Land, Pigs and Women

Where in the world is Secret Asian Man?  I’m sure you’ve been asking and checking in wondering about the latest events.

Well, right now I’m in the bar of the Crowne Plaza in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea and I’ve been here for about 4 days now.  

What’s it like here?  Well that’s kind of hard to say.  The Crowne Plaza is nice.  They have nice and comfortable rooms.  There’s a gym and a pool and a pretty nice breakfast buffet.  The dinner buffet is ambitious, but mostly fails to impress.  The free happy hour in the evening is well attended by most all the guests.  There is a good selection of deep fried, yet cold shrimp and under-cooked chicken tenders.  The small cans of Pringles are nearly all broken to bits, but the cheese and crackers are first rate.  The beer and wine are free.

What’s that? You mean what’s the country like?  I honestly haven’t a clue.  Port Moresby is a high crime area and thus we visitors are confined to the embassy or to our hotel unless we can go out as a group. Most shops and other entertainment venues are off limits after 4 pm. We close at 4:30 pm. 

Carjackings, robberies and assaults are pretty commonplace.  Mostly there are crimes of opportunity and foreigners are an opportunity.  You have it. I want it. An Aussie was hacked up with a machete a few months back even after he gave up his wallet.  He lived.  

If you’re a woman, you can add rape or sexual assault to the list. 100 percent of rural women have experienced domestic violence.  In the city that number drops to a no more palatable 67 percent. Sexual assault of some sort runs at 50 percent.  

Violence in general is rampant.  The society here is strongly clan based.  The clan is the primary societal fixture.  If one makes money, it all goes to the family. If you need something it all comes from the family. In the country, arrows and spears fly if someone steals a chicken from your clan.  The main goal of the clan is to get more land, more women and more pigs.  It is remarkable to hear such stories in 2014.

Here’s an interesting story I heard about.  

It’s about a girl who looks after her younger sister and maybe her younger cousin, who likes a boy in another tribe.  She also likes a teacher in yet another clan.  She decided she liked the teacher more and so invited him to her house to spend some time.  

Wanna know what makes clan conflict worse?  Cellphones and text messages. Spurning at the speed of light.  

The first boy hears about the visit and he and his friends go to the girl's house and murder the teacher friend and ransack her house.  The teacher friend’s clan hears about this and become irate.  They go and lay waste…. to the girls village because they think she’s been playing games with everyone.  The girl dies, the other girls she cares for are chased from the village and then kidnapped by the clan of the first boyfriend.  That clan then offers those girls back to the teacher’s clan along with some money and 7 pigs as a peace offering.  

Land, pigs and women.  I’m telling you.

At least in the Highland areas.  A long time ago there were coastal people (papuan) and highland people (New Guineans)  They’ve never gotten along. The coastal people were colonised by the British and the highland people were colonised by the Germans. When later, the Australians took over they united the two peoples and formed Papua New Guinea, but the people didn’t really want to be united.  “Those Highland people are too violent!”  

Even in today’s paper there is worry about these people merging.  Outside the capital city there are only 200 miles of paved road in the entire country. None of the major cities are linked by road or rail.  Air or sea are the only way to get around. There are plans to link the two major cities by a highway, but the people don’t want the ease of access, because of these long standing conflicts.

You wanna know why I don’t leave the hotel. Well, we’re not allowed, but even the dogs are mean.  I heard tell of a dog who bit the testicles of a small boy.  The dog was punished by putting it on a leash.   

It is hard to find locals who are interested working or focused on a job. Again, the family rules, so if there is some need, the family comes first.  There isn’t much incentive to keep a job, since all your money goes to the family anyway.  From what I’m told there is limited ambition. Some local government offices are unofficially staffed only Tuesday through Thursday as no one comes to work on Monday and Friday.  There is a sign on the Police station door that says “Drunk Police Officers Will Not Be Given a Ride Home”

The police are an interesting issue.  There is a police force of 22 for a population of 220,000.  There are 4 police cars which are in various states of repair.  As the sign above indicates, you’re lucky if you get a sober officer when you call, if they come at all.  They’re often reluctant to get involved. Sometimes, too, I’m told, they’re complicit in a crime, shaking down victims further in order to get goods returned.

On a positive note, I was asked to give the local employees a talk about anger management.  I’ve wrestled with this for a month.  No amount of talk about breathing and counting to ten was going to touch land, pigs and women.  But, I offered a talk about communication and diffusing arguments and our own self regulation when we get angry.  And, about 9 people showed up and listened and took notes and asked for handouts. At the end we talked for 20 minutes about the best way to handle themselves and their families.

