Just like most of you, I regularly clean my bathroom, particularly around the hand basin and shower. This time around, cleaning rag in hand, I noticed more than a few things needed fixing. There’s been a hole in the window screen (yes, my bathroom has large windows) for several months. Zak did it while trying to catch a hummingbird hovering outside the window while he was hovering inside the window. The light screen was no match for the massive claws on the big black cat. For a long time, it was a reasonably small hole, but the advent of the parrot (remember the stray parrot?) made the hole much bigger and somewhat unmanageable.

Before I embark on most projects, I need to visualize how it will be done and what I expect the outcome to look like. The wrist issue also needed to be taken into account. How much could I actually do and for how long without hurting myself? After taking everything off the shelves, hooks, and floor and stashing it all in boxes, and removing most of the plants, I had a blank canvas to start with and an idea of how to go about getting things done. The torn window screen was the obvious place to launch this mission.

I took the damaged window downstairs and carefully removed the screen using a hammer and chisel to gently prise off the wooden slats securing the screen, removing the thin pieces of wood from the main frame of the window. The slats had been nailed down. Underneath, the screen was stapled to the main frame. Using a screwdriver, I lifted each staple and pulled them out with pliers. With all the pieces separated, I set about cleaning the slats and the main frame, and painting them with diesel mixed with insecticide to protect them from woodworm and termites. The screen was garbage. I rolled it up and put it in the trash. To my surprise, I did not in fact have any spare screen. I could have sworn there was sufficient screen to cover the window in the rolls of leftover screen in the storeroom. There was not. My first hiccup.

At the hardware store, I presented a list of materials I’d need during the course of the bathroom repairs. The attendant informed me there was no grey screen available. Only green. Hmmmm… Just to be sure, I checked the other hardware store. No screen at all. Green it is! I bought enough screen to fix the window I’d pulled apart. I also bought a band clamp, some sandpaper, varnish, and thinner, and also some nails and screws. As far as I could tell, I now had everything I needed to complete all the repairs. These would be augmented by stuff I already had at home. My simple bathroom cleaning intention had turned into a full-on bathroom renovation project.

Back in my workshop, I stapled the new green screen to the main window frame, then trimmed the edges. Then, I carefully nailed the slats back into place to secure the screen. It was tricky at this point because the slats could break if I wasn’t careful. The entire thing stank of diesel and chemicals, but I took it upstairs and placed the window back in its space. The stench forced me out of the bathroom, but not before I realized I’d also have to replace the screens in the two smaller windows because my OCD would absolutely not allow these mismatched windows to exist in my bathroom. Immediately, I went back to the hardware store and bought more green screen.

By Day Three, all three windows had been pulled apart, cleaned, dieseled, and put back together, rescreened and placed back in their spots. The smell of diesel in the bathroom kept me out of it for another two days. I kept the door open all day every day to let the breeze dry it out and take away the odors.

The next step was to repair the water filter. The bottom strap holding up the filter had broken sometime last year. The band clamp holding the base together had completely rusted. One of the screws for the bottom support strap was loose. I’d left the repair because it felt like a complicated job and it wasn’t really affecting how the filter worked. However, now I had a list of things to do in the bathroom, and the filter was high on that list. I started by cutting a piece of the spare window screen to cover the mouth of the filter, then replaced the broken clamp that held it all together. After that, I carefully removed the filter from the wall. This meant taking down the support straps—pieces of old motorbike tires—and making sure the filter stayed upright at the same time. I placed the filter in a bucket so its carefully arranged contents wouldn’t be upset. Then, I removed all the support straps and cleaned the corner, painted all the wood with diesel, and tighted up all the screws that held the support straps.

In the storeroom, I found a piece of PVC pipe I’d previously cut for another project and used that to replace the broken support strap. (Thanks Dad for teaching me to keep stuff I might need one day!) This involved measuring the old strap against the new strap so the holes would line up and then making the holes with a six-inch nail and a box cutter so they’d fit over the existing nails in the wall. Once it all fitted together, I banged the nails sideways over the new strap like clamps and secured it to the corner. I slid the neck of the filter into the new bottom strap (the orange one) and secured the top strap first, then the middle strap. It sits nicely over the top of the empty water bottle and I no longer need to lift the filter with my shoulder to pick it up so I can remove the filled bottle. Lastly, I gave the “funnel” a good scrub and put it in place over the mouth of the filter. Mission accomplished!

Seven days into this project, next on the list was the water pipe with the broken wall braces. It was loose and everytime you turned on the bum-gun, the pipe wobbled behind you—as if there wasn’t already enough wobbling behind me! In the toolbox, I had a black plastic brace leftover from another job that I thought might fit the pipe so I screwed that brace into the wood, but it was still slighly loose, so I cut up a sardine can lid with tin snips to make a second brace to secure the pipe and that worked perfectly. I also need to replace the red water gun because it’s loose and leaky. Neither the hardware store in Mompiche nor the other one in Tres Vias stocks this kind of metal hose gun. This means taking a trip to either Atacames or Esmeraldas to look for it and I’m not traveling all that way just to buy a nozzle. It’s on a list and will get done when it gets done.

The rest of the bathroom projects are currently waiting for the smell of diesel to waft away, so I can go in and paint more diesel on all the wooden beams and stink the place up again. It’s quite hard to do, so I’m doing one small section at a time because the stench is overwhelming and makes me dizzy, even with a mask over my face. I still need to make the special long brush for the ceiling with a drip catcher so I don’t end up being rained on by dripping diesel. It’s going to take some time to complete this part of the job.

Also on the list are the wooden benches. Next time I’m in there, I’ll sand them back and diesel them. It’s going to be a bit of a process because I’ll need a working toilet during the time I’m varnishing, so the plan is to do half the long bench at a time, then switch the toilets over and do the other half. I’ll do the side near the water filter first. The bench under the mirror will also be sanded, diesled, and varnished, and the cupboards under the toilet bench need a good clean out and some diesel. The best way to finish the benches is to paint a thin coat of varnish over each section last thing at night, every night for a week. Lots of thin coats will make them smooth and shiny again, just like new. If any woodworms survive after all that poison, they’ve probably earned the right to eat my bathroom!

When all the repairs are done, a good scrub of the floor and the shower will make the whole room clean and sparkling! What started out as an hour or so cleaning the bathroom transformed into a massive weeks long project. Along the way, I’m taking care of my wrist and only working a couple of hours at a time, and I’m also staying out of the bathroom after each coat of diesel and leaving the door open so it can dry properly. It’s rewarding to look at each little step that’s been completed so far and feel a sense of accomplishment. Even though it’s taking longer than expected, I have a feeling this urge to “clean” isn’t going to stop any time soon! Looking at you next, kitchen…

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Four months ago, I shared with you, dear Readers, that Tyke had tumors. After an examination by Dr. Nahomy, the visiting veteriarian, they were removed in a delicate surgery. For the last four months, I’ve been treating Tyke’s mouth with CBD oil and turmeric oil after the vet recommended we just wait and see what happens after the surgery. Every day, without fail, after wrestling Tyke into position, I have dripped pet-safe CBD oil onto the sites of the tumors on his jaw, hoping they wouldn’t regrow. Last week, after waiting for what felt like endless months for the vet to come back to Mompiche for a clinic, we finally saw what happened. Three of the four tumors grew back. At this stage, more surgery is too risky. Chemo isn’t an option. Tyke is now in palliative care. I’m heartbroken.

There is no timeline. If we can get him there, Tyke will be 13 in December. Today, he is eating well and drinking plenty of water. He’s sleeping quite a lot. I’m aware cats already sleep around 18 hours a day. Tyke is breaking that record by several hours. He’s fairly inactive, only going out for short periods and not going too far. The same half-wild jungle cat that used to wrestle snakes and iguanas and tromp around the garden like a boss regularly now prefers to spend his days napping in a hammock. He has passed on all of his responsibilities as the alpha cat in the street to brothers Zak and Sox Black who share this important task.

I don’t know how much time I have left with my handsome prince. It could be a month, or it could be a year. Nobody knows. I’m trying hard not to think about the end and instead pass each day making sure he knows he’s loved. Thank you all for your kind generosity and support during these hard times I’ve had with my kitties. I appreciate you all…

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Firstly, THANK YOU to all of those wonderfully generous people who sent money for my 60th birthday and helped me buy these tanks! It’s taken a minute or two to get them organized and delivered, but I now have a storeroom full of tanks that are waiting to be installed. The thing about living in Mompiche is, when it comes to construction projects, you have to have limitless patience. Everything takes ten times longer than you anticipated and usually costs at least double what you thought it would. Why? Who knows, it just does.

The first step was to select and buy the tanks. That was a project in itself. After looking around for water tanks, and finally choosing the one I thought would work, also according to price and ease of delivery, actually getting the thing delivered took quite a while. After checking pricings and sizes in four towns: Mompiche, Tres Vias, Atacames, and Pedernales, I ended up buying the tank in Mompiche.

The price breakdown for a 1000lt tank and the cost of delivery:

Tank price Delivery
Mompiche: $185 $2
Tres Vias: $183 $10
Atacames: $178 $40
Pedernales: $175 $60

At the local hardware store, I handed over a fistful of $20 bills and bought the new tank. Then, I had to arrange delivery. I hung around waiting for a truck that might be free to take the tank home. Nope. No one was available. I came home without the tank twice, hoping to find someone in a group chat that could help out. In Mompiche, I never take my phone when I go out so I couldn’t message anyone from the hardware store and needed to come home to do that. Nope. No one. By now, a couple of hours had passed since I’d purchased a water tank that was still not at my house.

Eventually, I went back to the hardware store where I bought the 1000lt tank, ready with an ultimatum: help me out with this delivery right now or refund the money I just gave you. The owner of the hardware store was on the phone immediately. Delivery was organized. He assured me I could go home and wait for the tank to arrive. Half an hour later, the tank showed up at my house. The driver helped me get it into the storeroom where it now sits waiting for step two.

In the meantime, I also bought three smaller 200lt (55gl) tanks. They were easier to deliver but of course the purchase wasn’t without its complications. Expecting to achieve anything without complications is pure fantasy in Mompiche. First, I hired a driver and drove to Tres Vias to find the smaller tanks. After three attempts to buy them from small family run businesses who were all out of stock, I finally ordered the three tanks from the big hardware store. I was in the next village because Mompiche didn’t have any small tanks. At the checkout, I paid for the three tanks via bank transfer. They were $90 for three. Then, on delivery, they told me there was only one tank left. Apparently, this was not checked before I paid. (Eye roll! Of course!) After unsuccessfully trying to sell me a slightly bigger tank for almost double the price, they finally refunded the money for the two tanks they couldn’t deliver. I went home with one tank and $60 cash in my pocket. Over the next couple of weeks, I had to go back a few times and get the other two tanks. Luckily, one small tank will fit on the bus. The total cost for all three tanks was $101.50.

The next step is finding workers to build the three new tanks stands (the last one is an expansion of an existing stand) and then find people to install all the plumping required to make the system work. This takes time. The people I’d like to hire to build the tank stands are working somewhere else at the moment. I have to wait for them to finish their current job before they can come and look at the job I have for them. It’s just a matter of time. There’s no point in looking for plumbing people before the stands are built, so I’m literally just waiting in line for my turn for good people who know what they’re doing. You can’t hire just any moron for these important jobs!

When the plumbers finally come, I’m going to ask them to change one of the systems so that the new 1000lt tank will feed downstairs and the old tanks will feed upstairs, completely separating the systems. One of the smaller tanks will double the grey water capacity which gives me more useable water for plants if there’s no rain, and another one will collect more rainwater at the front gate where guests can wash their feet when they come in from the beach, and friends can water their dogs when they visit. And if I do have to call the obnoxious water truck guy to fill tanks that are completely out of water because of a lack of rain, there’ll be two tanks instead of one.

The third small tank will feed the washing machine. Because of its location, on the opposite side of the house from the rest of the water system, the plan is to give the machine its own water supply utilizing a leak from one of the pipes that runs into the collection tanks. It’s an impossible leak to fix, right on the corner of the roof, and I would never ask anyone to go up there because it’s too risky, but we can collect the water underneath and use it to do laundry. I’m already doing that with a bucket under the drip that gets filled up whenever it rains and then it’s tipped into the machine whenever I’m washing clothes. Instead, I can put a tank on a stand and run a short hose directly from the tank to the machine and not have to carry the heavy bucket.

Yes, I hear the argument for moving the washing machine across the house to where the water system can reach it, but it’s super convenient where it is and it would be way less convenient if it was anywhere else. The tank is the perfect solution to three problems: water loss from the leak, water directly into the washing machine without having to run the hose across the floor as it is now, and freeing up the tap above the sink in my workshop. Besides, the six-month drought at the beginning of the year taught me that you can never have too much water stored. Another tank of water is another tank of water...

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Every Monday, the beer truck comes to Mompiche so the stores and bars can buy their weekly supply of amber fluid. They have a standard order. The same number of crates are delivered to each business each week. However, some weeks are busier than others. Last week we celebrated the second annual Shrimp Festival and then we hosted Independence Day parties over the long weekend. It’s been a busy time for the village, beer-wise. Most of the visitors are day-trippers from the region who bring all their own food but will buy cold beer for their day on the beach. Of course, when I ran out of beer last Thursday, I wanted to stock up for the weekend. There was no beer to be found. For the entire weekend, I didn’t have a single drop of Ecuador’s ubiquitous Pilsener to offer anyone.

Ecuadorian Pilsner is the nation’s most iconic and best-selling pale lager, brewed by Cervecería Nacional, which was established in 1913. It’s a German-style pale lager with 4.2% ABV. A cultural staple, it is rooted in local festivities, weekend barbecues, and football matches throughout the country, as well as local bar and nightlife culture. It’s a popular lager among the people. The flavor profile is defined by herbal hop notes and a neutral malt base. The balance is slightly towards a crisp, dry finish with a clean, short aftertaste. Cervecería Nacional currently controls approximately 50% of Ecuador’s beer market after international brands and local craft beers entered the competitive market a few years ago.

Usually, I buy two crates: 24 x 600ml (20oz) bottles of beer. I can only fit seven bottles in the fridge at a time because it’s usually stuffed to the top with the rest of the menu and its associated ingredients. A raucous crowd can wipe out all the cold beers in one round. It’s been known to happen. Fortunately, I had space in the freezer the night a rowdy group of backpackers came to eat and quickly shoved the next round in next to the ice cream and put seven more beers in the fridge before anyone noticed I was out of cold beer. I don’t have a special drinks fridge—although that would be amazing with all the different flavors of homemade kombucha and hard lemonade, as well as the ginger beer, alongside the Pilsener beer I have on the menu. Maybe sometime in the future that will be a possibility. I could put the glasses in there to chill too! It’s free to dream.

