Hey, hey! We're the Monkeys! People say we monkey around!
The monkeys have invaded.
No longer do the hairy little beasts remain content to sit in the tree outside our kitchen balcony. Oh no.
They come inside.
Yesterday while Steve was at work, I opened up all the windows and porch doors and cranked the ceiling fans in an effort to maximize air movement. I set up camp in the dinning room on the table. It's cooler, I can sit directly under a fan, and I can spread out. However, the location of the table does not allow full visual of the rest of the apartment--I cannot see the living room (it's behind me) and I cannot see into the kitchen.
Now hang in there with me just a little bit longer.
It has been windy as of late. Cyclone Phet has been busy blowing up the coast, causing some major damage along the way. The worst Ahmedabad saw, however, was some big winds--the kind that blow leaves from trees and cause mild dust storms--and rains (glorious, glorious rains!). So, when I heard a crash and a rustle, I thought nothing of it really. I was in the midst of a serious bout of writing genius and couldn't be bothered.
And then I heard it again, a sound like someone riffling through a drawer of loose silverware.
Curious, I pushed my chair back and craned my head as far as my neck allowed.
I saw this:
Just in case you can't recognize it, that thing on the floor, as well as IN THE MONKEY'S HAND is a much coveted mango.
And if you're curious, my initial reaction was this:
And the friend wants in...
Rest of the story goes something like this.
First the juvenile monkey showed up. He sat on the window sill and looked longingly into our kitchen.
Then Big Momma showed up. There are no pictures of Big Momma cause, well, she was big and scary. When she sauntered INTO the kitchen--as in PAST the door and into the kitchen proper--Steve shoved me out of the house, grabbed whatever valuables were close by (the computer, the one unmasticated mango Steve managed to rescue, and our bags. I should mention, I was now standing outside my apartment in flip-flops and pajamas.
Steve decides to see if the chokidar, a sort of building doorman, can do anything about the trio of monkeys on our porch. According to Steve (you'll really have to have him tell you the story when we're state-side again), the conversation went a little something like this.
Steve, arriving downstairs to see him dead asleep on a rope-bed, pauses for a second to catch his breath and collect himself, stands over him for a beat until he wakes up.
"Eh, sir?"
"Hunh?" he says, lifting up his head a bit and blinking through the sleep in his eyes.
"Tran vandaro amara rasoda-maa che." [There are three monkeys in our kitchen.]
"Vandaro?" [Monkeys, eh?]
"Hahn. Tran... Rasoda-maa... Hav-ey." [Yeah. Three of 'em... In the kitchen... Right now.]
"Jati rahega." [Wait for 'em to leave.]
"Shu!?" [What!?]
"Jati rahega," and puts his head back down.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch. I couldn't take it. Standing listening to things bang around in the kitchen was KILLING me. So I tip-toe back inside (feet still in flip-flops just in case I have to sprint the other way) and squat down in an attempt to see underneath the curtain that separates the kitchen and dining room. I see little feet move back and forth, and then disappear, followed by the slap of monkey feet on our counter-top.
I can't take it. I manage to wait until Steve comes back before swishing the curtain back. By this time, we're back down to two monkeys. One of which, decides its had enough of mango, comes in the kitchen, rifles through our basket of potatoes, onions, and beets. He picks up two potatoes, cradles them in the crook of his arm and re-assumes his position on the balcony.
Don't worry, monkeys share. He proceeds to take a bite out of one potato, throw it to the ground, smack his smaller friend on the shoulder and point at the potato. Little monkey jumps to the ground, examines the potato and discovers the tub of peanuts Big Momma snagged. He tried biting the top off, bats the tub around for a bit.
No longer do the hairy little beasts remain content to sit in the tree outside our kitchen balcony. Oh no.
They come inside.
Yesterday while Steve was at work, I opened up all the windows and porch doors and cranked the ceiling fans in an effort to maximize air movement. I set up camp in the dinning room on the table. It's cooler, I can sit directly under a fan, and I can spread out. However, the location of the table does not allow full visual of the rest of the apartment--I cannot see the living room (it's behind me) and I cannot see into the kitchen.
Now hang in there with me just a little bit longer.
It has been windy as of late. Cyclone Phet has been busy blowing up the coast, causing some major damage along the way. The worst Ahmedabad saw, however, was some big winds--the kind that blow leaves from trees and cause mild dust storms--and rains (glorious, glorious rains!). So, when I heard a crash and a rustle, I thought nothing of it really. I was in the midst of a serious bout of writing genius and couldn't be bothered.