Maybe a small difference was made.

Language and Interpretation

Should you find yourself at the end of the line in Dili one day, you’ll likely need a place to stay.  There are only a few flights per day to and from the place, so if you land you’ll have to at least spend the night.

I highly recommend the Esplanada Hotel.  It’s owned by a nice Australian guy and right across the street from the beach.  It’s recently been renovated with nice clean and functional rooms.  Mini fridge and satellite TV if you like that sort of thing.  Most of the channels were news channels, though, so kind of a downer if you’re trying to escape the plagues, war and terror.

They’ve a great open air bar and restaurant open from dawn until about midnight. It overlooks the beach and there is live music most nights.  The staff is very nice and they try to please.  They have a hard time though anticipating and think outside the usual. 

For instance, I went to the restaurant to listen to the band.  Being in the tropics with reggae-like music playing, I fancied a Rum and Coke.  So, when the waiter brought over a menu, I waved off the menu and just told him, I’d like a rum and coke. 

“Okay”, he said.

He came back a few minutes later with the menu opened to the specialty cocktails section.  “What kind of drink did you want.”

“Oh, it’s probably not in this menu.  I just want a rum and coke.”  And away he went.

Minutes later another waiter came over, again with the menu.  “What do you want, again?”

I kind of laughed.  “A rum and coke.  Do you have rum?”  He nodded.  “Do you have Coke?” he nodded.  “Then there you go.”  And back to the bar he went.

Would you believe another waiter came over?  Yes, she did. This time with the other two waiters to back her up. “Sorry, mister.  One more time.  What you want?”

I almost broke down and ordered a froo-froo drink from the menu, but I bit my lip and persevered.  I’m sorry to say, I reverted to the age old tool…. Louder and slower.  “A Rum and Coke.  Do you have Rum?’

Nod.

“Do you have Coke?”

Nod.

“Do you have ice?”

Nod.

I smiled “Do you have a glass?”

Smile and a nod.

“Mix it all together. That is what I want.”  She and her henchmen again went a way to confer.  She returned with a great result.  So good, in fact, I ordered a second.

Look closely at this photo. What does it mean? I posted it elsewhere.  It is hung all around the hotel and I’d been puzzling about it for days. 

I asked friends for help in interpreting.  Response ranged in topic from men and women, to the Beatles, to Elvis, to Zombies to inflatable dolls. 

As I was checking out, I nabbed the assistant manager/maintenance guy and let him know I’d been wondering about this sign all week and he pointed out that they were Fire Exit signs.

“Yes, yes. I got that. But, what does it mean?  What is going on in this picture?”

“I don’t know really. A few months back the building inspector made us re-label all our exits and he picked out these signs because he thought they were quite funny.”

Which reminded me of another fact I learned earlier in the week.  70% of the population of East Timor is under the age of 25 years old.  These children are raising themselves.  You have to love a building code inspector with a youthful sense of humor.  

Past and Future Struggles.

Spending the weekend in Dili, just exploring.  Decided to learn more about the resistance and the Timorese struggle for independence.  Having been ripped off in little niggly bits by cab driver after cab driver, I decided against better judgement and against the post-humous wishes of my mother and probably those of my wife I rented a scooter for the weekend.  

There is one place in the country that arranges such transactions.  It is a the end of rutted dirt road that looks nearly impossible to cross except for a motor cross bike, but I found my way there and picked out an under-powered scooter.  Nothing that would kill me too fast.  We arranged all the paperwork and exchanged the money and I was about to ride off when the attendant said, “How about you let us replace the brake pads before you go?”  

Dude, I was 10 seconds from hitting the road with one brake?  You think you might have mentioned this sooner? “Yeah, how about let’s!. I’ll wait”

Brakes done, I’m ready to hit the open road.  First stop, the Timor Resistance museum where I learn some interesting facts.  

Here’s the brief version on Timorese independence.  Portugal had been the colonial ruler for 500 years until 1974 when there was a Coup in Lisbon and the Portuguese found themselves kind of preoccupied with things in the homeland.  So, they decided to offer independence to the Timorese.  There was some movement at the time toward this anyway.

The Indonesians, though were kind of worried.  They were fine with the Portuguese being there, but without them they saw the area as kind of backwards, poorly resourced and unable to manage itself.  They thought that an independent state would fail or become prey for some bigger unfriendly country like China or some other communist country.  They decided to take matters into their own hands.  