But when the village is out of beer, there’s nothing that can be done about it, even if customers grumble a little whenever there’s no cold lager to drink. Well, I could jump on the bus with my empty crates and travel to the next town to see if they have any beer, but that’s a lot. It’s time and energy and what if they don’t have beer? The crates with the empty bottles have to be returned for the price to remain low, otherwise the higher price includes the cost of the crates and the unreturned bottles. At the moment, I have an excellent deal with the store here, so it’s easier to wait for them to have more beer in stock right after the delivery truck has been. As you can see, it’s not always convenient to live in the jungle.

To resupply, I have a beer-buying system. First, I go to the store to check if there’s beer. If there is, I grab two full crates and jump in a mototaxi to bring them home. Obviously, with a dicky wrist, I’m not carrying full crates of beer anywhere. The driver puts the new crates at the top of the stairs, then grabs the two empty crates and returns them to the store. Then, I pay for my beer online. Easy peasy. Seven bottles go in the fridge immediately. Monday is usually a guaranteed beer delivery. But if I run out on any other day, it’s a town with no beer…

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The rich diversity of creatures to be found in the air, on land and in the sea in Ecuador and the Galapagos Islands is mind blowing. The diversity of wildlife is second to none. With over 1600 species of birds, one of my favorite air critters is the Blue-Footed Booby (Piquero de Patas Azules).

One of the devastating effects of El Niño is that the warmer water has driven away marine life, leaving many seabirds without a food source. In Mompiche, the resident Blue-Footed Boobies that normally live on The Point and hunt offshore have gathered along the beachfront in the hopes of picking up bycatch from the fishermen. Some of the birds are bold enough (or hungry enough) to walk up onto the sand and ask people for fish.

A blue-footed booby typically needs to consume around 20-30% of its body weight in fish daily—about a pound a day—to sustain its high-energy diving and flying lifestyle. Exceptional divers, Blue-Footed Boobies wrap their long wings around their streamlined bodies and plunge into the water like spears from as high as 80 feet (24 meters) to catch small fish.

More than once, after collecting barely enough fish to make cat food, I’ve met one of these hungry birds on my way back down the beach. I’ve taken a fish or two out of the bucket and offered it to the boobie. They’ve gently taken it and swallowed it whole. It breaks my heart to see wild seabirds begging for food on the beach, but it would rip me to shreds to let them starve to death. There have already been a number of dead birds found on the beach and predictions say there will be many more fatalities during the course of the year as El Niño intensifies and fish will become scarce.

Some interesting facts about Blue-Footed Boobies:

• Blue-footed boobies are normally found on arid, tropical, and subtropical islands off the Pacific coast of South America (especially in the Galapagos Islands off Ecuador).

• The Sulidae family includes ten species of long-winged seabirds including the genus Sula, which comprises six species of boobies including Blue-footed Booby, Red-footed Booby, Brown Booby, Masked Booby, Nazca Booby, and Peruvian Booby. Scientific name: Sula nebouxii

• Subsisting on a diet of fish, these large seabirds can live for around 17 years.

• They have a wingspan of nearly five feet in length. They weigh 1.5kg.

• The blue of the webbed feet comes from carotenoid pigments obtained from the diet.

• Blue-footed boobies use their vibrant blue feet in a showy mating dance ritual. (See the National Geographic video below.)

• Habitat loss and egg collecting currently threaten the species. El Niño is a more recent threat.

• Blue-footed boobies have a large, but little known, nesting colony on Mompiche Point.

Breeding pairs usually only stay together for about a year, then, unable to resist the urge to go dancing once again with their bright blue-suede shoes, they go off and find a different mate. Unfortunately, human intervention can’t save these gorgeous dancing seabirds from climate change and its rapidly warming oceans and depleting fish populations. By all scientific accounts, hydrometeorology experts say El Niño is going to ravage the land and the sea, and forecasters predict there is a high probability of a "super" El Niño event, bringing significantly warmer sea surface temperatures which will not only decimate the fishing industry, but also annihilate seabird populations across the region. Not to mention how complicated it’s becoming to feed five cats who are used to fresh fish daily!

Since marine life cannot turn on the air conditioning when the climate heats up, fish often migrate towards deeper, colder layers of the ocean to find comfortable temperatures, putting themselves out of reach of man and beast. Of course, agriculture and infrastructure are also under threat during this event, but they’re still distant from my focus at this point in time. Seeing a once thriving population of blue-footed boobies diminish daily, dropping dead on the beach, begging humans for food, migrating in a desperate search for food has sucked all the air out of the room. My room. It’s heart-breaking to watch my favorite bird suffer this way. And this is just the beginning…

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You know those times when you’re just sitting around minding your own business when something extraordinary happens? This was one of those times. I was busy making breakfast waffles and filtered coffee for an Austrian guest when I noticed this Mealy Parrot sitting in my carambola (star fruit) tree. To be honest, I saw the cat first. Sox was intently focused on something in the top of the tree and he drew my eye upwards until I spotted the bird.

Mealy Parrots (Amazona farinosa), a.k.a Southern Mealy Amazons, Mealy Amazon, or Lora Real, live primarily in the dense lowland rainforests of the eastern Ecuadorian Amazon, but also inhabit the humid tropical and foothill forests of the Chocó biogeographic region in western Ecuador along the coast. This little guy has clearly been in contact with humans and quite likely escaped captivity. After walking all over the trees on one side of the house, he walked across the roof and came into the kitchen to ask for food.

After he made a massive mess out of several chopped up carambolas, he asked for more. I ended up chopping up more star fruit with some bananas, added some sesame seeds and sunflower seeds, and left them on a plate on the landing for him. He polished it all off and once again asked for more. Hungry little guy. I’m guessing he got out of a cage several days ago and then couldn’t figure out how to feed himself. Luckily for him, he came to the right place and asked the right person, even though all five cats were eager to shred him up for lunch.

In the beginning, the cats were aggressively kept at bay with a spray bottle of water. Eventually, they gave up trying to get close and left the bird alone. When he finally finished eating, our guest parrot climbed into another tree and took a siesta for a couple of hours before descending to demand more food. Of course, I served him as much as he wanted, cleaning up the mess after him each time.

After some discussion with a couple of local friends, good people who know how to take care of wildlife in distress and have bigger properties and zero cats, it was agreed that he would be moved to a jungle-side property to see if he could be rehabilitated and where there were several other birds of his feather. Even if he couldn’t fly, he could live nearby his friends. Mealy parrots are usually found in pairs, so he was probably feeling quite lonely as well. For my part, I just had to keep him safe overnight. (Just FYI: We are making wild and unfounded assumptions that he’s a he, but she could also be a she. It’s impossible to tell the gender of a mealy parrot by looking at them because males and females look identical.)

After I prepared his dinner, more star fruit, bananas, and seeds, he climbed back into the tree. I was keeping an eye on him, but while I was getting dinner for the cats, the parrot fell out of the tree and went over the fence into the street. Instantly, eight cats were on high alert; my five and three of the neighbor’s cats, all ready to pounce and dine on fresh parrot meat for dinner. Determined to save this hapless critter, I raced downstairs to rescue the bird who clearly was unable to fly. He loudly objected to being picked up and it became necessary to herd him back into the house.

Gradually, we came back inside the gate, away from the cats, then we ascended the stairs and I guided him into the bathroom. This was going to be the safest place for him to stay during the night. To keep the mess manageable, I put his food plate in the shower with a bowl of water, although I think there’s probably enough juice in carambolas to hydrate a bird. It was already after sundown, so I turned off the light and let him find his place to sleep. After several minutes of rummaging sounds coming from behind the closed bathroom door, and the total destruction of my snake plant, he settled on a plant near the water filter and stayed there all night. I know all this because I was in there a couple of times during the night!

In the morning, he managed to climb his way up to the window ledge where there is a rather large hole in the screen that the cats had made while chasing hummingbirds outside the window some time ago. Unfortunately, due to more pressing issues, I’ve never gotten around to repairing the hole. Until now. After I gently guided the parrot away from the window and towards the floor, I made a makeshift patch of cardboard and tape to keep the hole covered and prevent our rescued flightless parrot from falling out the window should he climb up there again. Immediately, I chopped up some fresh fruit and left it in the shower. He pounced on the plate and dug into breakfast, forgetting about the hole in the window and his potential escape route.

Around mid-afternoon, wildlife help arrived. Our plan was to toss a large sheet over the bird and safely transfer him to a box ready for transport. Destiny loves it when humans make plans. We make her laugh out loud. Two of us ended up bitten by this extra spicy parrot with more attitude than a Karen demanding to see the manager before we managed to wrangle him into the box. Wasting no time, we jumped in the car and drove straight to a large property that backs up onto the jungle.

Immediately, we put up a bunch of sticks in the large open air chicken house so the parrot could perch above the chickens and the budgerigar cage. The coop had plenty of open spaces where the parrot could climb up the walls and go outside if he wanted. The door was left wide open as well. After spiking some fruit onto skewers and attaching them to the wall, we walked away to let the bird settle and explore his surroundings.

This video taken by the wildlife rescue peeps gives you an idea of his current living conditions. The following day, he was settling in nicely, exploring his new habitat, and fraternizing with other birds. Wild birds often visit the coop and hang out with the budgerigars. Our hope for him is that some of the local wild parrots will find him as well, even though he doens’t fly. He’s much happier where he is now than where he was before, and we are all extremely grateful we could join forces to help him out…

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Just a short note to let you know I’m still here, just not feeling so good. A viral cold/flu is ravaging the village right now and we’re all sick. However, I do have a funny little anecdote to share. The photo above is of a humita. It’s made from fresh corn that is mashed into a dough, seasoned with onion, garlic, cumin, salt, and fresh herbs, shaped inside the corn husk it came out of, and steamed to perfection.

There’s a guy who rides around the village on a motorbike selling humitas in packs of three for $1.50. The other day, he showed up just when I was thinking about food. Comfort food. Anything I didn’t have to make myself. That’s been a kind of theme with food for the last few weeks. Simple, fresh, and I don’t have to cook with a pounding head. A couple of humitas with Vegemite spread on them would be the perfect meal. The thing I did not count on was Tyke. I already knew about his humita obsession and was prepared to share with the wild cat who loves corn. That’s why I bought three of them. But I was extremely unprepared for the Vegemite obsession. He got one sniff of that black gold and was all over me.

I’ve never had to wrestle a cat out of my Vegemite before. He went so nuts that I had to give him the knife to lick to get him out of my face so I could eat my humita in peace. The dream of slowly eating while watching an old episode of CSI: Miami was shattered. Vegemite is already virtually impossible to get hold of in Ecuador, and when I do get some it’s treated like treasure. Now, much to my dismay, I realize I have to fight off a cat so I can enjoy it in peace! Anyhoo… I thought you’d like this story. Hopefully, with the rest of the village, I’ll be 100% soon and back to the regular writing schedule.

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Three years ago, I asked you to help fund the beginnings of my fruit forest for my 57th birthday. A couple of weeks ago, I turned 60 and wanted to share how the plants you bought are doing three years on. Firstly, let’s acknowledge the unfortunate deaths. The Mangosteen, Uvilla, Clover, Dandelion, and Strawberry were early losses that have still not been replaced because I haven’t been back to Quito since then and the plant nursery won’t ship to Mompiche. It’s an impasse that has been impossible to conquer at this point. Although, I do have some hope for a workaround in the future.

This year, we lost both the black and brown figs to a six-month drought. They fought magestically, but were unable to cope with such a severe lack of water, even though I tried my best to keep watering as much as I could with the little I had to spare. It was a gargantuan effort to try and save as much as I could all over the garden. I also lost the yellow lemon tree I’d nurtured so lovingly from a seed, as well as all the little hibiscus and bouganvillea cuttings I’d so painstakingly collected from around the village and planted in little tubs to replace the 15-year old hibiscus that was senselessly killed by the neighbors. Sad losses, indeed. However, we will start over again and succeed!

Vanilla Bean - As you can see, its endless climb upwards has not ceased from day one. I’ve recently been learning online how to clip and clone this fabulous orchid to produce more plants and hopefully it will produce flowers and fruits soon if the environment is right for it.

Yellow Dragonfruit - It’s going strong but still has not produced fruit. I’m not sure if it likes the spot because the cactus grows and grows but never flowers. I took some clippings and planted them in buckets and now they’ve taken off. I’ll plant those in another part of the garden soon and see if they like that spot better. So technically, the plant has babies, but no fruit.

Black Grape - This monster has been a tough customer. It will only grow if you cut it. So, I cut it and it grows, then stops. I’m sure there are secrets to growing black grapes in tropical environments, but I haven’t learned them yet. At the very least, it’s still alive!

Mulberry - I put it next to the fence thinking it would grow tall and strong there. It did. It fruits every so often, but never in enough abundance to make a pie or a batch of jam. I usually nibble on ripe fruits while wandering around the garden. So good!

Pomegranate - In the beginning, I planted this tree at the back near the mulberry, but it became apparent quite quickly that it wasn’t happy so I moved it to the front of the garden. Seeing half a dozen flowers made my day, and then, it began to produce fruit. There are two fruits on this tree, it’s first production, and they will be ready to eat around Christmas. I’m so excited! Not only to enjoy this gorgeous fruit, but also to propagate more seeds!

Rose Apple - This tree suffered a setback initially when its top branches were mysteriously broken off, but now it’s doing better. Still no fruit, but this tree takes around 5 years to produce, so now we just sit back and wait for her…

Jaboticaba - This tree seems to love this spot. It’s a slow grower, but consistently growing. It did suffer during the six months without rain, but I did my best and now it’s back on its growing pattern and will probably begin to produce fruit in about two years.

Verigated Oregano - This thing is a monster that doesn’t stop. I’ve clipped and transplanted it all over the house and garden, let it flower and seed in some cases and use it as a fresh herb in all the best dishes.

Miracle Fruit - After moving this bush around the garden in a very big bucket for a while to find its happy place, I finally put it in the ground in the front garden where it has thrived ever since. It’s been putting out fruit and it’s fun to share with people who eat the fruit and are surprised that a bitter lemon from my tree tastes sweet.

This side of the garden was neglected for a long time but covered in a mess of Philodendron so it didn’t look so terrible. Early this year, I cleaned it up and turned it into a real garden, only to have it not rain for six months straight. Fortunately, in this part of the garden, it was easy to toss the dirty dish water in this direction so most of the plants were saved, but a few were lost. You can see the new dragonfruit plants on the left under the bottle wall. The pomegranate is the center piece. The miracle fruit is at the end of the bottle wall. I’m still eternally grateful that you helped me create my dream garden and the door is always wide open anytime you want to visit and walk around it with me…

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Last week, I was invited by the World Food Forum Ecuador to participate in an activity for Sustainable Food Week. The project was a residency that took place around the country, in Quito, Pichincha province, in San Jacinto, Manabi province, and in Mompiche, Esmeraldas province. The idea was that, in each region, local chefs and food producers would meet and create menus that consisted of food from that region. In Mompiche, I hosted the event that represented the province of Esmeraldas. The visiting organizers and chefs stayed at Secret Garden.