And then I heard it again, a sound like someone riffling through a drawer of loose silverware.
Curious, I pushed my chair back and craned my head as far as my neck allowed.
I saw this:
And if you're curious, my initial reaction was this:
Now mind you, these pictures were taken after about three minutes of staring at the monkey staring at me. Once, someone warned me not to smile (show your teeth) at monkeys, which, the last time I was in India, proved to be good advice. Long story short--a friend with a toothsome grin accidentally smiled a momma monkey, who calmly put her baby down, climbed down the tree, and charged us. We ran inside a store and were held hostage for what felt like an eternity by a monkey screaming and banging on the window.
So this time, with roughly fifteen feet between me and the monkey, and knowing how rapidly monkeys can move when so inclined, I was not about to make any sudden moves. I weighed my options and did the only thing logical.
I called Steve. The conversation went something like thus:
Steve: Hello love!
Tina (calmly, barely above a whisper, while staring at the monkey): There's a monkey in the kitchen. What do I do.
Steve: What?
Tina: There's a monkey in the kitchen and he's eating our mangos
Steve: Hold on, there's a WHAT in our kitchen eating our what?
Tina (louder, a bit panicked): There's a f**king monkey in our kitchen eating our mangoes!
Steve: Hold on.
*Click* (the sound of the phone hanging up.)
Insert annoying doorbell music, probably "She'll be Coming Around the Mountain when She Comes" or "Batlle Hymn of the Republic" or possibly "Amazing Grace." (Our doorbell plays over thirty different songs. Mostly Civil War era or there abouts.)
At this point, I'm swearing under my breath and trying to decide if its really a wise idea to answer the doorbell when a monkey is sitting practically IN my house. I answer the doorbell, figuring at the very least I can employ the help of whomever is unfortunate enough to choose that moment to try to sell me something. (No joke, we've had people selling toothbrushes and razors ring the doorbell. They wander off after they realize I don't speak a lick of Gujarati beyond "khiskoli" or "matsya bhavan"--the words for "squirrel" and "fish palace (aquarium) respectively). It's Steve.
Steve's official view of monkeys is "They're cool but I neither want to pet one or have one as a pet." He once had a pervy monkey that watched him sleep. Every day for a week. Suffice to say, Steve only likes them from a distance.
I should also preface the shenanigans that ensued by saying we weren't wholly unaware that monkeys are... home invasion artists. The family we briefly stayed with had this fruit basked with a net covering. The covering had a hole in it about big enough for a child to fit it's hand through. I assumed that a child did, indeed, make such a hole. Nope. Not the case. A monkey came IN THE HOUSE, and helped himself to whatever was inside the fruit basket, ate, and left.
Monkeys don't make good house guests.
I start babbling like an idiot about the monkey in the kitchen. We're both staring at the monkey. Which is unphased by my escalating (read: verge of shrieking) voice, or Steve's threats to bean the bastard with the big plastic jar of granola. Instead, it does this:
Insert annoying doorbell music, probably "She'll be Coming Around the Mountain when She Comes" or "Batlle Hymn of the Republic" or possibly "Amazing Grace." (Our doorbell plays over thirty different songs. Mostly Civil War era or there abouts.)
At this point, I'm swearing under my breath and trying to decide if its really a wise idea to answer the doorbell when a monkey is sitting practically IN my house. I answer the doorbell, figuring at the very least I can employ the help of whomever is unfortunate enough to choose that moment to try to sell me something. (No joke, we've had people selling toothbrushes and razors ring the doorbell. They wander off after they realize I don't speak a lick of Gujarati beyond "khiskoli" or "matsya bhavan"--the words for "squirrel" and "fish palace (aquarium) respectively). It's Steve.
Steve's official view of monkeys is "They're cool but I neither want to pet one or have one as a pet." He once had a pervy monkey that watched him sleep. Every day for a week. Suffice to say, Steve only likes them from a distance.
I should also preface the shenanigans that ensued by saying we weren't wholly unaware that monkeys are... home invasion artists. The family we briefly stayed with had this fruit basked with a net covering. The covering had a hole in it about big enough for a child to fit it's hand through. I assumed that a child did, indeed, make such a hole. Nope. Not the case. A monkey came IN THE HOUSE, and helped himself to whatever was inside the fruit basket, ate, and left.