In 1974, they invade in a full scale assault with paratroopers and landing craft, the whole works. The Timorese had a few guns, but also, bows and arrows.  They shot many of the paratroopers out of the sky and this made the indonesians very angry and they proceeded to shoot many Timorese who retreated to the hills.  By the end of the first year the 600,000 population of east Timor was reduced by 23%.

There was ongoing struggle and strife.  Protests, massacres, torture, and suppression, the whole playbook.  This went on for 28 years until there was enough pressure that Indonesia finally relented and let Timor have its sovereignty.  By the time all was wrapped up it is estimated that 400,000 were killed or displaced

I took a tour of a local international school and was rather dismayed to hear that the rate of illiteracy amongst local children is between 60 and 85%.  That is ⅔ to ⅘ or more of the population CANNOT read. I was also troubled to find that 25% of kids drop out of school after the 1st grade. Not the 10th grade, not the 8th, not the 6th, but the 1st grade!  

This particular school gives 10% of its slots to local kids on a scholarship, but only after age 10. The problem is that before age 10, these kids are not really getting much quality instruction and so enter school with such a deficit in their education that they just can’t catch up.  This is such a shame because these kids could be the future leaders of this country, but they struggle to verbalize a complex thought.

One of the issues is that Portuguese is the official language, but very few of the schools teach it. They teach in Tetum which is what many people speak.  All the laws and contracts are in Portuguese, but the common people can’t read it.  Plus, the deplorable literacy rate compounds things, so that the general population can’t possibly comprehend abstract thought well and so how are they able to appropriately choose their government or make decisions for themselves?   

The invasion by Indonesia was on the premise that these people couldn’t govern themselves, but the invasion destroyed 90% of schools, it set back reading and language and presumably most of the 400K who were killed were the ones who were many of the thinkers in East Timor.  My question would be, haven’t you just created the vulnerable, under-resourced population you were worried about in the first place?

The 28 year struggle ended in 2002 and Timor Leste born.  In 2006 Indonesia gave Timor Leste this 120 foot, bronze statue of Jesus Christ seeming to melt over the globe in a hot wax works, meets the Cat in the Hat. The Indonesians, maybe wanted to say, hey, no harm, no foul, right?  Here’s a Jesus!  Jesus Shaves!  Oh, we know you don’t have any money and we aren’t going to give you any money to keep up this work of art, so 8 years later it will look kind of run down.  Enjoy your freedom!

What's up Dili?

So, what’s up in Dili, Timor Leste?

You may or may not recall the revolution that came to a head here in the late 90’s-early 2000s when Timor Leste gained it’s independence from Indonesia.  It probably didn’t outshine the O.J trial or the Monica and Bill show at the time.  It seems that when Indonesia finally got its freedom from the Dutch, they assumed that Timor Leste would want to go along.  But, they didn’t

Way, way back the Portuguese controlled the eastern part of this island and so, the island is now some 90% Catholic compared with the rest of Indonesia which is 85-90% Muslim. They still speak Portuguese here, as well as a language called Tetum and some Indonesian and some English, but they strongly identify with their Portuguese roots.   Kind of funny, I think.  Inflating one colonial power’s roots to rebel against another’s but there you are.

Timor means “East” in Indonesian.  Leste means “East” in Portuguese.  So, we’re in East East today.  The Tetum word for the country is Timor Lorosae.  Which also means East-East. Linguistic creativity is limited.

So, the country has 200,000 people, or 2 million depending on who you ask.  I’ve asked several locals and haven’t gotten the same answer twice.  Wikipedia says they have nearly 1.2 million people. From what I’ve gathered, there has been a downturn in the population after the UN pulled out of its peacekeeping and development projects.  All the accompanying people have moved on as well. It’s a pretty quiet place.

Young children swim naked on the beach after school.  They really have a blast. Men row or wade out into the surf and pull in some fish, haul them up to the beach road and sell them strung off coconut leaves by the side of the road. Those that they can’t sell they roast over a fire at the market down the street.  A poor man’s carry out. Mom’s and children fan off the flies in the evening sun.

One of the first things you notice on the road on arrival is the taxis.  They’re yellow, just like many places in the world, but the similarities end there.  They are garish and amateurishly decorated with day-glo green painted wheels and all manner of external accessories. Spoilers seem popular, as do parking mirrors affixed to the roof.  Most comical are the decals/sunshades, like “Suck on it” and “F(*k  it” and “Awesome”.  Very few have working A/C and all through the town they troll looking for customers with a toot of the horn and a yell out the open window.