Each local food producer contributed products specific to Mompiche. We ended up with lots and lots of bananas; guineos (sweet bananas) and plantain bananas. There was also cacao, coconut, oranges, and fresh king prawns straight from the boats. They had also brought some onions, tomatoes, carrots and garlic with them from Manabi. With these products, we sat down to design a menu that the chefs, food producers, and event organizers would prepare and share for dinner.

The chef from Quito wanted to focus on the bananas. We had enough to feed the Ecuadorian football team for a month. I wanted to do something fun with the cacao and coconut. The menu looked like this:

Entree:
Herbed Plantain Crackers (air-fried)
Roasted Carrot Hummus
Prawn and Coconut Sauce
Spicy Chocolate Sauce

Main:
King Prawns with Garlic
Majado with Onions and Coconut (mashed plantain banana)

Dessert:
Peanut Butter Fudge Ice Cream
Caramel Sauce

Two days before the event began, I got a head start and made the Peanut Butter Fudge ice cream using peanuts and peanut butter one of the organizers sent ahead from the Manabi province because the ice cream would need extra time for churning and freezing. It would be the perfect dessert for our dinner with the food producers. One of our future project proposals is to teach Ecuadorian chefs how to make simple vegan food for tourists, instead of serving the same old beans and rice all over the country. The ice cream was a tiny preview of the course.

The day before the event, I made all the coconut milk and stock we’d need for our collaborative feast. This was partly a continuation of the previous project: Rescued Food. Vegetable stock is made from the peels and discards of onion, garlic, carrot, celery, fresh herbs, and spices. We used it to make seafood stock with the prawn shells, in the carrot hummus, the shrimp and coconut sauce, and in the chocolate sauce. After making coconut milk, most people discard the squeezed coconut flesh. Instead, I always put it in the dehydrator and use it in various dishes that call for desiccated coconut. The coconut shells are composted along with the cooked vegetable scraps from the stock. Zero waste cooking.

On the morning of our scheduled event, we sent our guests into the jungle for a tour of the area where they tasted medicinal plants, tropical fruits, and saw snakes, howler monkeys, toucans, and other birds and wildlife, and visited an organic cacao farm. After a delicious lunch at a local eatery, we gathered at Secret Garden to introduce ourselves and talk a little bit about who we are and what we do, and why we are into sustainable food. Then, we put our heads together to come up with the menu for the evening. Soon after that, we were all working together in the kitchen cutting, boiling, basting, roasting, and baking until dinner was finally ready.

At one point I had to fend off the single worst food suggestion I’ve heard in 45 years of being a chef: The chef from Quito wanted to put seafood stock in the chocolate sauce. NOPE! This was not happening. I have never in my life had cause to be so delicately tactful and so outwardly peaceful while thinking about slapping someone through the floor of my kitchen. After several minutes of back and forth, I simply stated that I would be extremely uncomfortable with this flavor combination and did not believe it would work. It doesn’t happen often, but I actually agreed with Gordon Ramsey.

Who in the holy hospitality would ever concieve of putting seafood and chocolate together? It’s a rhetorical question. I’m fully aware of dishes like Catalan Picada and Gambas con Chocolate and even Mexican Chocolate Mole but I was not going to allow this crime against cuisine to take place in my kitchen. He could do his own food experiments on his own time and ruin his own fresh produce for the sake of trying to create an overly exciting menu. I wasn’t going to let him destroy the meal for everyone. He finally backed off and let me make my spicy chocolate sauce the way I wanted to make it.

Despite its dramatic moment, dinner was fun. We served our food buffet style and everyone piled plates high with crackers and sauce, then king prawns and mashed plantain bananas and more sauce. Dessert was a hit and it helped the organizers understand the value of teaching Ecuadorian chefs to make a few good quality vegan dishes for their menus. I’ll look forward to participating in more projects in the future. If you’re interested in seeing more of what we’ve been doing over the last few weeks and to keep track of what’s coming up, check out the Secret Garden Mompiche Instagram page. In the meantime, we probably won’t be dipping our grilled garlic king prawns in spicy chocolate sauce today…

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It’s my 60th birthday today. Born at 12:20 a.m., just 20 minutes into June 19th 1966. Apparently this makes me a double gemini with a pisces rising, and I’m still kicking ass and taking names. The weird thing is, I don’t feel 60. Then again, how is one supposed to feel at 60? At 20 I thought people aged 60 must have one foot in the grave, but now that I’m standing here on two strong legs, that is clearly not the case.

Every time I reach one of these milestone ages, my first thought is: I can’t believe I made it this far. Not that long ago, after a several decades of crazy adventures and trouble-making as a young woman, I never expected to reach the ripe old age of 40. That I was actually still alive after challenging death to a duel was shocking to me. At 50, I ended up in a battle for my life that took two full years to win, against all the odds. And now, at 60, it feels pretty wild that I’m still here. Maybe the old adage is true: only the good die young.

As I look back over these last six tumultuous, temerarious, enlightening, and revolutionary decades, I’ve been considering some of the things I’ve learned while stumbling along this crooked uneven path towards the first rung on the ladder of old age.

• The grass is greener where you water it.

• Flowers are empowered to bloom when and where they like.

• Procrastination is fun, but it doesn’t get any books written.

• Dark rum is better than white rum. It just is!

• Fart like no one is listening.

• Never hold a vacuum cleaner and a cat at the same time.

• People are either lessons or a pain in your ass. I like cats better.

• The batteries in paperback books never run flat.

• The funniest thing you can do to a man is tell him he's being too emotional and needs to calm down.

• It’s not obligatory for people to like/love you.

• It’s not about me.

• Always poop at work so you get paid for that shit.

• You learn about yourself while helping others.

• Swimming is an important life skill.

• Libraries are essential.

• Teachers don’t get paid enough.

• Women are powerful and deserve so much more.

• Choose the bear.

• Life gets easier when you stop trying to win.

• Never lose your senses of childlike wonder and delight.

• I’m not a bitch. I just have good boundaries.

• Knowing the language doesn’t mean you can communicate.

• Always wear shoes and a shirt while deep frying.

• Happiness is everything.

• I’m absolutely flawsome.

• Time flies like the wind, fruit flies like a banana.

• If you hang a teabag string from your whiskey glass, you can day drink without being judged.

• Offering an apology doesn’t mean you are forgiven.

• Unconditional love is the only true kind of love.

• Never kiss a cranky cat.

• If it won’t be important 10 years from now, it’s probably not that important today.

• International travel = Education.

• No is a complete sentence.

• Eat the cake and lick the plate.

• Stretching matters: both your body and your mind.

• Always stand up for yourself. If not you, who will?

• Women are smarter than men.

• Don’t be a dick.

• Life goes more smoothly when there is low level insanity bubbling just under the surface.

• To make big important life decisions, flip a coin.

• If you are not happy where you are, move. You are not a tree.

• Never feel ashamed of or disappointed in yourself; that’s a job for your parents.

• Waffles are pancakes with abs.

• Learning to communicate properly prevents so much drama.

• If you think you’re surrounded by assholes, chances are you’re the asshole.

• You become the people you surround yourself with.

• Life is too short for other people’s bullshit.

• Sometimes, the worst thing that can happen is the best thing that can happen.

• You can starfish when you sleep alone in a king-sized bed.

• Your taxes are meant to benefit you. 😂 (Apparently, the government didn’t get the memo.)

• A cooch full of coconut oil prevents candida.

• No response is a response.

• You teach people how to treat you. (They may not like it.)

• Always trust your gut.

• Nobody is too busy to spend time with you, it’s a matter of their priorities.

• I’m an extremely flawed human and I make lots of mistakes.

• Yoga makes you feel younger than you are.

• You set the tone for all your relationships from the very beginning.

• I’m good at so many things; writing, cooking, organizing, cat keeping, etc, but I’m absolutely terrible at relationships so I’m opting out of that game.

• When you accidentally fart loudly in public, yell "Jet Power!" and start walking faster.

At around 2pm today, a table at Secret Garden will be set up with cakes, cupcakes, chocolate eclairs, cake pops, and other sweets and desserts to share with friends to celebrate this 60th trip around the sun. I’m calling it Cake Day and inviting friends to stop by and share cake. It’s the best way to celebrate, rather than try to organize parties, or attempt to coordinate a bunch of busy people for a dinner party. It’s also much less work. Baking is my therapy and relaxation, so I get to feel good and lots of friends will come to eat the results. It’s a win win. Happy 60th to me!

If you feel like sending a gift.

Due to climate change, El Niño, and some extremely uncomfortable water restrictions due to the lack of rain, that I’ve had to deal with this year, it seems like a smart idea to double my water storage capacity, collecting and storing even more water when it does rain and fill up the water tanks to overflowing. The overflow from the current storage tanks will fill the new tanks. It will cost approximately $500 USD including the tank stand, two tanks, connecting pipes and plumbing, and manual labor to install. After much consideration about what I want for my 60th birthday, this would be the perfect gift. If you’d like to contribute to this water-saving project, please click the link above.

Thank you.

You arrive in Mompiche by bus or by private car. Sometimes on a motorbike, or even on a bicycle in some rare cases. Wherever you started your journey, Mompiche is remote and you’ve mostly likely come from quite far away and traveled for a long time. The majority of tourists arrive in our village by bus. By the time you get to paradise, where the jungle meets the beach, you’re hungry and tired, and in desperate need of a good stretch to unkink your cramped legs. The bus ride is long and relentless. The endless stopping and starting. The litany of salespeople shouting down the aisle. The perpetual bouncing. It can really take it out of you. You immediately disembark and stride down the main street and turn down Fosforera Street to find your hotel, dumping your stuff on the bed before heading out again to search for food. It’s been a minute since you had a decent feed. Bus snacks are okay on the road, in fact, Ecuador has excellent bus snacks, but it’s not the same as sitting down at a table for a good hot meal.

You walk around a little and choose a restaurant. In Mompiche, the eateries on the main street all look pretty much the same and they all have the same menu with the same prices. There are the seafood eateries and there are the BBQ and grill eateries. They all have similar set menu lunches (almuerzo) and dinners too, soup and a main dish with a glass of fruit juice for a few bucks. The only real difference is the view, a seaside table, or a streetside table. You sit down at a table and you order from the menu. Probably seafood. After all, you are on the beach now. Fish or prawns freshly caught in the fishing boats that day. Calamari, clams, and sometimes lobster are also available. Of course, if fresh seafood isn’t your thing, you can get chicken, beef, or pork as well. If you prefer vegan food, you probably figured out how to find Secret Garden well before you arrived in the village.

Just as your plate is delivered to your table, you notice a cute dog has shown up right beside you. He’s not pushy or obnoxious, just sitting there next to your chair with that appealing look on his adorable face. It’s tough to refuse him a bite or two. By the end of your meal, you’ve capitulated and handed over a few bits of fish or meat, some leftover rice, and maybe a banana chip or two. He’s happy with whatever you’re willing to part with. As you get up to pay, the dog silently disappears from your table.

At each restaurant, there’s a different set of dogs. It’s almost as though they’ve organized and separated into mafia-style territories. The dogs stick to their part of the village. There are serious problems when they don’t; fights in the street, dog gangs attacking the stray outsider. When the brawl is over, the dogs go back to their assigned camps. Inside the restaurants, the adorable dogs sit quietly beside the tables next to the unwitting tourists and passively beg for food scraps. Their little furry faces are so cute that most people can’t help but feed them. At the end of the day, with his belly full, the dog goes home to his owner to sleep off his feast.

That’s right, people. The dogs have it figured out. They all have owners, some good, some not. For the most part, they’re not abandoned street dogs. They have homes. They have people. They have food at home and a place to sleep. You’ve just been scammed by a canine. If you’re visiting Mompiche for more than a few days, the dog that sat at your table while you fed him might even adopt you for the duration of your visit depending on how generous you were in the restaurant setting. They’ll accompany you to the beach for a swim, go on a hike down the river with you, or even accompany you on an exploratory walk around the village. If your group is big enough, the dog might even invite one of his friends along to join in. After all, there’s enough bounty to share. There’s plenty of food. Lots of ear scratches and cuddles. Even some fun playtime on the beach or in the river. Each night, they’ll go back to their owners. In the morning, because tourists are generally creatures of habit, they’ll find you again at breakfast.

After spending all this time with your amazing new best friend, you may even have named him. You may be under the impression that you have adopted a dog or two during your beach vacation. Oh no, my sweet naive tourist, no no no, you most certainly have not. The dog has temporarily adopted you for all the benefits you will provide him during your stay. He loves to be loved by you because he doesn’t usually get that much love at home. He enjoys your company and the extra food. However, the moment you start to pack your bags, that beloved dog of yours is back in his restaurant gazing adoringly upon his next target hoping to supplement his daily food rations with your rich fare, and get another long scratch behind the ears…

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For the longest time, several decades actually, I’ve had this same recurring thought: men are too emotional. It’s the elephant in the room that no one wants to talk about, least of all, men. It’s blatantly apparent in every society, in every culture, in every country, regardless of race, religion, or political affiliation. I’ve traveled all over the world and seen it for myself countless times, emotional men going completely nuts over whatever thing did not go their way; jobs, money, life, sports, politics, relationships. Particularly in relationships, where men tend to be emotionally dependent on women.

In Indonesia in the early 90s, a guy tried to run me over in his SUV because I wouldn’t go to a famous nightclub with him in Bali. It was called Paddy’s or Peanuts or something, the local hot spot to see and be seen at the time. Instead of agreeing to go inside with him, I got out of the car and started to walk away, looking for a tuk-tuk (motorized three-wheeled taxi) to take me back to my hotel. It was the wee hours. I was tired and a little drunk. I wanted to sleep. This madman became insane with rage and tried to kill me. I barely knew him. We’d been on one date. Tell me to my face that is not the reaction of an emotionally unstable man whose last two brain cells are fighting for third place. And yet, this same histrionic idiot accused me of being too emotional when I got out of his car and calmly walked away from a situation I was no longer enjoying. Women put down a boundary, and arrogant, self aggrandizing, emotionally immature men immediately see red.

Just a few weeks ago, a volunteer got extremely emotional after I asked him to leave my house for becoming rude and abusive when a few things didn’t go his way that morning. He became enraged and started screaming insults, then quickly resorted to violence. In what could have been an easy day for both of us, this infantile thumb-sucker couldn’t manage to hold his head high and behave like an adult male with a shred of dignity, instead choosing to throw a childish tantrum and throw all pride out the door just because he didn’t like being shown the consequences of his own poor behavior and refused to take any responsibility.

