Living in THE GHETTO

Since my arrival here in Monteria and to the apartment which I cannot even begin to call home, Dee and I have affectionately given our pad the nickname of “The Ghetto.” It really isn’t the worst place I have stayed in, but then again, those shitty dives were made by choice and I realized the briefness of it. But this is different.

The Ghetto is really a ghetto. Sure we live in the nicest neighbourhood in the city, but the building itself is about 25 years old. Half a decade ago I am sure it was a classy joint, hell I am even sure that some of the suites here still exude that touch of class, but I do believe we have the worst unit of the lot. The concrete floors resemble the tacky slabs that tile airports or elementary school hallways, the concrete walls are chipped, cracked and splotched with a patchwork of putty. Sure, a fresh coat of paint may have freshened up the place, but that is just scratching the surface.

Through the cracks and holes in the walls, a variety of insects find their way into our ghetto; so much so that National Geographic could do a special program on Colombian entomology; colonies of ants take up residence in every nook and cranny, cockroaches are everywhere, but seem to find our ghetto a utopia, mosquitoes large enough to carry away small babies and go into stealth-no-buzzing-mode nibble at your feet and any exposed skin through the nights. Milo chases flies and ants and god knows what else during the day. Iguana’s sneak in through the windowless kitchen and lizards have been caught trying. Geckos roam free, but that I don’t mind. I actually enjoy their croaks and suction cup fingers that allow them to roam around and catch the nasty bugs.

There are no lampshades, just the plain bulbs that jut out from the walls, and most of the fixtures don’t even have bulbs. Electricity is expensive. We choose to sit in the dark and take advantage of the darkness that hides the hideousness of the ghetto lights. Candles are even an expensive option, so like vampires, our eyes sting with any sort of daylight.

The Ghetto is the only apartment building in Monteria, a tropical city that hovers between 28 and 34 degrees daily, without a pool. Instead our backyard is a haven for garbage that is dropped from the apartments above and the lizards.

It is rainy season here, and with a torrential downpour, which occurs on a regular basis, puddles form in the living room. I am not sure if it leaks in from the cracks in the walls or seeps up through the floor. Either way, we come home to pools of water…it is just too bad that we can’t swim in them.

My bed is basically a kid’s bed with the softest mattress you could ever imagine. My feet hang off of the end, and my knees off the edge if I sleep like I normally do. Springs dig into my back and I just don’t seem to get the proper amount of hours of sleep. I can’t hang clothes in my closet, as there is a shelf a foot below the bar, so all my clothes are scattered on hangers around the apartment. I brush and floss my teeth, comb my hair and put on any sort of makeup in the mirror hanging in the living room, as there isn’t a mirror in my bathroom.

I know this may sound like some sort of bitchy rant-like posting and to some extent it is, but maybe it is the lack of sleep that is making me react with more fury than I normally would. I guess it comes down to the fact that I had a bit higher expectations of the place I should be allowed to call home—something that I can’t do at this point in time. I don’t feel settled, I don’t feel comfortable, and I don’t feel at ease in this place. Sure it is a roof over my head; a roof that I don’t have to pay for, but just because someone else pays for it, should I live in pseudo-squalor?
But no matter how destitute this dump is, we fortunately haven’t lost our sense of humour about it, at least not yet.

After a wonderful invitation of using a friend’s house anytime we wanted to whether to hang out, watch TV or movies, or ask the maid to make us a meal, Rodo turned his broken English to the Spanish term, mi casa es su casa.

“Gracias,” I replied. “And mi ghetto es su ghetto.” The comment went over his head, but the fluent English-speaking Colombian in attendance nearly fell off his bar stool. But no matter how many attempts we made to explain what a ghetto was, it just wasn’t translatable.
The humour we have with our place is shared with our friend JP. He made a quick comment of chucking in a grenade to fix it up. Between the fits of laughter and visual imagery of it, both Dee and I agreed that it would be perfect—we could have our own ghetto style air conditioning.
The place is a dive, but like I said earlier, it is a roof over our heads, and as of now that is the one thing that isn’t cracked or damaged and doesn’t leak.

¨It is hilarious, and the sad thing is, there was no exaggeration. But you haven’t even touched on the kitchen or our beautiful sitting room.¨
Dee (after listening to my posting)

NB: The mirror in the bathroom arrived and to my surprise it even has a few shelves constructed in flimsy Barbie-house plastic. A small victory! I will no longer have to do a small trek to get ready.