Met a man in a bar who is involved with helping this young government set up its medication procurement and logistics.  Figuring out why they have a 15 years’ supply of medication that is going to expire in 2 years’ time.  Figuring out how best to ensure the population is getting true medication and not just some knock-off because it was cheaper or because the supplier was a friend of somebody.  Figuring out how to convince the people in charge that the real issue is patient health and not just a well stocked supply cupboard.  He says, “I often go into meetings  and let people know that I make decisions based on three words.”  and he writes them on the whiteboard, “Will, ‘Patients’ ‘Die’? and I’m often looked at with a perplexed look.  What do patients have to do with anything?”

He’s done this sort of work for several countries in this neck of the woods and tries to guide governments toward the decisions that make the best sense for the general health of the population.  He has come to accept a rather disheartening conclusion that “It is the right of any sovereign nation to kill its people in any way it sees fit.”  This was a couple beers into the night, but a rather sobering thought.

Made the rounds of the local hospital.  Met one of three psychiatrists in the country.  One of them is leaving next month to return to Portugal.  So, if there are 1.2 million people, he’s one in a million. He did some training in PNG and Australia, but he’s fiercely proud of his Timorese heritage.  

“Send them all.  If any person needs me here, I’ll see them?"

There is a psychiatric nurse in each of the districts and they all consult with him if they have problems. Most of the GPs like many in the world are too uncomfortable seeing psychiatric patients.

He tells me they don’t see much in the way of behavior disorders in children, perhaps they’re the ones out swimming naked in the surf. But, later he said he’d received complaints from teachers and asked for referrals, but hadn’t seen any yet.  Mostly when he sees children, they have autism or developmental problems.  He doesn’t find there are eating disorders here either.  We’re all too hungry.

Depression is a problem, as are marriage problems.  Schizophrenia rates have been rising in his office. Some patients have had problems for years, but only now have come forward.  Curiously this coincides with the newly instituted government policy where patients with severe mental illness receive an allowance for care.  They can only get the money if they are certified by a psychiatrist, and so they all come to him to get their paper signed.  

He offers them treatment, but “they just want the money.”  The families take the patient back home and do what they’ve done with them for the past 10 years, which is shackle them to a wall or keep them in a cage to keep them out of trouble. It is sad, but one consolation is that family support is something many in the US don’t have, so homelessness and victimization of the mentally ill is less.

He’s a very spiritual man.  There are a stack of New Testament bibles on his desk and there may have been talk about asking for forgiveness when I walked up to his office.  There are only 7 psychiatric meds available in the country, all of them antiquated. And it will be some time before there are any more, so there would be an urge to turn to the spiritual, I suppose.

There may be some hope.  Plans are on the drawing board for a new acute care psychiatry wing. My colleague though has yet to be consulted for any input.  

A Funny Way to Run and Airline

Off to Dili.

Caught a 5 AM flight via Bali.  Flight time changed to 5:45 am the day before.  I am aware from others that flight departure times may change minute to minute, and it’s an international flight, so I make a plan to arrive at airport by 3. I’m out the door at 2:15 AM.

Arrive at airport before it opens.  Along with hundreds of other like minded individuals. We wait in a fairly orderly queue out front. Apparently, all of Sriwijaya Air’s flights leave at the same time.  At 3AM, they open the doors and we all file in through an initial security checkpoint. This one to check that you’re not bringing in a bomb to the ticket counter.  

Beyond this is the ticket lobby. there is no line. No queue. No corral. Just an open lobby.  And all of us file in and go no where. We promptly fill the lobby. There is no one behind the counter.  It’s just dark.  And still, more travellers file in and crowd and shove and finagle. It is uncertain what happens next.  Maybe it will be like a Who concert.  It is getting tight.  

At 3:20 AM, one worker strolls up to one of 12 counters.  The hundreds of people all shuffle and heave over toward him and we wait again. The first person in line has some sort of problem, so his check-in is slow.  Another worker comes.  Another counter opens.  Another shift in the crowd.  

This goes on every 5 minutes or so for the next 20 minutes.  And with each new counter, there is a new problem, so no one moves very fast.  By now, all of 5 people have checked in.