There’s currently a demented world leader with the emotional development of a spoiled elementary school brat who consistently behaves like a large, petulant infant, frequently escalating nothing-pies into international scandals because his fragile feelings were hurt. I’d call him a narcissistic c**t but he lacks warmth and depth. This orange-faced, thin-skinned, diaper-wearing, adjudicated rapist, and alleged pedophile was unable to cope emotionally with the satire and jokes told by the number one host of late night television and did everything in his power to have that show cancelled, despite his country’s incessantly rabid screaming about the importance of the First Amendment. Instead of successfully cancelling a comedian this reprehensible sore loser didn’t personally like, and also attempting but failing to cancel another one, he inadvertently amplified these men’s voices on a global scale, igniting a brand new raging fire of satire he will never be able to extinguish. Cue the entirely predictable, seething, unhinged, self-pitying, incoherent, raging, vitriolic, vengeful meltdown. Apart from all his other glaringly obvious flaws, he’s clearly too emotionally unstable to be an effective world leader. It’s pretty obvious by now that a woman would have done a much better job.

Men are too emotional. Say it to yourself quietly. Say it slowly. Think about what it means. Women have forever been accused of being too emotional to function autonomously in society. Too emotional to work outside the home. Too emotional to get paid well. Too emotional to have a bank account or a credit card. Too emotional to vote. Too emotional to be professionals. Too emotional to join the armed forces. Too emotional for leadership positions. Too emotional to run a country. Across centuries, women have had to fight tooth and nail to chip away at the patriarchy using logical and strategic activism rather than rely on their emotions. Powered by the desire to succeed, women became focused, organized, task oriented, and loud, refusing to diminish themselves just because men felt uncomfortable or threatened. With solid goals in their sites, women went for it full throttle regardless of the sometimes devastating cost. British suffragette, Emily Wilding Davison, and many others died fighting for women’s voting rights. Iceland’s Day Off almost collapsed the entire country when 90% of its women refused to work. Russia’s Pussy Riot were arrested and incarcerated for 21 months for their feminist activism.

Men got wind of these rapidly growing women’s movements and collapsed into conniptions of rage and anxiety, frantically doing everything in their power to crush women because they couldn’t emotionally cope with the concept that women might deem themselves as equals, instead of continuing to serve as slaves. The patriarchy is gradually crumbling around their ears and men are aghast. Here’s the thing: If men weren’t so terrified of “girl power” then women wouldn’t have to “fight like girls” to reclaim it. The war on women can only truly end when men stop fearing the power of women and start embracing it. Over time, intensifying their efforts during the last 60 years, women gradually clawed their way to equality then, realizing they had merely reached the bottom rung of the ladder, began looking beyond that goal with increasingly higher aspirations. Go ladies!

Men persistently claim that women are too emotional, too hormonal, too sensitive, but it’s women who are being killed all over the world because an insecure, emotional, hypersensitive excuse of a man-baby couldn’t get his way and completely lost his shit. In Australia, a record 97,800 domestic violence offenders were reported in the 2024–25 financial year, (403 offenders per 100,000 people). Over three-quarters (78%) of these violent offenders were male. In 2025, 79 Australian women were murdered by their partners. In the same time period, 116 women and girls were killed in the UK. So far, in 2026, 29 Australian women have been killed by their domestic partners, irrational, impulsive, and reactive men with zero empathy who lost control of themselves and their unprocessed emotions, and subsequently lost everything else in a mindless flash of unbridled fury. Was it worth it, dude? Don’t you think getting therapy would have generated a better result for everyone involved? It’s too late to change it now. A woman is dead. You killed her. And you’re either dead or rotting in a prison cell where you have to think about what you did for the rest of your life, all because you have low impulse control and were too unreasonable to peacefully navigate intense feelings like anger, frustration, fear, despair, and anxiety.

Every month in the USA, more than 70 women are shot and killed by their intimate partners, aberrant men who would scream like toddlers if you took their guns away. An average of 24 people per minute experience physical violence, rape, or stalking by a partner. Over 10 million women are physically abused by a romantic partner every year. Women aged 18 to 24 are the most frequent victims of this abuse. Nearly half of all women (47.3%) report experiencing some form of domestic violence in their lifetime, and that’s only the incidents actually being reported. How many cases of domestic violence are never reported? On two occasions, I failed to report being attacked by my maniacal husband because I knew the police would do nothing. How many women are so scared their abusive partner will kill them and/or their children that they can’t afford the risk of reporting these overly emotional men and their unhinged acts of domestic terror? It’s the exact same story across Europe, Asia, and Africa. In the Middle East, millions of women are forced to cover themselves from head to toe because religiously zealous men have zero control over their raging emotions, and those men are illogically proud of their weaknesses.

Misogyny is the result of men incapable of accessing, processing, and managing complicated, vulnerable, and uncomfortable feelings. It’s insane to realize that so many men hate women so much yet they still want us to cook, clean, entertain them, and have their children. In 1970, Australian writer Germaine Greer wrote “women have very little idea of how much men hate them” and, despite all the pushback at the time, she was right. It’s never changed. Why would women put up with that kind of manipulative deception from such emotionally immature and toxic losers? In short, we won’t. We don’t have to any longer. We’re in a much stronger position now. Economically, societally, and independently women have achieved autonomy. We already have surpassed “equality” on so many levels. We don’t need men in our lives. We don’t need their weaponized incompetence. We can take out our own garbage and open our own jars and change our own oil. We can adopt our babies, go to fertility clinics, or simply choose not to have children. We can find a healthy work/life balance and live in peace with our glasses of wine and true crime documentaries. We can take fun trips abroad with our girlfriends. If we want a man in our lives, we can choose to have a partner, but we no longer need men to survive. Men, on the other hand, still need women. Not one man would exist on planet Earth if a woman hadn’t given birth to him. And yet, this underlying pervasive irrational hatred of women rages hotly around the world day in, day out. In every country, on every continent, men are just too emotional. “Not all men!” some of you shout, outraged. Really? Have you challenged harmful behaviour whenever you saw it? Have you called out your mates when they’re being disrespectful? Do you listen to women instead of dismissing them? Do you recognise sexism still exists and actively choose not to contribute to it? Are you still participating in and benefiting from the patriarchy? Check yourself, your family, friends, and peers, then perhaps we’ll talk.

Many male gamers can’t handle highly skilled female players capable of crushing them into their motherboards and they become aggressive and threatening towards gamer girls to maintain their flimsy social status. Scientists freak out when women excel in their chosen field and they have unsuccessfully tried to erase the history of thousands of women astronomers, physicists, chemists, botanists, entomologists, mathematicians; the women who put the men on the moon, the women who paved the way for the internet, the women who discovered DNA sequencing, the original computer scientists. It’s a long list! The entertainment and arts industries are rife with misogyny and fragile male egos. Female tradies frighten the wrenches off plumbers, carpenters, and electricians. Men claim to be true sports fans, but only watch male teams when female teams can often run circles around the men. Just ask Simone Biles, Megan Rapinoe, and Alex Morgan. The all-male IT department frequently becomes hostile towards highly qualified women techies. White collar women are marginalized and subjected to pay disparities and "old boys" networking. Of the Fortune 500 companies, only 55 (11%) have female CEOs because white collar women don’t get promoted like men. And why is that exactly?

Right-wing politicians are desperately trying to strip rights from women, denying bodily autonomy and the right to vote, but allow gas stations to sell unregulated dick pills because men’s erections are prioritized over women’s healthcare. Cue the cascade of unchecked emotions when a man can’t get it up. Doctors routinely ignore women’s symptoms and haven’t even studied the female body sufficiently to diagnose and treat many conditions specific to women, including menopause, uterine fibroids, and endometriosis. Women in law enforcement, first responders, and military jobs suffer from structural sexism, intense scrutiny, and toxic camaraderie. When these women are assaulted or raped, reporting these crimes to their superiors can lead to a lack of career advancement instead of justice.

At universities all over the world, casual sexism, harassment, and structural bias that impedes career progression are all common obstacles female students face, even though numerous studies across multiple decades and regions demonstrate that female students consistently outperform male students academically. Yes, women are smarter than men! Can men deal with that fact without killing us? Women are capable of maintaining their careers without being too emotional about it, but men become insanely emotional when women shine in their preferred profession. Men fear being outdone.

Women who dare to stand up for whatever they believe in are vilified and silenced by raging inadequate men. Activists are increasingly reviled online through coordinated smear campaigns, doxxing, and state-backed red-tagging on digital platforms like Twitter and Facebook. This targeted digital abuse, which often involves violent threats and misogynistic deepfakes, aims to silence dissent, degrade credibility, and tries to coerce our brave revolutionary women into abandoning their causes. And still, we continue to fight for our rights. Women have spent generations dealing with mountains of misinformation, double standards, and harmful laws written by ignorant and impetuous men who don’t even understand basic biology or female bodily functions. We inherited our freedom from unapologetically inconvenient yet powerful women who refused to be polite. Pussyhats rule! Despite fierce resistance from male counterparts, it was focused ambition that fueled trailblazers like Eunice Carter who faced professional sidelining, public skepticism, and political obstacles while she was making history.

Even socially, it’s become almost impossible to be a happy woman in public doing something fun for herself without an insecure attention-seeking man interrupting that peace. No, I won’t smile for you. No, I don’t care about your opinion on my appearance. No, I don’t respond to wolf-whistles because I’m not a dog. No, I won’t have coffee with you. And when women just trying to live their lives ignore them, men become furious, aggressive, and threatening. Why? Because they’re too emotional, they can’t handle rejection. Men hate not being the center of attention. It’s really simple guys: leave women alone. We owe you nothing.

As a young chef working in a hostile male-dominated environment, my peers became infuriated every time Chef praised my work. Rather than work harder and do better, they chose anger and jealousy and behaved like a bunch of entitled schoolyard bullies. This ridiculous bullshit (and so much more) happens because men are too emotional. They’re scared women will show them up and do everything better because we can and they know we can. Glass ceilings are for smashing through, regardless of men’s fragile feelings.

Over the weekend, more unequivocal evidence of this decades old opinion cemented itself once again in my own life. A man I had previously considered a friend was savagely beating and kicking his dog at a small empanada kiosk in front of the school. I’d stopped to pick up a couple of raw empanadas de verde to cook in the air-fryer at home. The unleashed pitbullXbulldog named Superman got into a fight with another male dog. The entire fiasco could have been avoided if Superman had been on a leash. He’s normally a good dog. As his owner pounded into the dog’s body with his fists and feet, I interrupted his beating and told him it was abuse and asked him to please stop abusing his dog. The owner exploded and began verbally abusing me, of course, because that’s what abusers do. I just calmly repeated the same thing over and over: This is abuse. What you’re doing is abuse. This is animal abuse. This hyper-emotional man went completely berserk and came for me, verbally attacking and getting in my face with a viciousness I haven’t seen since my hysterical (ex) husband broke my nose. I couldn’t care less about whatever someone says about me because one, I know it’s really about them, and two, I had successfully distracted this spitting, screaming man-child away from beating his poor dog. The dog was better off in that moment and that was all that mattered to me. That man is no longer a friend. I refuse to be friends with people who abuse animals. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything to remove the dog from him because Ecuador’s animal abuse laws are both laughable and never enforced. Imagine becoming so emotional that you’d kick and punch your dog. Who does that?

Pet abuse is often related to domestic abuse. In a study of families under investigation for suspected child abuse, researchers found that pet abuse had occurred in 88% of the families under supervision for physical abuse of their children. In a survey of domestic violence victims, 71% reported that their abuser also targeted their pets. The large majority of these abusers are over emotional men who didn’t get their way and immediately resorted to violence to assert control over the situation instead of sorting out their feelings. Men’s insecurities are not women’s problem. Men’s emotional issues are not ours to solve. Abuse is an inept tool used by weak, simpleminded, maladapted people. Some would argue it’s about power. Why do men feel the need to exert power over women? What are they so angry about? What are they afraid of? Once again, we circle back to men being too emotional. Are men scared of women? Is that it? Are men afraid of the unlimited potential women could realize if they weren’t standing on our necks? They’re probably fully aware women could mop the floor with them if given the chance.

We can also attribute rises in domestic violence to sports events. Every year in the USA, there’s a 10% increase in violence at Superbowl time. In Australia, there’s a 15% to 20% spike in family and domestic violence incidents during the AFL Grand Final period and a 30% to 40% spike during the State of Origin series and the NRL Grand Final. During major FIFA tournaments, a 26% to 38% rise in domestic abuse incidents is reported. Your football team lost and you got mad and beat up your wife and kids? It’s just a stupid game! And yet, you get so riled up about men kicking a ball around that hurting another human is your solution? WTF? It makes no sense. Add drugs and alcohol and you have a prickly powder keg waiting to be lit up by the smallest spark. Tell me that is not a clear indication of overly emotional men, out of control fanatics willing to kill and maim over sports and games. There are millions of them. Possibly billions.

There are no bombs mentioned in the Bible, Quran, or Torah, but radicalization happens because impulsive men with low self esteen, poor emotional regulation and a lack of accountability want to feel seen. Men account for approximately 90% of violent extremism and terrorism cases. Terrorism probably wouldn’t exist if men weren’t so freaking emotional. Men also make up around 93% of prison populations because they are incapable of controlling their anger (emotions), lust (emotions), and addictions (emotions).

Men who are incapable of processing emotions are running roughshod over women, children, families, animals, nature, even countries with impunity. Rapists are being let off because “boys will be boys” and rape culture will letting him keep his scholarship because male futures are deemed infinitely more valuable than female futures. Murderers get less prison time than government whistleblowers and black cannabis dealers. Serial killers get book deals. Pedophiles are released back into society to do more harm. Domestic violence is ignored until a woman or a child is dead. The police refuse to believe reports of rape and abuse. Judges continually fail to sentence violent crimes properly. The justice system protects the perpetrator and abandons the survivor. Journalists headline the perpetrators attributes and either ignore or denigrate the victims. Is it any surprise we choose the bear? How about a life for a life? Men who rape, murder, and abuse women and children are destroying entire lives. That raped woman will spend the rest of her years dealing with the psychological consequences of that crime. That abused child will never forget what happened to them. A few months in prison isn’t nearly enough punishment. Putting violent men who hurt women and children in prison for life is the only way to get real justice. You destroy a life, yours is destroyed too. Maybe that will stop them in their tracks so they cannot reoffend.

A recent Morgan Stanley report predicts that approximately 50% of women aged 25 to 45 will elect to remain single by 2030. Women are opting out of dating primarily due to the unequal effort gap and emotional exhaustion. Carrying disproportionate emotional labor and tolerating unbalanced dynamics within relationships has become way too 1960s for this new generation of strong independent young women. These days, more than 67% of dating app users are men, and dating has become increasingly unsafe. Women are becoming experts at spotting red flags, even the smallest signals. Men contend they need to protect us. From who? They’re the threat. You think I’m kidding? Google the thought experiment “a day without men” and read through some of the results. Women are continually instructed to ensure their own safety through hyper-vigilance, defensive routines, and behavioral restrictions because they have no way of knowing which men are safe, but men are still not being taught to get their shit together. “How to handle rejection/defeat” and “NO is a complete sentence” would be a good place to begin. On top of that, dismantling the patriarchy is starting to look like just another unpaid job assigned to women. Guess what, guys, we’ve carried you far enough so now that responsibility falls to you, unless of course you’re too emotional to handle the task.

