my new friends. And when I say “friend”, I mean I-have-never-in-my-life-been-this-scared-of-anything-before. They are both spiders- the same type actually, but they live on different sides of the house. As you can tell by the pictures, neither would really be classified as a cute little spider like the late Gary or Water Jr. that lives by my desk. bertha and gimpy are the type of spider that hollywood would rent to put in movies and scare people. Gimpy is a good 5-6 inches (inches) long from scary leg to scary leg while bertha is slightly smaller at about 4.


Gimpy recently appeared on a car that’s resting outside our kitchen window. She rapidly wove a web that’s more like twine than what I would normally consider a spider-web. If you take the car out for a drive, she stays on the car and the web remains undamaged. A normal spider would die or fly off the web. Oh no, not gimpy- she’s very much alive at the end of the drive. (And she conveniently manages to catch a few tasty morsels in the process.)



Yes, for now I am going to call gimpy and bertha my friends in the hopes that one of them don’t decide to eat me. Or one of our guard dogs- if it came to that, I would sadly have to bet against that dogs. And hopefully gimpy is happy on the car. For as much as we don’t want her outside our kitchen window, the thought of having her wander around and us not know where she is… it’s too much like a bad horror movie.

*********************

I wrote this post last week and started to post it, but the power went out and then I got too busy to post it. Since then… since then Bertha has disappeared. She’s no longer on her web against the garden wall. (The wall is actually white stucco, but the green is the mold growing on it.) Nor has she reappeared on the web, despite all my hopes.

So I did a quick search on the web trying to find this type of spider, so that I would know how long it would take her to wrap my body in twine (aka her ridiculously strong web) and eat me. Thankfully, bertha and gimpy aren’t poisonous. (Though the reliability of Wikipedia is doubtful.) But really, does anyone want to wake up to bertha crawling across their face?

(oh, and i'm guessing you can tell which pictures are of gimpy and which is bertha from the rather obvious naming...)