Then 90 minutes before our flight, in stroll the real professionals.  10 women saunter in.  All coiffed and matching and heeled with a matching bag to boot.  They climb behind the counter and over the luggage belts and replace all the trainees that have been struggling for the last 45 minutes. The line clears in minutes.

We board.  There is no announcement over the PA, instead a woman opens a door and yells, “Denpasar, Bali!” at the top of her lungs and we all get up.  The man at the far end of the jetway is caught be surprise. He's unsure where to send us.  He yells down to the plane crew.  “Where is this plane going?”

It is remarkable.  We all leave on time.

We fly through Bali and arrive there about 90 minutes later.  We all get off the plane.  They bus us to the other end of the long terminal.  We get off.  Those of us going to Dili are told to go to Immigration, so we do.  We stand in a long line. We pay some money and then we stroll back through airport and wind up back at the exact same plane we just left.  Such are things on Sri Wijaya Air.  “Your Flying Partner!”

Browsing for a Vespa

Up and down the main drag to work, day in and day out for the last 2 months, watching the scads of motor scooters knifing through traffic has triggered the call of the open road in me. Okay, open road is an exaggeration, but still something beckons.

I’ve been scoping out scooters new and used, and I’ve found they’re really cheap. Including Vespas, which I’ve dreamed of owning for years. Here they’re two-thirds the price of those back home.

I found myself at the mall where they had a Vespa display, I guess tying-in with an Italian trade association meeting, or whatever. The mall was chock full of italian goods and merchandise.  Gucci, Lamborghini, Fiat, Alfa Romeo.  

While looking at a subdued, grey model, I noticed there was no place for a passenger to put their feet.  Just then an attendant approached me.

“May you help me?”, he asked.

I wrinkled my face. “Um, what?”  He recoiled in fear, but then persevered.  

“Do you have any questions about the bike?”

“Yes. There are two seats, but where does a passenger put their feet?”

He looked perplexed and then reached for a panel under the handlebars.  He opened it and there was clearly room for some flip flops or light running shoes.  

I smiled. “No, no.”  I broke into a 60/40 mix of english/indonesian.  It sounded like this. I pointed to the seats “I sit here.  My wife sits here.  Where does she put her feet?”  

I’m sure it sounded to him like some new-math story problem.  He thought for moment.  Maybe he thought my wife had large feet or big shoes, for he reached for the seat and popped open a rather capacious compartment that could hold a flashy pair of boots, I’m sure. But, it did not answer my questions and he knew it.  

“Are you interested in this bike?”

“Yes.” His eyes grew wide. “But, not today. Maybe soon.”

“Okay, mister.  Terima Kasih.”

I can only imagine how a negotiation is going to go.

The Disturbance

I know. I know.  We’re back on religion again.  I just can’t help it.  Peoples’ spiritual rituals are a draw for me.  That, and we seem to go exploring on Sundays.

Sunday in Jakarta, in Indonesia and in the Muslim world was Idul Adha or “Day of Sacrifice” commemorating the Abraham’s almost-sacrifice of his son Ishmael to God.  God told Abraham to sacrifice his son and Abraham being God-fearing, hauled Ishmael down to the altar and was about ready to do the act when he looked down and saw a ram there instead.  God was pleased and Abraham passed the test. There were promises of a great nation coming from his son.

I recalled from Sunday school that it was Abraham’s son, Isaac who was to be sacrificed.  The story is pretty near the same except for the name of the kid.  Biblical scholars out there please correct me, but this seems to be one of the initial points of contention that people have been fighting about for all of recorded time.

I might seriously offend if I delved too far down in this story and discussed the tawdry, soap-opera-ness of the whole Abraham story, so I won’t. But look it up in the Quran, or Torah or Genesis or... like me..., Wikipedia here and here

So, yes... Day of Sacrifice.  It is the second biggest holiday in Muslim Calendar after the end of Ramadan.  The holiday calls for the sacrifice of of a cow or a goat or, sometimes, a sheep.  This is all done at the local mosques.  All of them.

If you can afford, you buy a goat or cow take it down to the mosque where they’ve erected long racks. The animals are pointed toward Mecca, sacrificed and then strung up and cleaned. People can keep a third of the kill for themselves, give a third to families and donate a third to the poor. I’m told the Indonesian mosques have a pretty organized system for meat distribution and it is not a free-for-all holiday as it is in some countries.

I woke on Sunday to a rocking Prayer call.  They must have put up extra speakers in the minarets and called in all the best singers, because the city was absolutely humming all morning instead of just for a few minutes.