Men did this to themselves. Women don’t need to be unpaid therapists or punching bags for grown-ass man-babies who have zero control of their emotions and have never developed any peaceful coping mechanisms for times when life doesn’t go to plan. Men need to go out and get some quality friends, some hobbies, some therapy, and learn some good coping strategies. They also need to stop listening to callous, manipulative and toxic male influencers who promote sexist and anti-feminist ideas and make hateful remarks about women, display a considerable lack of respect, and portray us as sexual objects that need to be conquered. This hatred of women, anchored in fear and awe, is not our problem. Women don’t hate men, we’re just done with all their nonsense. We have zero interest in striving to convince a lesser man to become a better man than the one we have been forced to become for ourselves to fill the void. More and more women are quietly opting out of the minefield-like dating game, preferring to remain single, going to therapy, hanging out with girlfriends, and still choosing the bear. We’re no longer prepared to settle for mediocre men or lower our standards. And guys, if you’re feeling personally attacked by what you’ve read so far, it’s you I’m talking about.

It would take an an extraordinarily outstanding man to replace no man at all, but outstanding men of such high caliber are rarer than albino lobsters. Men who cook, clean and do laundry are not special, they’re functioning adults. Add emotionally intelligent to the mix and you have a reason for a second date. Strong, competent, proactive men are attractive. No women wants to be intimate with a man who makes her feel like she’s his mother. Honestly, I’d rather stay blissfully single for the rest of my life and become a crazy old cat lady than entangle myself with yet another unremarkable man. Just for starters, they’re way too emotional…

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As most of you lovely readers know well by now, there is no veterinarian in Mompiche. In the past, we had the amazing Esteban who visited several times annually to treat our pets. He died a year ago, causing the singular most impactful loss the village has ever experienced. There is not a single person in Mompiche left unaffected by his passing. Nowadays, Nahomy comes from Quito every so often for a clinic. When ten or more clients express interest in vet care, which makes it worth her while, she packs her bongos and heads to the beach to examine and treat our critters. We hold the vet clinics downstairs.

Nahomy’s most recent visit ended up with Tyke in surgery to remove some tumors we’d found in his mouth. Since then, we got through a few rough days that caused me several sleepless nights and way too much stress, and Tyke has perked up quite a bit. After a week on Presnidone to reduce the inflammation in his mouth, he’s now on CBD oil and turmeric oil daily. Every morning, I have to (carefully) wrestle him into the bathroom and administer the oils. I make sure the droppers are prepped ahead of time. I’m careful to drop the CBD oil directly onto the tumor site. I usually grab him while he’s eating. Since taking the oils every day, he seems to be doing much better. We’re waiting for Nahomy to come back and examine him again so we can monitor the site of the tumors and make sure they don’t grow back.

Recently, Sox has been curling up in bed with me. This is unusual behavior. Sox is an outside cat. He made it extremely clear from the very beginning that he prefers to live in the garden rather than in the house. He comes upstairs to eat and take naps in hammocks, but spends most of his time sleeping on the barbecue or in the garden. He sleeps downstairs at night. That’s his territory. Finding him in my bed two mornings in a row was strange. Under the guise of a love-fest, I ran my hands all over his body to see if there were any sore spots, any indications of pain, or any wounds. Under his elbow, I discovered a massive abscess. He wouldn’t let me touch it. I felt a couple of scabs. It seems he’d been in a fight with another cat and was bitten. The two or three day old wound had become infected.

Leaping into action, I immediately checked my supplies of injectable tranquilizer, ketamine, and antibiotics. My supplies of syringes were good. There was other necessary equipment in the cat’s first aid box. Then, to make sure I got it all right, I checked the old messages from Esteban from the time I asked for help to do surgery on Max to remove a catfish bone embedded into the back of her tongue. All the dosages were written in lay-speak, exactly what I needed. Esteban, from the grave, helped me get Sox tranked and knocked out with the correct doses of each of the meds.

Before I started, I swabbed the bench with disinfectant and made sure all my syringes were lined up in order of use. Equipment was laid out in front of me. I snapped latex gloves onto my hands and grabbed the increasingly cranky cat, who was not the slightest bit impressed that he’d been caught and confined. I had to be careful how I picked him up because my dicky wrist doesn’t like those angles. The first injection is the tranquilizer. It takes a few minutes to take effect, so I left Sox on the bathroom floor to complain loudly about his horrifically unfair treatment until he finally started becoming floppy. From there, I put him up on the bench again and quickly shot the ketamine into his butt. After a few minutes, he was on his side with his tongue hanging out. I gently tugged on his tongue and he didn’t react.

Normally, when Nahomy does the surgeries at the clinic, she has a drip connected to each patient with a catheter inserted into their shaved front paw. This happens after the tranquilizer is administered and the critter is calm. I didn’t have that luxury. Even if I had the drip equipment and saline bag, there’s still no way I could find a vein. I can do intramuscular and subcutaneous injections without problems but have never done an intravenous injection. In this case, it wasn’t really necessary.

Sox was out on the operating table. I peeled the new scalpel from its wrapping and dipped it into the disinfectant liquid I’d prepped earlier, then sliced into his now sterilized elbow. It’s worth having a scalpel or two in the first aid kit, as well as a couple of stitching needles and absorbable thread. It was just a small incision directly into the center of the abscess. It immediately exploded. Pus and blood oozed out. Scooping up the goop with squares of clean gauze, I pressed and squeezed gently until nothing more came out. It took a while to clean out and then clean it all up with more disinfectant. Then, I injected the antibiotic into the shoulder directly above the wound. For a split second, I thought about stitching the incision, but then recalled Esteban telling me not to stitch an abscess. Instead, I left it open to drain.

I put Sox on a clean towel in the shower stall while he was still out and cleaned up the surgery table, putting away all the meds and binning all the waste. Sox spent a couple of cranky hours in the bathroom coming out of the anesthesia and banging on the door for me to let him out. It’s too easy for a wobbly cat to fall off my house, so I kept him confined in the bathroom until he was able to walk without falling over. I don’t need another wounded cat or any more broken bones. At this point, I can’t afford another feline medical emergency. Eventually, when I opened the door, he came out raging. His nickname is “Scrappy Cat” and he’s definitely a fighter.

Sox made a beeline for the catfood. Fair enough. I’d grabbed him before breakfast and by the time he was back on his feet, it was after lunch. He scarfed down most of the fish on the plate, then stomped downstairs, shooting a disdainful look at me as he disappeared. That’s an indication he’s not talking to me until he’s ready. I accept he’s mad. I would be too. He came up a short time later to eat again and went over to have a siesta in his blue hammock, next to his brother Zak who was in his blue hammock. Max was napping in the pink hammock. Off-screen, Tyke was in his yellow hammock. A normal siesta hour!

A week later, Sox is as good as gold, like nothing happened. As often as possible, I’ve been surrepticiously checking his elbow under the guise of hugs and scratches so I can feel around. It’s healed well. After the post-surgery super-ABs injection, I put him on broad spectrum antibiotics for seven days. Every twelve hours, I grabbed the scruff of his neck and shot .75ml of meds down his throat with a syringe. I also kept an eye on the wound, just to make sure. He’s returned to his ususal habit of living downstairs and spending most of his time in the garden. Lesson: It’s important to take notice of odd behaviors in pets. When they start doing something they don’t usually do, there could be something wrong. Sleeping in my bed was his way of telling me he wasn’t feeling well.

Sox is lucky I figured it out quickly. Even though I didn’t have any idea what I was looking for at the beginning, I found the problem fast and treated it immediately. An untreated abscess can quickly escalate into severe complications including sepsis, cellulitis, or localized tissue death. Bacteria can spread to the jawbone, brain, or heart and can be fatal if left unattended. This is the third time I’ve treated an abscess on a cat, but only the first time I’ve had to use anesthetic to lance and clean one. This surgery wasn’t optional. It just worked out that I had to do it myself because of the lack of a vet in Mompiche and also because I’m not putting a cat in a bus to the city for any reason. The one time I took Tyke to see a vet in Esmeraldas, we both ended up traumatized. Today, Sox is in great shape. Tyke is his usual fiesty self. Zak, Max, and Mae are all good. It’s me that’s still a mess…

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Usually, sometime between Monday and Thursday every week, I try to sit down at my dilapidated old laptop to write about something that vaguely has to do with life in the jungle. Most often, it’s Thursday afternoon before I get around to it so I can post the story for Friday morning. This is the weekly goal. Obviously, I don’t always achieve the goal. Of course, if I was smarter, I’d have each article written by Monday afternoon so I could do some extra editing and make corrections throughout the week and make sure it’s ready to post. Sometimes, it takes me a minute to think about what might be interesting to write about. This week was unusual in that I’ve been prepping a lot of food for unexpected clients. It’s low season now. Surf season is done. Normally, I don’t get much business at this time of year.

On Wednesday night, a group of local implants wanted to eat Pad Thai. They all knew that if anyone could make something that could rub the elbows of the authentic Thai noodle dish, it would be me. However, due to supply issues, there would need to be some minor adjustments to the original Thai recipe. Pad Thai is basically a stir-fry of rice noodles, eggs, tofu, and meat, with a sweet-sour-salty and slightly spicy sauce, and toppings of toasted peanuts, fresh herbs, and mung bean sprouts.

The first substitution I would need to make was the mung bean sprouts. There’s only one store in Ecuador that I can find that sells dried mung beans that could possibly (or not) be sprouted. I keep checking online, but their dried mung beans are still out of stock. Instead, I decided to use the sprouted lentils I often make using one of my old paper-making screens. They’re crunchy, tasty, and easier on the gut than unsprouted lentils. It was a small substitution, but it would work more or less even if the flavor was slightly different. Nutrition-wise, sprouted anything is excellent. Nutrient-dense powerhouses packed with vitamins, minerals, and antioxidants, you can’t beat good sprouts.

I also substituted the rice noodles for sweet potato noodles. Firstly, the store hasn’t had any rice noodles in stock for weeks despite me begging Isauro to get some and I’m not traveling three hours to Esmeraldas just for some bags of noodles. Secondly, sweet potato noodles are like thick glass noodles with a firm but chewy texture which have a delightful mouth feel. They’re also super long so you can slurp and slurp and slurp them into your lips like no other noodles. I figured, unless someone asked, everyone would just assume the noodles were made from rice. If anyone did ask, I’d just tell them the truth. Sweet potato noodles are the bomb. Everyone loved them.

Some people wanted fresh shrimp in their Pad Thai. Others wanted tofu. Naturally, no one in Mompiche sells tofu. I’d have to make it. Second problem: No one sells organic soy beans either. Instead, I made tofu from green lentils. It took about half an hour to blend lentils that had been soaked overnight with water and salt and then cook it into a thick gloopy paste which set into a firmish tofu-style substance. I seasoned it with Himalayan pink salt and cracked black pepper. The Pad Thai sauce would do all the heavy lifting on the flavor anyway. Then, I sliced the tofu block into squares and deep fried all the pieces of tofu, then stored them in the fridge until I needed them. The shrimp were easy enough, buy fresh from the boat, clean immediately, sauté lightly in garlic oil until just cooked, and set aside until needed.

To make Pad Thai sauce, you also need fish sauce. It’s an integral ingredient in the sauce recipe and provides the umami flavor. Of course, like most exotic products, I can’t get that here. Instead, I made vegan fish sauce from nori sheets and rice vinegar, miso paste, soy sauce and a few other magical ingredients that equated to a more or less umami seafood-ish flavor that would work in Pad Thai sauce. Add tamarind paste for the sour flavor and dark brown panela for the sweetness, of course there’s no palm sugar but this is close enough, and voila, you have more or less a decent tasting Pad Thai sauce that tourists love and Thai people would probably laugh at if they tried it. Here, we use whatever we have to do the best we can. My version of Pad Thai sauce has all the right elements: sweet, sour, salty, umami. It’s good enough for Mompiche.

By the end of Wednesday night, all six customers were happy with their choices, believing they had eaten amazing Pad Thai in the middle of nowhere on a remote beach in Ecuador. It’s the perception of good flavors and authentic dishes that matters more, don’t you think? If everyone loved it, I did something right. They all had vegan ice cream for dessert, stayed late and chatted, and had to be coaxed gently out the door before I fell asleep on the sofa while they discussed the state of the world.

Thursday morning, my plan was to do the dishes I was too tired to wash the previous night, bring in the laundry, and sit down to write in the afternoon. Lady Destiny loves it when I make plans. HAHAHA! she laughs, knowing long before I do that my simple plan was already in the trash the moment it appeared. I did get the dishes done. It took a long time. My sore wrist means going slowly and taking breaks. Wash a few dishes. Break. Sweep the kitchen floor. Break. Wash more dishes. Break. Make the bed. Break. Wash more dishes. And so on. My wrist needs rest. There are certain angles it doesn’t like, so I have to be careful. Just as I finished the last of the dishes, I was taking a short break, anticipating my next chore of bringing in the laundry when the doorbell rang.

Eight people walked in the gate all at once. Two separate groups. One group of six young people and one older couple. They all wanted lunch. Right then, the power went out. Not a massive problem. I can do most things without electricity. I cook with gas and the water supply isn’t dependent on power. I connected the modem to the battery pack so everyone could comfortably stare into their phones and got ready to take food orders from eight people.

Firstly, while they were perusing the menu, I offered everyone drinks: freshly brewed kombuchas made from hibiscus (left) or naranjilla (lulu) (right), homemade ginger beer, pilsener, wine, or spirits. I’d usually offer fresh tropical fruit juices but there was no power to run the blender. Of course, since there’s one in every group, someone asked for mango juice. Breathe in. Breath out. There was a cold mango in the fridge. I smiled and told her it would take some time. First, I served all the kombuchas and beers, then pushed chilled mango flesh through a sieve by hand with a sore wrist in a power blackout. The things I do! Everyone took their time ordering. I like this extra time because it gives me a chance to organize my kitchen and feed the cats who are milling around expecting their lunch at this hour. I take out cutting boards, knives, peeler, grater, scrap bucket. I’ll need them while prepping food.

The couple ordered tacos. Easy. I made fresh corn tortillas while the spicy black beans thawed on low heat over the stove. Then, I chopped tomato, avocado, cucumber, peppers, and lettuce. In the middle of all that, the group of six wanted to order. The tacos were almost ready. I gave the group a piece of paper and a pen and asked them to write it all down for me so I wouldn’t have to spend ten minutes taking their order instead of finishing off the taco order. It took six people twelve minutes to write down what they wanted.

