Bedknobs and Broomsticks… Pure Bitchery

First thing in the morning, I open the gate, heading out to get some fresh fish for the cats, and maybe score something tasty for lunch if I’m lucky. Right in the middle of the path sits a huge steaming pile of human feces. Had I been looking anywhere but at the ground, I’d have put my flip-flopped foot right into the middle of it.

Right. I’m done with these disgusting, filthy people. I’m tired of being persecuted for the crime of being single. A lone woman living without need of a man! I am the only single female foreigner living permanently in Mompiche. This is an outrage to the locals. It’s not my problem. Cultural difference or not, they will have to get over themselves.

Without a word, I step over the offending turd and go to the beach to get fish. When I return, I go through the gate with great care, and then get on with the business of cleaning fish, feeding cats, having breakfast and getting my day organized. Then, I’m ready to face my first task. Downstairs, I grab the shovel and open the gate again. Carefully, I maneuver the shovel underneath this latest gift from my neighbors; this is not the first, but by the time I’m done, it will be the last. When it’s set just right, in the center of the shovel, I walk it over to the neighbor’s house and dump it on the balcony right outside their front door, making a splat on the rotting wooden planks. Furor breaks out. Seven people begin shouting all at once. I ignore all of them as I wipe off my shovel on the weeds in front of their stairs and go back to my own house as a litany of insults rain down on my head.

“Deal with your own shit!” I retort, closing the gate behind me.

From my kitchen, I can hear them cursing me to hell. The fleas always cry when the dog bites them back. What do they expect? Seriously! After more than a year of robberies, breaking and entering, vandalism, destruction of property, witchcraft, death threats and frequent verbal abuse, how long do they think I will put up with their vile shenanigans? Satisfied that is the end of that, I get on with my day; house cleaning, laundry, dishes.

In the middle of the afternoon, while picking tomatoes, I’m interrupted by a sharp rapping on my wooden front gate.

“Police! Open up!”

Trying not to laugh out loud, I go around the front and open the gate.

“The neighbors say you are crazy!” shouts constable Simisterra, glaring angrily down at me from his immense height.

He’s in khaki uniform; long trousers and cotton shirt with the distinctive “Serve and Protect” badge stitched onto both sleeves. His belt holds a short thick baton and a black automatic pistol secured into a leather holster.

“I don’t give a flying elephant’s trunk what the neighbors say about me,” I reply, glaring straight into his eyes until he looks away. “What do you want?”

“They say you threw poo on their balcony.”

“And did they say where I got it from?” I ask pointedly.

“They say you got it from here.” He points to the ground outside the gate.

“From there, right where you are standing now,” I confirm.

Simisterra looks down at his shiny black shoes, disgust running in circles on his round baby face. Shuddering, he takes a step back as if to avoid being sullied by such filth.

“And who do you suppose put it there?” I ask, looking straight into his dark eyes.

He has no answer, even though he knows my neighbors are notorious thieves and alcoholics. This is not the first time he’s come to my house. The last time I called him was to report a strange witchcraft symbol they’d left at my door while I was out. Now, a crowd gathers outside my fence, everyone talking at once. Insults are exchanged.

“You’re a crazy bitch!” shouts Esmeraldas, the inelegant fishwife-ish president of Mompiche.

“Well, you would know exactly what a crazy bitch is, wouldn’t you?” I retort, smiling, staring her down. My finely honed bitchcraft skills wipe the floor with her. No one can look me in the eye. They’re only brave as a pack; like dogs.

Simisterra senses a riot. He knows I won’t back down. He also knows he will have to protect me if they decide to attack.

“Next time you need to take a dump,” he tells my neighbors, “I’ll lend you my bathroom!”

This gets a laugh from the spectators and diffuses the situation somewhat. I close my gate and go inside. Simisterra rides away on his quad-patrol bike. The gawpers drift away. The neighbors linger outside, hoping to get another bite. I don’t give them the satisfaction.

First thing in the morning, I go downstairs to see if there are any ripe passionfruits on the vine. As I bend to pick up some fallen fruits, a plastic bag whizzes over my head, missing me by inches, and lands on the ground under the banana tree. The thrower vanishes into the house next door. It’s yesterday’s gift; today wrapped in a colorful bread bag. Now I have gift-wrapped shit. Nice. I pick up the corner of the bag and fling it back over the fence, aiming high. Bullseye! It lands on their roof. Chaos breaks out. Seven people run around screaming abuse, threatening death, cursing me and all my ancestors to the eternal flames of hell. It’s as if all of Frankenstein’s monsters have simultaneously gone mad.

I watch, silent, as the drama unfolds in the street. These people, who are determined to bother me with their rancid pranks, are far more bothered than I am right now. In fact, it’s almost entertaining, watching them run around like headless chickens, trying to figure out how to get their own offensive filth off their roof. An audience gathers as they explain their version of what happened.

“That gringa shit on our roof!”

Of course, that is the true and only version, there is no other. Defending myself is pointless, so I don’t bother. I go about my business, making passionfruit juice blended with bananas and let them deal with their problem. Eventually, they send a boy up onto the roof. He scoops up the bag and flings it at my kitchen window, where I’m standing. Fortunately, he’s not a good shot. The bag slides down the wall and lands under the papaya tree. At this point, I could leave it there. I could smack a bunch of holes in the plastic bag with the garden rake and let nature go to work. But I’m done with these people. I have a right to live in peace. Unless I make a stand, they will never leave me alone. But, for the time being, I leave the bag where it is. The neighbors gloat, thinking they’ve beaten me.

