Tamales, Beaks and Claws

Continued from previous post. . . . .

We got to Tamazunchale, cleaned up and walked around the town. There were monkeys here, it was tropical! I bought cocoa beans in the market and the woman who sold them to me explained how to roast them in my frying pan, peel and grind them to make cocoa powder. We climbed the steep trails between houses on the hillside to the very top of the mountain and looked out at the ocean of green below us.

We bought Baygon at the drugstore and Mike sprayed the van thoroughly to kill any remaining scorpions. The boys got haircuts at the barbershop. The barber used hand operated clippers--no electricity. I wish I had bought a pair while I had the chance, though they did tend to pull the hair.

I went back to the market near the heavy colonial stone church and bought dozens of tamales from a tiny woman cooking over a little brazier. The chicken tamales were wrapped in corn husks, the pork tamales were wrapped in banana leaves.

Everyone was hungry. Everyone unwrapped their tamales and started to eat. What unexpected treats--a rooster claw, a piece of beak, a bit of bone with the pork. Somehow the kids lost their appetites. They just couldn't eat chicken tamales that had that much chicken in them!!

We crowded into a small room; everyone slept well. We were up early, ready to hit the road. Charlie and I walked up the hill to a panaderia and bought fresh, warm bolillos for breakfast. By the time we got back the van was packed and everyone was sitting up waiting to go.

The Smith boxes--collecting boxes about the size and shape of cigar boxes, but made of light wood--were stacked between the two front seats of the van. As we started out Mike asked me to hold the boxes, he was afraid they would slide around. As I picked them up I saw two or three scorpions under the top two boxes. "Scorpions," I yelped, and pulled open the door as I dropped the collecting boxes onto my seat. Charlie had the sliding door open and was half way out when we both noticed that no one else was alarmed. They weren't moving. They were laughing.

Something was really wrong here.

I was suddenly suspicious, and with good reason: While we had been busy getting breakfast the hooligans had discovered scorpions killed by the Baygon and planted them where they would be sure to scare us to death.

Back into the van, and down the road. . . .