Monkeys don't make good house guests.
I start babbling like an idiot about the monkey in the kitchen. We're both staring at the monkey. Which is unphased by my escalating (read: verge of shrieking) voice, or Steve's threats to bean the bastard with the big plastic jar of granola. Instead, it does this:
Oh hey, look at that! An individually wrapped mango just for me!
Nom, nom, nom!
Mangos are sticky!
See that orange smudge on the right hand side of the picture? The little turd looked at his hand, decided it was too sticky to deal with, FLUNG MANGO GOO off his hand and then wiped it on the porch wall. Repeatedly.
And oh yeah, he brought a friend.
And oh yeah, he brought a friend.
And the friend wants in...
Rest of the story goes something like this.
First the juvenile monkey showed up. He sat on the window sill and looked longingly into our kitchen.
Then Big Momma showed up. There are no pictures of Big Momma cause, well, she was big and scary. When she sauntered INTO the kitchen--as in PAST the door and into the kitchen proper--Steve shoved me out of the house, grabbed whatever valuables were close by (the computer, the one unmasticated mango Steve managed to rescue, and our bags. I should mention, I was now standing outside my apartment in flip-flops and pajamas.
Steve decides to see if the chokidar, a sort of building doorman, can do anything about the trio of monkeys on our porch. According to Steve (you'll really have to have him tell you the story when we're state-side again), the conversation went a little something like this.
Steve, arriving downstairs to see him dead asleep on a rope-bed, pauses for a second to catch his breath and collect himself, stands over him for a beat until he wakes up.
"Eh, sir?"
"Hunh?" he says, lifting up his head a bit and blinking through the sleep in his eyes.
"Tran vandaro amara rasoda-maa che." [There are three monkeys in our kitchen.]
"Vandaro?" [Monkeys, eh?]
"Hahn. Tran... Rasoda-maa... Hav-ey." [Yeah. Three of 'em... In the kitchen... Right now.]
"Jati rahega." [Wait for 'em to leave.]
"Shu!?" [What!?]
"Jati rahega," and puts his head back down.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch. I couldn't take it. Standing listening to things bang around in the kitchen was KILLING me. So I tip-toe back inside (feet still in flip-flops just in case I have to sprint the other way) and squat down in an attempt to see underneath the curtain that separates the kitchen and dining room. I see little feet move back and forth, and then disappear, followed by the slap of monkey feet on our counter-top.
I can't take it. I manage to wait until Steve comes back before swishing the curtain back. By this time, we're back down to two monkeys. One of which, decides its had enough of mango, comes in the kitchen, rifles through our basket of potatoes, onions, and beets. He picks up two potatoes, cradles them in the crook of his arm and re-assumes his position on the balcony.
Don't worry, monkeys share. He proceeds to take a bite out of one potato, throw it to the ground, smack his smaller friend on the shoulder and point at the potato. Little monkey jumps to the ground, examines the potato and discovers the tub of peanuts Big Momma snagged. He tried biting the top off, bats the tub around for a bit.
Just so you know, we're actively rooting for the monkey at this point. We openly groan when the little guy has the tab in his little paw--all he has to do is give it a yank and it'll pop right off--but then turns the whole tub over and bits and the bottom again. See for yourself:
Shortly after that, we decide no more monkeys inside. Steve makes a mad dash for the door, flings it shut and blots it.
The rest of these pictures are taken from the inside looking out. Yes, the cheeky monkey held us hostage in our apartment. The little guy was VERY interested in the fact I was taking pictures--he stared at me a little too intently--while the other one could have cared less. He had a potato to eat.
Shortly after that, we decide no more monkeys inside. Steve makes a mad dash for the door, flings it shut and blots it.
The rest of these pictures are taken from the inside looking out. Yes, the cheeky monkey held us hostage in our apartment. The little guy was VERY interested in the fact I was taking pictures--he stared at me a little too intently--while the other one could have cared less. He had a potato to eat.
Are you lookin' at me? Are YOU lookin' at ME?
A Quickie
Not much new to report here.
Steve's colleague Audrey is here visiting for a few days; she's trying to get access to some manuscripts at the LD (the library Steve's been doing work at) and then we're all off to Baroda (Vadodara is an alternate, newer spelling) for a few days. From what I've read, is a pretty enlightened, modern city.
