In Praise of The Underworld

They spray the trees in our finca, too. The pesticide mix is called “aceite de verano”.

Journeys Without a Map

Pepe, our landlord in Spain, was spraying last month.  This little orchard valley, normally so calm and peaceful, so seemingly organic, throbbed to the chunk of his tractor and my nostrils were filled with his poison.  He was giving every fruit tree a thorough dowsing with a pesticide/fungicide mix and there are over a hundred of them.  The breeze wasn’t strong enough to purge the atmosphere and my open air office was amidst a fume.  At every extra powerful waft across my nostrils I found myself looking about for my lizard friends.  They eat from our hands here, joining us at the table every lunch time. Were they still alive?  How could their tiny lungs cope with this?

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I am in love with the miniature world around me.  It’s denizens delight far more than dismay.  I can cope with a hole in my apple and even with the maggot inside…

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