Went for a morning run.  Traffic was nil and crowds were all gathering in their sacrificial finery all all the mosques around me.  I’m convinced that, like America, there are the devout folks and the Christmas and Easter folks.  I know this because while running I was stopped by two Muslim women who asked me where the Mosque was.  

First, the sweaty guy in the bright sneakers is probably not the pious town crier rounding up the prayerful, and second,.. don't you hear that music, woman?

So, all the goats and cows that had been growing in numbers throughout the city the past few weeks were sacrificed.  Our maid went to the Mosque, but was “too scared to watch.”  Our driver was a helper and he helped dispatch 22 cows and 48 goats at their mosque alone.

Worldwide, I read that around 100 million animals are killed on this day alone. So, if you woke up and felt something it was a “disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced.”

Here’s a more serious topic you may enjoy.  Read it here ….Adventures in Wonderland

Three or Four Things

No great theme this week.  Just few amusing anecdotes....

The end of the month was payday for our help.  It was also our first payday for anyone on a salary from us.  So, it took some organization on our part. Figuring regular hours worked, overtime worked, extra allowances and all that extra stuff.

In my figuring, I remembered that our pembantu was due a clothing allowance.  So, I came home and asked her, 

“Bu. A, how would you like your clothing allowance?  Divided up?  All at once? As you need it?

“How about when I started working?”

“Oh, you mean a month ago when you first started working with me?

“Yes.”

“So, you mean I’m late?”

“Yep.”  She smiled.

My family and I are pile people.  Call it horizontal filing.  Call it hording-lite.  Call it sloppy.  Those closest to us have witnessed this.

So, we all came home one day last week to find our piles conspicuously absent.  Magazines and books were on shelves. Papers were stuck in drawers. Everything was close to it’s original place and fairly logically stowed.

“Bu. A!”, I joked as she was leaving for the day.  “Didn’t you like all our piles?”

Her smile beamed at me from down there somewhere around 4’ 11”.  “I don’t like messes. See you tomorrow!”  And she shut the door behind her.

Caught a cab back from lunch last week. Traffic was already starting to build.  I hopped in a taxi that was going my way. In my preschool Bahasa I told the cabbie I wanted to go to my office and gave him the usual landmark that I give all the cab drivers.  

He looked me up and down over his left shoulder and in a flash I’m sure he surmised that I was foreign and clearly linguistically challenged, and that the both of us were going to be frustrated by the trip.  And just like that, he unlocked the door and said “Saya tidak tahu”  (I don’t know it)

I was swimming in sudden rejection.  Is this cabbie breaking up with me?  I thought the locked doors were a commitment!  To have and to hold from the meter drop until I reach my destination!  “Wait!, I have a map!”  I implored.

He shrugged, “Saya tidak tahu”, he repeated and nudged his car over to the curb and stopped.

I took the hint. I stumbled out onto the sidewalk. He sped off. I laughed and was engulfed in thick cloud of diesel exhaust as an old bus rolled by.

It was an early soccer practice morning, so Z was up and out the door by quarter to 6 in the morning.  I came down to find all the power was out in the downstairs part of the house.  I found a text message on my phone.  

“Hey, sorry for the mess.  The electric is off downstairs.  I put bread in toaster and the power went off.”

What is with this country and the poor quality toasters?  See previous entry here.  This toaster was 5 weeks old!  

I flipped breaker. Retried toaster. Poof.  Out went the lights. No smoke.  No sparks.

I flipped the breaker.  Moved toaster. Tried again. Poof.

I flipped breaker. Tried again.  This time pushing down plunger slowly.  Poof.  Same result.

Well dang!  I guess one should not scrimp on the quality of one’s toasters in this country.

Came home in the evening and wondered if perhaps it was the wiring in the house that was bad instead.  Found a hair dryer and plugged it in.  It worked fine.  So, I tried the toaster again. Maybe, the wiring was okay, but just tired in the morning.  Poof!  

“Dad, you cut off the internet!”  

I flipped the breaker and then peered into the toaster and discovered that toasters are where geckos go to sleep during the day.  There peering up at me with now sunken eyes was a well and truly 6 time-electrocuted, 3-inch long gecko.  Eww!

“Ahhh! I’m a murderer!” cried my daughter.  

What does one due with a gecko in your toaster?  Can we just scrape it off and go about our breakfasts?  2 of 3 of us voted “no” and so I guess we’ll go find another toaster and maybe a nice toaster cozy to keep out the wildlife.