We continue we wage war on the pigeons; I suspect, on the sheer amount of pigeon turd on the balcony, they are winning. In a similar manner, it appears we are waging a battle against our domestic help, who cannot seem to show up in a timely manner or with some regularity. I know, I know, I know. Hold up a titch, you're saying. Domestic help?
Here's the short version of the story. We have a girl (some times a pair of girls) who come to our flat four days a week (Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday) to clean and do laundry. Nothing big, and definitely nothing I wouldn't do myself (and probably should do myself but...). I mean, she does dishes, and if you know me, you know how much I hate doing this particular chore!
So Mrs. Shah arranged for the chokidar's (a chokidar is a watchman of sorts, he monitors who gets in and out of the building) daughter for us. This girl/young lady is supposed to come four days a week. We originally requested that she come, as stated, every other week day and once on the weekend and either at or around 10 a.m. or after 6 p.m. We've repeated this desire a few times, she has acknowledged and even repeated our instruction. However, she continues to show up sometime around 2 p.m. in the afternoon. This wouldn't be a problem if I were okay with being a bored "housewife" chained to my flat and glued to the TV all day. But I am not--I like to get out, I like to go to the LD (Steve's "office"--the library) and work in its cool, mosquito free bowels. So sometimes she comes early, sometimes she doesn't. Sometimes, she doesn't show up at all.
This past weekend, we had plans to go to Karsan-bhai's (the librarian) house for dinner. The girls didn't show on Friday, so Steve, fed up, called early in the day. She indicated that she would be right up. So we waited... and waited... and waited. So Steve called a second time. And then a third. Finally, our girl showed up--about hour before we needed to leave--and Steve LOST it. He yelled, loudly and with wild gesticulations. While he fumed (and in his defense, rightfully so as we are paying this girl--handsomely I might add--to provide a service and in a timely manner)--she cleaned. She apologized afterward, pulling her ears in contrition, and agreed to show up today (Sunday) to clean prior to our guest getting here. I have never seen our place so spic and span.
So we wait. And hope that we have reached some kind of detente.
Steve's colleague Audrey is here visiting for a few days; she's trying to get access to some manuscripts at the LD (the library Steve's been doing work at) and then we're all off to Baroda (Vadodara is an alternate, newer spelling) for a few days. From what I've read, is a pretty enlightened, modern city.
We continue we wage war on the pigeons; I suspect, on the sheer amount of pigeon turd on the balcony, they are winning. In a similar manner, it appears we are waging a battle against our domestic help, who cannot seem to show up in a timely manner or with some regularity. I know, I know, I know. Hold up a titch, you're saying. Domestic help?
Here's the short version of the story. We have a girl (some times a pair of girls) who come to our flat four days a week (Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday) to clean and do laundry. Nothing big, and definitely nothing I wouldn't do myself (and probably should do myself but...). I mean, she does dishes, and if you know me, you know how much I hate doing this particular chore!
So Mrs. Shah arranged for the chokidar's (a chokidar is a watchman of sorts, he monitors who gets in and out of the building) daughter for us. This girl/young lady is supposed to come four days a week. We originally requested that she come, as stated, every other week day and once on the weekend and either at or around 10 a.m. or after 6 p.m. We've repeated this desire a few times, she has acknowledged and even repeated our instruction. However, she continues to show up sometime around 2 p.m. in the afternoon. This wouldn't be a problem if I were okay with being a bored "housewife" chained to my flat and glued to the TV all day. But I am not--I like to get out, I like to go to the LD (Steve's "office"--the library) and work in its cool, mosquito free bowels. So sometimes she comes early, sometimes she doesn't. Sometimes, she doesn't show up at all.
This past weekend, we had plans to go to Karsan-bhai's (the librarian) house for dinner. The girls didn't show on Friday, so Steve, fed up, called early in the day. She indicated that she would be right up. So we waited... and waited... and waited. So Steve called a second time. And then a third. Finally, our girl showed up--about hour before we needed to leave--and Steve LOST it. He yelled, loudly and with wild gesticulations. While he fumed (and in his defense, rightfully so as we are paying this girl--handsomely I might add--to provide a service and in a timely manner)--she cleaned. She apologized afterward, pulling her ears in contrition, and agreed to show up today (Sunday) to clean prior to our guest getting here. I have never seen our place so spic and span.
So we wait. And hope that we have reached some kind of detente.