Four stir-fries. One sweet and sour. One spicy peanut. Two Thai red curry. One hamburger, one wrap with no beans or lentils. Every order was different. The corn tortillas were already on the hotplate. The kettle was next; boiling water for noodles. I made the flour batter for the wrap and threw it on the other hotplate. The hamburger and bun came out of the freezer and sat in a pan over really low heat thawing slowly with the lentil tofu left over from the Pad Thai. The tacos went out. Today’s meals were all vegan. All three burners were on the go.

I chopped, grated, and sliced onion, garlic, carrot, chayote, cucumber, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, lettuce, and more avocado. In the middle of everything, the taco couple paid and left. I decided to cook all the stir-fried vegetables at the same time then split them up at the end to mix in the different sauces. I was on a roll, hamburger heating, buns toasting, wrap browning nicely, tofu gently heating, noodles soaking, stir-fry veggies almost ready, and then I discovered I was out of sweet and sour sauce. Oops! No power to quickly whip up a new batch. Tamarind sauce was close enough, a little sweet, a little sour, enough umami to make it good. The client wouldn’t know the difference. As a young apprentice chef, forty-five years ago, a cranky German head chef once told me that people were much happier if they didn’t know what they were eating. He was right. I switched the sweet and sour sauce for the tamarind sauce (completely different from the Pad Thai sauce) and she never knew the difference.

The red curries came out last while I tossed in coconut milk ice cubes and added the red curry paste to mix through. Usually, I like to serve all the meals ordered by one table together, but on my own with a sore wrist, the stir-fry plates came out a few minutes later than the burger and wrap. No one was bothered. The entire time they’d been waiting for their food, the group of six had been playing Cards Against Humanity and laughing out loud at the answers to the questions, and the couple had been checking out the Mompiche book that lives on the coffee table. It helps to have picture books for customers and games to play if the food is going to take a while. I’m here alone. I’m the greeter, server, chef, receptionist, and dish pig. Sometimes, things can take a minute. I sprinkled sesame seeds and peanuts over all the plates of stir-fry and carried them over to the table.

Finally, everyone had their food. I handed out napkins, salt and pepper, cutlery, chopsticks, and homemade chili sauce. Then, while everyone ate, this was my cue to start clean up. I put away all the vegetables, tidied the workbench, and made a space for the future bussing so I could scrape and stack plates and place cutlery in a jug for washing after they left. By late afternoon, I was alone again. I needed a break, and I was hungry.

With an icepack on my wrist, I ate the stir-fried veggies I’d saved for myself when I served the four dishes. This happens a lot. I often throw in extra vegetables so I can eat after the clients have left. I soaked some mung bean noodles, added some frozen peas and reheated the vegetables tossed in red curry sauce. After mixing it all together, I sat and ate slowly, enjoying the view from my kitchen window. One by one, the cats came by for a scratch or to headbutt my arm. I spent time with each critter, giving them the love they wanted before they jumped off the bench and headed over to their plates of fish to eat. I checked Sox’s elbow to make sure it was healing well. (That’s what I was planning to write about, but here we are instead! However, never fear, Sox’s story will be told…)

As I finally began to wash the lunch dishes, I realized the sun was setting. There was a lot of work to do, but I still needed to rest the wrist. It’s frustrating. Washing glasses hurts. Washing plates hurts less. Cutlery is painless. Pots cannot be scrubbed vigorously. Leaving things to soak is part of the process. It took what seemed like forever. A couple of hours later, the dishes were finally done. Washed, dried, put away. It was dark out. I spread the leftover taco beans onto the spare corn tortilla I’d made earlier and had that for dinner. On demand, I fed the cats again. Then, realized I hadn’t written a single word for the Friday post. The laundry was still on the line too. And the garbage hadn’t been taken out.

Now, eyeballs falling out of my head, ready to go to bed, it’s the middle of the night and just starting to rain. I’m almost finished writing about my day to be ready for publishing on Friday morning. This is not the post I planned to write. But it’s what happened today instead of a lazy afternoon spent leisurely writing a crazy story about a sick cat. This happens a lot. I’ll be minding my own business, often still wearing my pajamas halfway through the day, when a group of tourists shows up at the door looking for food, or a group of residents want to satisfy a craving. I can’t afford to turn anyone away, sore wrist or not, power on or off. I’m not complaining. I needed the income from those fourteen customers. I’ve also had a couple of great days. I met some wonderful new people, hung out with friends, and made some delicious food for all of them. It made me happy to see everyone leave happy. It just goes to show, sometimes, the best plan is no plan at all…

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This week, I have a funny little story to tell you. Let’s call it toilet humor. First, a little background info. At Secret Garden, the main feature in the spacious bathroom, apart from the fabulous mosaic of an Esmeraldas Blue Crab on the back wall, is the composting toilet system. In the photo above, you can see there’s a toilet on the right with a small stool in front of it, and a sawdust box to the left of it. Further to the left, is a second toilet with a plant sitting on top of it. The greenery hides the second toilet and makes sure no one can use it by accident. Most people don’t even notice it. The closed toilet is left for four months so the contents can decompose themselves into rich fertilizer for the garden. During that time, no one has to touch anything. It takes care of itself. The separation of solids and liquids takes place at the bottom of the tube. After four months, the collection chamber is emptied out and the toilets are switched over.

It’s a simple system. You take your seat on the throne and put your feet up on the stool to ease your body into a half-squat position, optimal for creating a direct path through the colon and relaxing the puborectalis muscle. After you’ve conducted your business, you can choose whether or not the use the bum-gun to clean yourself with water, then toss the used toilet paper down the tube and throw in a scoopful of sawdust after it, unlike most South American toilets where you toss the paper into an open bin. The sawdust helps control smells and creates heat during the decomposing stage. If any sawdust spills around the toilet seat, there’s a small red broomhead at the back of the sawdust box for you to clean up your mess. And please do! There’s nothing worse than sitting on someone else’s sawdust spill and getting it stuck to your butt and in your pants. It’s itchy and uncomfortable, and almost reasonable cause to deck the previous bog user. Just kidding… Maybe a little light berating?

With all this in mind, you can imagine that some guests might still become a little confused about how the composting toilet works and what goes where. In Ecuador, most people are used to the basic flushing system and putting their used loo paper into a waste basket. At Secret Garden, we obviously do things quite differently. Usually, I explain it to guests and walk them through the process when they arrive and most people catch on fast, although over the years I have considered putting a little picture booklet in the bathroom so that people can see how it works for themselves and clear up any doubts. Maybe I will one day.

Last weekend, Sofi and family came to visit. Four adults and three kids. Due to the lack of rainwater in Mompiche, they didn’t stay at Secret Garden. They opted to sleep at another friend’s place where there is groundwater available and there is less risk of the tanks running dry. However, they came here for all their meals and spent most of their time in the hammocks. The family kept me busy with dinner, breakfast, and plenty of homemade ice cream after a day at the beach. As usual, I happily fed everyone glorious healthy meals, surprised all the mums with heavily rum-soaked tiramisu after dinner, and delighted the kids with several flavors of ice cream and kid-friendly desserts. They left the next afternoon with bags full of homemade jams and sauces and drove home to Esmeraldas to make it home before dark, checking in when they arrived.

The next morning, Sofi called me. At first, I couldn’t understand her. She was laughing and could barely speak. It turns out the whole family had a funny conversation over breakfast. Andrea, Sofi’s youngest sister had made a comment about her weekend visit to my house and Sofi couldn’t wait to share it with me. It went something like this:

Andrea said, “I love Roni’s house. It’s really beautiful and nicely designed. There’s just one thing I really don’t like.”

Sofi also loves my house so that there might be something her sister didn’t like about it surprised her. “What don’t you like about Roni’s house?” she asked.

Andrea answered, “I don’t like that, after you use the bathroom, you have to clean yourself with sawdust.”

Sofi fell off her chair, screaming. She laughed for over an hour before she called me. I’m still laughing days later. Apparently, Stian, Sofi’s 12-year-old son, had advised Andrea that was how the bathroom worked. They’ve been coming here for years, and I thought everyone knew, so I have no idea how it’s even possible he doesn’t know to use toilet paper. Now Sofi and I are wondering if that’s what he’s been doing every time he’s here. It’s both mind boggling and hilarious. Who would put sawdust down their pants on purpose? I guess I do need to do something about creating a little illustrated instruction booklet for the bathroom, after all…

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For twelve and a half years, hundreds of volunteers from all over the world have used Workaway, WorldPackers, HelpEx and even some showing up at the front gate to secure a precious volunteering spot at Secret Garden. I don’t accept everyone. There are filters in place to weed out people who won’t fit. Firstly, I don’t accept smokers. Put simply, I don’t need that stench in my life. Secondly, anyone under twenty-five is an automatic NO. The last thing I need is to teach people how to wash dishes and sweep floors. Their parents should have taught them that. In my experience, Gen Z is generally not a group of people accustumed to manual labor or household chores (of course, there are exceptions). Thirdly, the initial message matters. If it’s sloppy and lazy, then I can only assume the person writing the message will also be sloppy and lazy. I’m not interested in hosting people like that.

Once you get through all the filters, there’s one last hurdle. Do your dates match my dates? I take plenty of breaks between volunteering projects to regroup and spend some time alone. It takes a lot of energy to have strangers living in your house. Not only are you a host to volunteers who need guidance while working a few hours each day, but you are also a tour guide, an information center and, on occasion, someone they want to spend time with. After a few weeks of being “ON” 24/7, I need to rest. Usually, the day after a volunteer leaves, I do nothing except rest. I don’t cook, clean, or work on anything. That day and sometimes the next, I need time to myself to recuperate and relax and breathe in the air in silence and solitude. Hosting volunteers is hard work. It’s also rewarding and lots of fun, most of the time.

Unfortunately, not this time. The guy in the photo is Matheo. He comes from Réunion Island. Located east of Madagascar and southwest of Mauritius in the Indian Ocean off the coast of Africa, the island is a French colony. He was staying at Secret Garden for a month. During that arduous time, it became increasingly impossible to work with him. From the beginning, it was clear he wasn’t interested in being told what to do by a woman. I’ve had a few guys like that here before. I ignored their disdain for women and put them to work, listing what I needed done and how I wanted it done. Mostly, I left Matheo unsupervised to pull weeds and trim banana trees, plant things in the garden, and clean (which he hated and was really bad at). The day I chose to work with him in the garden while we planted hibiscus and bouganvillea clippings to replace the trees the neighbors poisoned, he threw a tantrum. He complained I watched him all day. Not once did he consider that I enjoy planting things in my own garden and have done so for fifteen years. Despite having a sore wrist, there are some small tasks I can manage without pain.

I haven’t seen a twenty-five year old man throw a tantrum before. It surprised me. The situation was perplexing. He couldn’t work without me telling him what to do and how to do it and became resentful when I decided to plant some herbs and ornamental plants while he was planting pineapples and turmeric. During his tantrum, he broke branches off the newly flowering pomegranate tree, stomped on an ornamental plant, breaking it in two, and smacked several pots around that we had just planted with chili seeds. I called him out for damaging plants. He yelled at me. Finally, I asked him to trim the top of the lime tree I’d been trying to save for six months. It had a sooty mold infestation. This is a black, powdery fungus that grows on the leaves and the fruit, caused by sap-sucking insects such as aphids, scale, or whiteflies. The tree was covered in it. My idea was to trim the worst of the mold and treat the base of the tree. Instead, Matheo chopped down the tree and killed it. He didn’t listen at all to my instructions and took out his rage on a tree that could have been saved. I was livid. My mistake was walking away and leaving him to it. I should have stayed and watched him work, regardless of how angry it made him.

There were things I ignored that maybe I shouldn’t have. When he wasn’t working or surfing, Matheo spent his time in a hammock, smoking marijuana while glued to his phone. I don’t have issues with weed, I use it myself. I also don’t have issues with watching things on a phone. Everyone does it. But when people came to the house and he refused to acknowlege them, I thought that was strange. He was anti-social in every way. During his month in Mompiche, he made zero friends. That’s highly unusual. Most volunteers create a small circle of friends, mostly fellow travellers and a couple of locals, within a week of being in the village. This guy didn’t go anywhere except to surf alone and then came back to get high. He got agitated if I tried to talk to him. Once, when we had a special Pad Thai night with several people joining in, I asked him if he’d like to join for dinner. He said yes, then had to be coaxed over to join the group. It was odd. I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Several people mentioned they got a weird vibe from him.

The final straw came when I was serving breakfast to seven people and he expected me to drop what I was doing to have a conversation with him about his work that day. I had three pans on the stove, a fruit salad in the making, and the coffee pot filling up. The night before, a banana tree had fallen over. I’d have thought that would be the obvious place to start without need of instructions. Apparently not. Because it wasn’t already pretty clear to him, I told him I was busy. He went downstairs and threw a tantrum. I finished serving breakfast and completely ignored him until my seven guests left to go to the beach. Then, I went downstairs. He yelled at me. That was it. I was done. I didn’t need an adult man behaving like a thirteen year old boy in my house. I didn’t need that absolute lack of respect. I didn’t need him, even though he threw out the manipulative "you couldn't have done any of this without me" line. It seems his tiny brain couldn’t manage to absorb the massive achievements, honed skills, and hard work that had gone into building Secret Garden for the previous fifteen years before his sorry little ass came along to pull weeds and plant ginger.

After that, came a string of insults. I cannot count how many times in my life men have called me a bitch. As a young chef working in kitchens, as a tour guide, as a journalist, as a teacher, and also in my personal life, I’ve been called a bitch so many times that, just like countless other women in today’s world of misogyny and toxic masculinity, I now wear it as a badge of honor. So, when Matheo called me a bitch, I thanked him for noticing my hard work and achievements. Obviously, I also told him to get out. He went upstairs and started packing, swearing and grumbling in French, yelling at me every so often. I told him I didn’t want to listen to him any longer. I felt stressed. He left his things upstairs and went out for several hours then came back and told me he would be staying the night because there was no bus until the next day. How is that my problem? I needed him gone.

At one point, he threatened me. I had to argue with him to get the house key back. I was scared he would get physical. There’s a quote by Margaret Atwood: men fear women will laugh at them, women fear men will kill them. I was very careful to not call him names or be disrespectful despite his verbal attacks. I got the key back and refused to argue any more. His behavior frightened me, but I said nothing. Instead, I messaged the group chat and asked for help to get this abusive threatening man out of my house. At first, the group suggested I call the police. I already knew I’d be wasting my breath trying to call the police because a man was threatening me in my own house. It wouldn’t have been the first call like that. I’ve called them before when the neighbors made threats. They never responded to any of the other calls, so I knew they wouldn’t respond to this one. I told the group I didn’t think the police would take me seriously, based on previous experience.