“Next time, you won’t be able to throw it back,” I warn them.

Towards the end of the day, I retrieve the colorful bread bag and its foul cargo and put it into the bucket normally used to mix fresh cow pies and rainwater to make cow tea, which I use to fertilize the garden. This time, I fill the bucket with dirty laundry water. With a stick, I mix it up, plastic bag and all. I leave it to ferment for a few hours and get back to work in my garden, planting sweet potatoes and jalapeño chilies in the last rays of sunlight.

After dinner and a hot bucket bath, I relax in the hammock, watching Red, Boss, and Vahşi play with a grasshopper one of them has hunted down in the garden and brought upstairs to share. One by one, the lights go out in my neighborhood as people retire for the night. When the last light goes out, I go downstairs and retrieve my cow-tea bucket. Silent, I go out my gate and walk over to the neighbor’s house. I pour the contents of the bucket over the balcony, right outside the front door and then over the stairs.

Just at that moment, Shrek, one of the other neighbors (Really! Aside from the green skin, the resemblance is quite disturbing!), decides to urinate outside his front door. This is his nightly habit. He always looks to see if I’m in the kitchen and even used to waggle his willy at me, trying to offend. At first, disgusted and horrified, I pretended not to see him. It went on for weeks, then months. One night, I laughed out loud, shrieking with giggles, doubled over, pointing at him and laughing harder. Neighbors opened their doors to find out what was so funny. He never waggled again. But tonight, right at that moment, he stands in the doorway as I pour the last of the neighbor’s odoriferous gift onto their porch. Turning to return to my own yard, I see him watching me. Looking him straight in the eye, I walk home and go through my gate, locking it behind me. He says nothing. He waits. Only when I am upstairs, inside my bedroom, with the lights turned off, he becomes a hero and raises the alarm, waking the neighbor’s and telling them of my terrible deeds.

Despite the late hour, the neighbors gather outside their door to inspect this latest infraction. They mutter and curse, each proclaiming that I am the singularly worst neighbor they’ve ever had to endure. They exchange gossip; how I once ate a live chicken and pretended to know nothing about it; and how they saw the blood dripping from my chin! How I regularly kidnap children and secretly roast them in my barbecue. How I manufacture illicit drugs in my storeroom. How I practice witchcraft, dancing naked on my roof at every full moon. How I paste vulture feathers all over my bare body and secretly fly around at night collecting rotting animal carcasses. How I’m a wanted criminal in my country and how there is a price on my head. There is no end to the wild fantasies they come up with. All completely true. All with one hundred witnesses who will swear on their mother’s graves that they’ve seen these things with their own eyes. It’s hard to know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, I shut my ears and go to sleep.
First thing in the morning, I’m woken by a loud rapping on my front gate.

“Police! Open up!”

Simisterra has his hand on his pistol holster when I open the gate.

“Are you going to shoot me?” I sneer, looking him up and down without a shred of respect. “Because if you are, can I call my mother first?”

If his skin wasn’t blue-black, he’d probably blush pink. He takes his hand away from his holster.

“They are going to report you to the commissioner,” he informs me. “Watch yourself!”

“Oh good! I would like to speak with the commissioner about the endless problems I’ve been having with my troublesome neighbors,” I reply, smiling. “This is good news! Thank you.”

The policeman is perplexed. Apparently, I’m not supposed to be quite so jubilant about this news. I wouldn’t be if I hadn’t already been to Muisne five times to look for the local police commissioner to discuss the problematic neighbors and to see if he can help. Five times in vain; the man is never in his office. This time, he’ll make the appointment and I’ll attend. Simple.

A few days later, I take the magic disco circus bus to Muisne to meet the commissioner. After our two-hour long interview, the neighbors are quite disgruntled to find themselves signing a legally binding contract stating that they will never bother me again. In the afternoon, they are sent to a workshop to learn how to live amicably within the community. The young boy, who they often send over my fence to rob and vandalize, after a private interview with a child protection counselor, is removed from their home and sent to live with his estranged mother and attend school. The commissioner then recommends that they all attend regular Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and go to church on Sundays. They are reminded several times that any failure to comply with these conditions will result in a harsh prison sentence. After being absolved of any heinous crimes, I’m given copies of the contracts and assured that I will be left alone. Once at home, I’m tempted to dance naked on my roof to celebrate.

Within a week, five members of the family are ill. Three are hospitalized, one almost dies during emergency surgery. Two have superficial injuries. I’m declared a witch. I’ve cast evil spells upon them. For a month, all five are in and out of hospitals and doctor’s offices. When they return home, not one of them will even look at me. This suits me perfectly. They spread the word throughout the neighborhood. I’m devil’s spawn; Tasmanian devils actually, but there’s no telling them that! Ha!

“Roni is a witch. We can prove it.”

Their mysteriously simultaneous illnesses are testimony to this fact. I say nothing. When I’m questioned by Mompicheros at the local store, I don’t bother to defend myself.

“Maybe now they will learn not to mess with me,” I say to the storekeeper, winking cheekily.

I know that this statement will confirm with certainty the wild rumors that are currently flying around town on their little broomsticks. I’m not concerned. For security, I don’t need alarms at home, waving my broom and cackling at the neighbors is enough. Now, where are my vulture feathers? I have an inexplicable urge to paint a FOR SALE sign…