Day 111

Respect the Dung Beatle

I have been witness to plenty of horrors in my life, but none so great as the one I faced this fine morning.  As I had previously mentioned, the second toilette in Madame Chabou's Reform School for Girls has been clogged for most of our stay here.  Old Smokey took a crack at it a week or two ago, but his fix was short lived.  It was time for yours truly to put on my mining helmet and do a little digging.  Sweet merciful god did I regret this decision and it may well have been the most ill advised thing I have done in my entire life.  One notices quickly a certain odor in the streets of our lovely city.  Sewage . . . raw sewage.  Stronger in some spots than others, but always omnipresent.  The reason?  This is NOT a modern city and a large majority of the city's sewage dumps directly into the river.  That being the case, most of the sewage system is open.  Simply an open trough running just below the surface of the street.  A river of poo running beneath your feet.  Madame Chabou's home is no different.  Remove a paver or two from the patio and you will find a network of shallow and open trenches carrying all the gray water away from the house to god knows where.  Pipes simply hang out of the house at different locations and drain directly into this ancient system.

I have to say that it wasn't all that difficult to locate the offending pipe as it was the largest of the group.  Not large enough apparently, for upon removing an elbow of pipe I discovered 10 years worth of dung and used toilette paper.  The smell was . . . well, I won't describe it, but it will haunt me for the rest of my days.  With very crudely fashioned poking implements, I freed the obstruction in an unceremonious "plop" followed by a river of semi solid waste, urine, and of course last night's vomit.  Being sprayed with this melange of bodily waste nearly caused me to squeal and recoil in fear like a fair maiden retreating from an oncoming hoard.  Holding down a second round of vomit for the day, I bagged up the offending material and placed the pavers back into their original locations.  Next to this experience, packing up boxes of our belongings seems a welcome retreat.

Smokey was to return today to address some odd jobs that the landlady obviously agreed to in order to get this dump rented to the next lot of suckers.  I had half of a mind to make him fix the sewer issue, but knowing his likelyhood for a "no show" I went ahead and handled the issue myself.  Like clockwork, the appointed hour came and went . . . No Smokey.  Shocker.  The plumber did show up, however, and now we have two functioning showers in the house which will make bath time a bit less crowded than we have become accustomed to.  The remainder of the day was more of the same.  Odd domestic affairs, and occasional pool cleaning and feeding children their usual peanut butter sandwich or two.

The upcoming move requires us to procure an appliance or two as the new house does not come outfitted with a refrigerator, microwave, dishwasher or washer and dryer set.  It is no doubt a bummer to have to purchase said items, but being able to "supersize" some of these appliances will make life a fair measure more tolerable.  We are all very jazzed about the refrigerator purchase as we have our eye on a very nice "refrigerateur americain".  This is what the French call any refrigerator larger than a dorm sized frige that experience proves will only hold a six pack and a box of half eaten day old pizza.  The name again alludes to their belief that everything is America is BIG.  Fat people need big refrigerators, right?  RIGHT.  Truth is, being out of town will not allow for daily trips to the market as is the custom for most city mice.  Us country mice have to stock up a bit to save on gasoline.

It is now time to raid our tiny city refrigerator to figure out something to cook the fam for dinner, so I will end this evenings post and bid you all a good evening.  As always . . . until tomorrow.