Then, a few minutes later, someone messaged saying they were on their way with their own volunteer. Soon after, another guy showed up. Then, another one. Four men came to help me get this abusive man out of my house. I knew Matheo wasn’t the kind of guy to listen to a woman. It would take a man to make him hear the same message: Get. Out. Naturally, Matheo told them all about the horrible nasty old woman who treated him badly then threw him out. Of course, he behaved like a victim when confronted by men, hoping they’d sympathise and join him in his misogynistic behavior. They waited patiently while he gathered his things and escorted him out the door and down the street. Even as he was leaving, he was throwing out insults. My last words to him were: Fuck off! I was done being polite. My heart was beating so hard I couldn’t hear anything else in that moment. I didn’t realize exactly how stressful the whole situation had been until I went back upstairs and burst into tears. I thanked the men on the street and again in the group chat and told them how grateful I was that they had my back. Soon afterwards, a friend came over to hang out and make sure I was okay while I cried out my relief. Messages of support flooded in, both via the group chat and privately. My community showed up for me in a moment of distress and I’m thankful to all of them for being there.

I’ve been hosting volunteers since 2014 and during that time, of the hundreds of people who have passed through the front gate of Secret Garden, none of them have scared me like this young man did. The accelaration of violence surprised me. I’m usually a good judge of character. While I saw a petulant anti-social immature boy, I did not see that level of rage coming at all. Normally, men traveling alone or with male friends are my prefered volunteer type. They’re not distracted by girlfriends and can focus on their assigned tasks while they’re here. They work, surf, go out for beers, make friends, explore the region, and love Mompiche. Some of them even fall in love while they’re here. They rave about their fantastic experiences. Despite several messages from potential volunteers who would like to spend time here, I’ve declined them all. After this fiasco, I’ll be taking a break from accepting volunteers for a few months. While I think it’s a fabulous system designed to support young people while they travel the globe on a budget, I need to take care of myself right now…

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For a lush rainforest abutting a tropical beach, you’d rightfully expect heavy and frequent rainfall throughout the year to keep things green and fresh. Except there hasn’t been any rain for quite a while. It’s been an extremely dry season so far. Normally, around this time of year, we enjoy sunny days and rainy nights. Some days, the rain sticks around until mid-morning. During the wet season, the ditch in my garden that I affectionately call Frog Lake would usually be overflowing. Frogs would be mating there. Snakes would be dining there. Butterflies would be laying eggs on the flowering lilies around the edges. Spiders would be setting up house to catch their prey. Birds would be swooping in to snap up insects. None of that is happening. Instead, there are large cracks in the bottom of the ditch. It’s drier than a glass of Chianti.

Mompiche usually enjoys a tropical wet climate year round with an average annual rainfall of approximately 1,458 mm (57 inches). Precipitation is not uniform, with heavy, frequent rainfall occurring between January and May, with the most rainfall in February, and a significantly drier season, generally from June through December. Although, June and July can also be cool and drizzly. However, this year our typical “wet” season was drier than a camel’s butthole. Even the usual January Storms failed to appear. Late April forecasts show roughly 1.4mm to just over 4mm of rain with temperatures hovering between 25°C (78°F) at night to 29°C (83°F) during the day. Leave us GASPING!

Bees are visiting the kitchen to find water to drink. I’ve left them a little bowl of water with some pebbles in the bottom so they don’t drown while quenching their thirst. I change the water daily, so it’s fresh and clean. We wouldn’t want our precious bees to be drinking dirty water. They’re often buzzing around while I’m doing the dishes. They look like some kind of honey bee and must have a natural hive nearby. I haven’t been out to look for the hive, but it would be interesting to find it. Fortunately, I learned a long time ago to not be afraid of bees. They’re minding their own business, not looking to harm anyone. They’re just thirsty. The kitchen sink is a water source they can rely on when there’s no rain. And they are welcome to come and get a drink whenever they need it. Some of them have a drink, then grab a quick nap, and return refreshed to wherever they came from. The world cannot do without its bees. We have to take care of them.

All around the world, bee populations are currently in decline due to pesticides, habitat loss, and diseases, so the lack of water we are currently experiencing in this part of the globe is one more threat to the local bees that could impact their lives in catastrophic ways. There are over 20,000 known bee species worldwide, classified into seven distinct families within the clade Anthophila. I’ve seen several species of bees in my garden. They’re critically important for the planet and human survival. As the primary pollinators for at least one-third of the world’s food production and roughly 90% of wild flowering plants, they are vital to Earth’s biodiversity. Bees are the primary indicators of ecosystem health because they are highly sensitive to environmental stressors like climate change, habitat loss, and pollution. A reduction in different bee species indicates a less resilient, less diverse ecosystem. Without our little fuzzy friends pollinating our plants, our food systems collapse. I’m happy to provide them with fresh water if that prevents their demise.

Every day, layers of thick clouds gather overhead cooling the air, teasing the promise of rain, then, just like that sketchy first date who promised they would call, the clouds don’t follow through. It’s been a daily disappoinment for weeks on end. The dry ground is cracked. The tanks are running dry. We are on strict water rations. Not a drop can be wasted. Water from the hand basin and shower is collected in a tank downstairs and used to water the garden. Even the dirty dish water is collected upstairs in buckets and used to water all the house plants. The minimal amount of detergent in the water is a great pesticide and plants are experts at cleaning up dirty water.

With the predictions of a strong El Niño scheduled to smack us around later this year with a warm winter and more interrupted rainfall patterns, my volunteer and I are in the process of creating an experiment to see if we can harvest water from the humid air, rather than rely on rainfall that doesn’t appear to be coming despite my daily raindance and chants. We’re using the most basic system possible, a fog catching screen that will collect water from the air overnight and run it into a large bucket underneath. It’s a basic idea that works effectively in several Middle Eastern, African, and South American countries at a community level. We’ll soon find out if it works in the garden.

Fifteen years ago, when I built my house to run on rainwater in the jungle, I never expected the rainwater supply to suddenly dry up like this. With four small tanks, I have 2000 liters for water storage and it’s just not enough any more, especially when there are other people staying in the house. Finding viable solutions to my personal water crisis is going to be a vital part of the future. Apart from collecting water from the air, installing a bigger collection tank to double storage capacity is part of the long-term plan. Also adding another 200lt tank to the grey water collection so I have plenty of water for the plants if I need it. That small tank of second-hand water ran out today. From now on, there’s no water for the garden unless it rains. I’d also like to add an extra tank right under the drain leak I can’t fix to run to the washing machine. (When it rains really hard, there’s a leak in the pipes on the roof where I can potentially collect quite a lot of water which now runs into the garden.) The garden will still get that water, after it’s been through the machine. The prohibitive factor to initiating my plans has been money, as usual. No tourism = no money. No money = no extra things. More tanks are extra things. This week, I spent $35 dollars on equipment to set up screens to collect water from the air. Wish me luck. I will definitely keep you posted.

What about ground water? I hear you ask. This close to the Pacific Ocean, with a tidal river running along the back of the village, Mompiche’s ground water is brakish. It’s yellow. It’s salty. It smells. It also costs a fortune to build a ground water well. There are all kinds of mechanical issues linked to low quality water as well: pumps break down, pipes clog up. Digging for ground water has never been on my list of things to do. If I want to bathe in salty water, I can go to the beach and dip my body in the much cleaner sea water a just few minute’s walk from my front door. When push comes to shove, and all the rainwater tanks are empty, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

There is a water truck that runs around town filling the small 200 liter tanks we all have at the front of our houses. Mine is for washing your feet when you get back from the beach. I also use it for cleaning stuff downstairs, and throw the waste water into the garden. Unfortunately, the guy that runs this truck is a complete asshat and, on several occasions, has refused to fill up my tank. He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him. Regardless, my $1.25 is worth as much as the next person’s money. Last time, a friend was visiting and I asked her to get the water in the tank. For her, he happily filled the tank. It makes zero sense because it’s still my tank and still my money. He knows that. Being the biggest asshat in town is his priority. I’m not the only person he treats like this. Even so, when we need water, he’s the guy we are forced to rely on. If I did actually have all the witch powers my neighbors believe I have, he’d already be a frog. Imagine that, a sad little frog looking for water on ground that as dry as the floor at a wood chipping factory. Oh, the irony…

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For the last few months, Tyke has been sticking out his tongue all day every day. Every waking and sleeping moment, there’s been a little wet pink tip poking out of his gorgeous face. Everyone who came to the house thought it was cute and took lots of photos of him while they ate their lunch or dinner. Because he’s so huge and hairy and handsome, especially when his tongue isn’t sticking out, Tyke is one of the most photographed cats in Mompiche. However, I suspected something was wrong with him because he has been drinking so much water, still eating but way less than usual, sleeping a lot more, and seemed to be a bit crankier than normal. There were days it seemed he wasn’t himself at all. Having an out-of-sorts cat isn’t funny.

Like all cat servants in Mompiche (who actually “owns” a cat? 😹), I had to wait until the vet clinic was organized to get him checked out. That was yesterday. After we lost our beloved vet Esteban, we are now extremely lucky to have Nahomy, a vet who travels from Quito every few months to examine and treat our animals, and bring our much needed pet medications with her. When she comes to the village, she uses the space in my ground-floor workshop to do check-ups, sterilizations, and other necessary surgeries. In return, the “rent” is checking out my cats as needed. Now, it was Tyke’s turn.

Just before Nahomy and her assistants broke for lunch, we locked Tyke in the bathroom (the home clinic) and held him down for an obligatory check up. On both sides of his jaw, towards the back of his mouth, there were two tumors, one small and one larger. This was not good news. My worst fears were unlocked. I tried my best to feel calm about it, but I lost Boss to cancer of the mandible in November 2023 after 12 glorious years with her. It was both heartbreaking and soul crushing, and I don’t know if I can go through that again. Tyke is also 12 years old. The initial diagnosis was stressful.

Tyke came to me via a tourist in the first week of February 2014. He was tiny. Around 5-6 weeks old, he was very skinny, very sick, and desperately in need of his mother who had been killed by poisoned food put down by a barbaric neighbor. In an act of abject cruelty, baby Tyke’s whiskers had also been cut off. Our first 48 hours together were fraught with stress and hourly feedings. Twice, I almost lost the tiny dude but refused to give up on saving him. I kept him swaddled in warm blankets in a hammock. Every hour, on the hour, for two days, I fed him with a syringe, alternately water and liquid protein; cooked fish and eggs blended with water and strained into mush. I sat with him during daylight hours, and woke up frequently during the night to feed him, rock him in the hammock, talk to him, and keep him alive.

When it became clear he was definitely going to make it, I handed him over to Red, the resident cat foster mom at that time who took care of all the stray kittens that made their way through the front gate. Immediately, she produced milk to feed him, trained him to clean himself properly, taught him to hunt geckos and mice, and turned him into a polite and friendly cat who learned to ask for food and scratches and, in turn, cared for other kittens when they showed up after Red passed away, first Mae, and then Max, and finally the brothers Zak and Sox.

From the beginning, Tyke was a little bit naughty and extremely opinionated. He knew how to express happiness with loud Harley Davidson-like purrs, and didn’t mind letting anyone know if he wasn’t happy either. His name came from the combination of his tiger looks and his cheeky naughtiness: Tyke. Twelve years later, he hasn’t changed that much. Still naughty. Still a tiger.

Two years ago, a biologist came to stay for a month. She studied Tyke and his idiosyncrasies. The shape of his skull and jaw bone. The size of his huge paws and big scary teeth. His coloring and markings. His long thick whiskers. Finally, she came to the conclusion that Tyke’s father was an ocelot and his mother was a fluffy tabby cat. Tyke has always been a bit different to other cats. He’s also enormous in comparison to the typical small breeds of cat in Mompiche. Weighing in at a whopping seven kilos (15lb), he carries himself like a gentle wildcat, loves vigorous head scratches, bites just a little too hard when he gets excited, and absolutely hates cuddles; he’s no Mama’s boy and is not shy to let you know he does not appreciate being picked up.

Now, as I type, he’s fasting in preparation for surgery. Nahomy has promised to do her best to remove all of both tumors from either side of his jaw. For the initial injection, the tranquilizer, I firmly held onto Tyke while the vet jabbed him in the butt. He went full wildcat, growling and gnashing his teeth. He got loose and bit me. Fortunately, I was wearing my neoprene wrist brace and he did no harm. Otherwise, I would have been lining up for stitches too. I held him tight as the tranquilizer took hold and felt him finally relax, semi conscious, onto the table. I kept him in my arms while the vet shaved his front leg and found the vein for the saline drip, then injected him with anesthetic. As the medication kicked in, he lay down with his tongue out. I let him go and walked away to let the vet do her job. She asked if I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t watch while he was being cut open and bleeding from his wounds. Having hosted a number of vet clinics and seen how people react to their own animals being operated on, I knew better than to observe the surgery. Instead, I fled upstairs and tried to stay calm.

Fortunately, I have a great global support network. While Tyke was under, I messaged several friends and let them know what was happening and told them I was feeling quite nervous and stressed about the outcome of the surgery. Tyke is an older cat. Anything and everything could go wrong during surgery. Anesthesia can be tricky at his age. What if it was cancer? My concerns weren’t unfounded. Support rolled in from around the world. Tyke has a lot of dedicated fans. Even so, my heart felt heavy and I was struggling to breathe as he was going through the operation. There was a bit of PTSD kicking in from when Boss passed away. That was a traumatic experience and I’m not ready to do it again. The surgery took over an hour. Finally, the vet called out and I went downstairs to see how things turned out.

The tumors were gone. Nahomy had been able to remove all of both of them, leaving nothing behind. She also removed a tooth that had been affected by the larger tumor on the left side of his jaw. Tyke was still under, so we took this rare opportunity to clean his teeth with a plaque remover gel designed especially for cats. It’s the only way to get into that vicious mouth of his without getting punctured by his long, strong, and sharp fangs. It would also help his mouth to feel a bit better when he woke up.

The vet carried him upstairs to the recovery basket. It’s the same woven reed laundry basket I’ve had for many years that I always use whenever one of the cats needs to recover from a surgery. With one towel on the bottom for warmth and another towel covering the top to keep out the light, it’s the perfect spot for a feline to gradually come out of anesthesia. I left Tyke there in my bedroom with the lights off and went about my business. He was in there for more than two hours. Eventually, he knocked over the basket and tumbled out, stumbling around the house as high as a kite, eyes as wide as saucers. At first, I put him in his hammock for a while and rocked him gently to keep him calm. Even four hours after surgery, he was still groggy, but wobbling around the kitchen looking for food and a place to pee.

I mashed up some sardines and put them in a small bowl so he could eat a little, then let him pee in the shower because going downstairs in his condition wasn’t an option. Tyke often does “protest pees” in the shower when he’s unhappy about something (who even knows what he’s protesting some days!), but I don’t care that much because it’s easy enough to rinse down with water and spray with lime vinegar to prevent cat urine smells.

Tyke got really cranky and growled at me when I wouldn’t let him go near the edge of the house. As if having surgery wasn’t enough stress, the last thing I needed was for him to fall three meters off the balcony and break a bone. Boss fell and broke a leg once and it was a three-month long nightmare. In the end, I locked him (and all the other cats) in my room where everyone was safe and we all went to sleep. I made sure there was plenty of food and water because Tyke would be ravenous when he finally came down. He would wake up feeling much better. So would I for that matter. It had been a long and exhausting day.

In the end, we were unable to send the tumors for testing because the pharmacy didn’t carry the Formol 10% solution (Formalin with 37-40% formaldehyde and 10-15% methanol) that is required to preserve tissue samples for transportation, and the vet hadn’t thought to bring any. We didn’t know we’d need it. We don’t have any way of knowing if the tumors were malignant or benign. The only thing to do at this point in time is to keep an eye on Tyke’s mouth and do monthly checkups to make sure there are no new growths. In the meantime, just as a precaution, I’ll be treating him with CBD oil, alongside his prescribed meds for pain and inflammation and antibiotics. If there are any cancer cells in his mouth, the CBD oil will help.

Right now, the main goal is to get as many years of cheeky naughtiness out of my handsome cranky wildcat as I can. We’ve had a long and adventurous journey together so far and I’d like it to continue. I’m grateful we still have a vet willing to travel from Quito every so often to make sure our animals are checked and treated. I’m grateful for the support of friends and family that came in from everywhere, I’d have been a much bigger mess without it. And I’m also incredibly grateful my precious cat is asleep in my bed tonight, still kicking on after an uneventful surgery…

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It was a normal sunny day in paradise. Clear azure sky overhead, birds chirping in the fruit trees around the garden, a breeze flitting through the house. It was a perfect day to do laundry. Eager to get started, I collected the dirty clothes from the hooks on the back of bathroom door. In this high-humidity climate, putting dirty clothes into a basket attracts both mold and chiggers. Trust me, you do not want chiggers rummaging around in your clothing. Ever.

Even the clothes I was wearing were destined for the washing machine. Downstairs, I put everything into the old twin tub that had miraculously been gifted to me by some residents departing Mompiche several years ago. I added a small amount of laundry powder. The rainwater here is soft. If you add too much soap, it will never come out of the fabric. The least amount of detergent possible is the best way to wash clothes. Then, I went across to the other side of the workshop and turned on the hose to fill the tub.

Immediately, I noticed the water coming out of the machine as soon as it went in. That isn’t supposed to happen. There’s a knob that turns to close the valve for filling and open it for draining. I turned it on and off a few times. No change. The water I was trying to fill with tub with was running straight out of the machine through the outlet hose and into the garden where the used water soaks in under the plants. Except that this water hadn’t even been used yet. Well, this wasn’t going to work, was it?

Quickly, I sent a text to Francisco who usually fixes fridges and washing machines. He was busy for the next few days and couldn’t come. Damn! However, we have community chat groups to pass useful information to each other. In one of the groups I asked, “Who fixes washing machines?” Everyone said “Francisco” but I already knew he was busy. I asked if there was anyone else. Someone replied “Juan” with a contact number. Turns out, Francisco’s full name is Juan Francisco… I was still no closer to finding someone available to fix my washing machine. My dirty, and now damp and soap spattered clothing sat in the tub untouched for two days while I waited for Francisco. He never came.

Desperate, I called Mario. Dearest reader, you have to understand how much I detest having any dealings with Mario who is such a massive pain in the ass that it’s just not worth the trouble to call him ninety-nine percent of the time. He once insisted I immediately transfer him the $2.60 extra it was going to cost to pick up the thingamyjig I had ordered from Pedernales or he wouldn’t bring it home where I could have paid him in cash on delivery without an issue. He’s a frustration I can live without. However, he and his wife have a laundry business that caters mostly to tourists. They’ll not only wash your clothes for $0.50/lb, but they will also pick up the bag of dirty laundry from your front gate, and drop off the bag of perfectly dried and folded laundry when it’s done. This particular day, I decided it was worth the risk, so I called Mario. He declared he was in Pedernales, two hours away and would not be able to pick up my laundry before lunch.

Feeling defeated, I decided to treat myself to an early lunch in the village. I rarely eat out. The combination of food allergies and my aversion to fried foods keeps me at home cooking my own meals most of the time. This day, with my still sore wrist, my damp and dirty laundry, my broken washing machine, and my growling stomach, I decided to eat out. There are a couple of decent places I can go without having to worry about the danger of my food being riddled with allergens.

At the small restaurant, I was sitting at one of the three tables opposite a man I know only well enough to say hello to in the street. Just in passing, I asked him if he knew anyone who fixed washing machines. As a matter of fact, he did. Thomas. The guy lived right around the corner from his house. I’d never heard of Thomas before that moment. Another guy sitting at another table in the restaurant confirmed that, indeed, Thomas was an expert washing machine fixer. They described exactly where I could find him. It wasn’t far from my house.

My mood now slightly better with a belly full of peanut soup and a potential solution to my problem, I went home to drop off the vegetables I had bought before lunch, pulled the unwashed clothes out of the washing machine and tossed them into a basket, then jumped on my bicycle and set off in search of Thomas. I found him just around the corner, exactly as Romel had described the house with its collection of broken down washing machines and fridges out front. Although, calling it a “house” is definitely generous. It’s more like a tiny bamboo shack filled to its rafters with abandoned electrical appliances and there’s probably a bed tucked somewhere in the back.

I found Thomas with one leg sticking out the front door while the rest of his body was lying sideways on the floor with both arms buried deeply inside the motor of a refrigerator. His head was also inside the fridge. Wanting to avoid one of those comical jump-scare scenarios where the guy bangs his head on the side of the fridge and accidentally knocks himself out, I called out as I approached the house. At first, his whole body froze in a listening pose. I called out again. The leg sticking outside the house quivered. Then, its knee bent and it drew itself inside. Slowly, the body pushed itself up from sideways to sitting lopsided. A wrinkled face peeked out the door.

“Hi! Are you Thomas?” I asked.

He confirmed that he was in fact Thomas and asked how he could help. I explained the situation with the broken washing machine. As I spoke, his entire body gradually unraveled and twisted itself around and finally, he sat in his doorway looking me up and down and nodding as I told him the problem. If I had to guess, I’d say Thomas was in his mid to late fifties. He was a short man. He had a face like a crumpled piece of paper and was missing several teeth. His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and he had a wide smile. Even though we only lived a stone’s throw from each other, Thomas had never heard of me either.

“Let’s go!” he said, and got up to get on his motorbike.

He followed me on my bicycle and we traveled around the corner to my house. As he got off his motorbike, I noticed he was only wearing one shoe. His other foot, which was bare, was malformed with the dorsal region curved into a ball and the toes folded underneath the foot. I didn’t ask him about it, and he offered no information. It was just one more detail I could associate with Thomas the expert fridge and washing machine fixer. Despite this disfigurement, Thomas had no problem jumping off his bike and stomping through my workshop towards the washing machine.

With barely a word, he disconnected the machine and pulled it away from its regular spot so he could remove the back panel and quietly inspect its malfunctioning guts. After a few minutes of grunting and pulling things apart, he declared that the seal was useless and he would have to order a new one. Of course, my mind went straight to that despairing “Oh no! This is going to take at least a week” place but I did my best not to show it.

“Give me ten dollars,” said Thomas. “I’ll come back when I have the new seal.”

Two things crossed my mind in that moment. Firstly, I’ll give him ten bucks and never see him again, or secondly, I’ll give him ten bucks and he’ll show up in a week with the part. My previous experience with giving people money before the job was done had made me extremely cautious. Either way, I was out of options. It was trust Thomas or deal with Mario. I gave him a crisp ten dollar bill. With barely a backward glance, he raced out of my yard, jumped on his bike, and took off. I had no idea if I’d ever see him, the new seal, or my money ever again, even though he lived less than a hundred meters from my house.

Determined to keep my chin up and hope for the best, I went upstairs and made brownies for my menu. There would be a few tourists around the village all of Easter weekend and I wanted to be able to offer dessert to any clients who might find their way to my restaurant. Who doesn’t like freshly made fudgy brownies with homemade vanilla bean ice cream? No sooner had the brownies come out of the oven, when Thomas was back at the gate.

“I have the part!” he called out.

WTF? Is this some kind of mysterious wizardry? I thought to myself. How is this even possible? I rushed downstairs to open the gate. Thomas held up the new seal and said he’d just picked it up from the bus. In my eighteen years in Ecuador, I have never stumbled across this level of efficiency, even by accident. I was dumbfounded. He’d made a call to another village and someone had responded immediately and put the new seal on the next bus to Mompiche. Not wasting any time, Thomas went over to the machine, everything still exactly where he’d left it, and got to work to install the new seal. He instructed me to pour water into the machine to test the seal. I poured water. I switched the knob from open to closed. It worked perfectly. Thomas was satisfied. I was delighted. He maneuvered the machine back into its place and plugged it back in. The whole replacement operation had taken twenty minutes, not including the initial inspection and the ordering and waiting for the new seal.

“That will be ten bucks for labor,” said Thomas.

Happily, I gave him another ten bucks and then he jumped on his motorbike and drove away. I put the clothes into the tub and began filling it with water. Just then, Mario messaged. He wouldn’t be able to pick up the clothes until much later because he was now in Atacames. Relieved I no longer had to deal with Mario, I told him not to bother, that I no longer needed him to pick up the dirty clothes because we had already fixed the machine. Then, out of the blue, he offered to sell me a washing machine. My eyes rolled so far back into my head, I could see my brain processing the frustration. Exasperated, I didn’t respond to his message. Instead, I focused on getting some shirts and pants clean so I would have something fresh to wear in the morning.

Francisco does an amazing job of fixing stuff around Mompiche. He’s an expert at his profession and has developed such a reputation for his good work that he’s becoming increasingly popular and it’s almost impossible to get hold of him to fix anything. People are now lined up, waiting days, even weeks, for Francisco to show up and repair their broken down white goods. Thomas, however, is immediately available. He’s highly efficient. He doesn’t mess about. He does quality work. His prices are excellent. The people in my neighborhood sing his praises. At this point, I’m not sure I should share this newly minted secret with the rest of the village…

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These eight large sacks of charcoal in the photo above are representative of a heinous crime against the environment. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not illegal to make or sell charcoal in Ecuador. However, apart from being morally reprehensible, it is illegal to chop down protected mangrove forests for any reason whatsoever, whether it be to make charcoal, for furniture making, to burn firewood, or anything else. In Ecuador, all species of mangroves are protected.

Mompiche boasts four different types of mangrove in its environmental portfolio, all of which are protected by law and the constitution. There are countless birds, howler monkeys, and other wildlife residing in the Red Mangrove, Black Mangrove, White Mangrove, and Buttonwood Mangrove forests surrounding the village. More creatures live below the trees in the mangrove mud, such as clams and crabs and the mangrove roots provide shelter from predators for juvenile fish and shrimp. The mangrove shorefront serves as nurseries for baby sharks and rays to grow up safely before they move out to deeper waters. The mangrove forests also protect the coast from flooding, erosion, storm surges, and tsunamis by acting as natural buffers against the ocean. They are self-perpetuating eco-systems vital to the health of the oceans, the shorefront and the countless creatures that depend on them for survival.

My unenlightened neighbors mercilessly slashed large swathes of white and red mangroves with a chainsaw and then turned the chopped wood into charcoal to sell in their little store. This family is well known in Mompiche for their good quality charcoal. When I first moved into my house, they used to have a constant fire pit in the side yard, producing charcoal for the village. No one ever complained about the process. I had always thought they used hardwood cut-offs from construction and fallen trees from the jungle to make their product. Not for a moment did I imagine they were cutting down protected forests to sell so people could cook pork chops and a few roasted bananas.

A local guide discovered the destroyed mangroves while he was out and about and he posted a video in one of our community chat groups. (Below is a screenshot of some of the damage from the video—linked at the end.) Several large sections of red mangrove and one huge white mangrove were slashed and burned. Outraged by the destruction of our precious nature, the guide posted the video which has since been passed around the whole village. Ecuador has already lost around 25% of its mangrove forests to farming and aquaculture and it’s up to all of us to protect those remaining.

The previous afternoon, I had noticed my neighbors unloading a truckload of sacks filled to bursting with charcoal. I mentioned it in one of the community groups. Could these people be the perpetrators? Indeed! Joining the dots wasn’t difficult. The local environmentalist led the charge and called the Ministry of Environment to investigate and prevent further violations against the mangrove forest. Several members of the community joined in the call to protect nature and attended the emergency meeting that was called for the following day; Manuel, Pablo, Joao, Ivan, and Tito were present to show up for Mompiche and her precious mangrove forests. Within 24 hours, and less than an hour after the meeting began, immediate action was taken.

The local group visited the damaged site with representatives from the Ministry of the Environment including Ander and Elvis, head of the Muisne River Estuary Reserve, Johnny, the regional coordinator for the Ministry of the Environment, and the local police. They recorded the coordinates of the devastated sites and then visited the family responsible for this mindless environmental damage to explain that mangroves are ecosystems strictly protected by law and they are considered strategic ecosystems.

The old couple who have been making and selling charcoal for decades promised not to repeat the infraction. It was their eldest son wielding the chainsaw and who helped them destroy that section of mangroves. Honestly, I don’t believe they’ll stop and I think they’ll find a way to do it again, but ministry officials have warned them that next time there would be severe penalties. For my part, I’ll keep an eye on future charcoal deliveries to their address and report any dodgy activities to the environmentalist.

Ander and Elvis, the representatives from the Ministry of the Environment went one step further and also spoke about the issue with the environmental organization Conservation International, which happens to have a mangrove reforestation program. The organization has committed to bringing the project to Mompiche to reforest the affected areas. The last time I saw Ander and Elvis, I had called the Ministry of the Environment to report the abuse of a South American Snapping Turtle (Chelydra acutirostris) and they showed up within a couple of hours to pick up the tortured animal and return it safely to its natural environment. Those are Elvis’s shoes in the photo I took in 2014. It was good to see them still working to save the planet twelve years later.

This was a team effort. It started with the vigilant guide who discovered the damaged mangrove. It rolled on with the environmentalist who called the environmental agencies to investigate. It gained strength with the local guys who showed up for support once we connected the dots between the mangrove damage and the sacks of charcoal, and it was consolidated by the government who showed up and actually took affirmative action by warning the family to not do it again. To be totally honest, it’s been so long since I saw any effective government action in Ecuador that I’d almost forgotten it was even possible. But it does take all of us to say something if we see something. It’s the only way to protect what’s left…

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