Jungle Diary: You Only Die Once

As Treva coasts waveringly down the lane and turns the corner driving the new-to-her hunter green Honda Navi, following us in the truck, I immediately think of Margo, saying to Mother in the second chapter of Gerald Durrell’s classic memoir My Family and Other Animals, in response to Mother’s plea for caution, “Oh Mother, don’t be so old-fashioned, you only die once.” This is, of course, hilariously and painfully true, and strikes me as especially pertinent in the context of our very young daughter’s inaugural ride on a motorized scooter. 

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Published in 1956, My Family and Other Animals is one of my very favourite books of all time—one of my desert-island picks. It’s an incredibly evocative and charming memoir of the author’s madcap childhood on the island of Corfu, which I first read when I was eleven years old. Horus and Treva were the first cohort, and I’m now reading it out loud to the kids once again. This time it’s Felix (who is himself eleven), and Cosmo (nine), who are the focus of this particular rendition, though Xanthe, at seven, is enjoying it too. 

It hadn’t crossed my mind that I had been influenced as a writer by Durrell or, for that matter, the Durrells (I read Larry Durrell's ambitious, but pretentious and overblown Alexandria Quartet when I was in my late teens) until several people recently told me that my clan and my writing had reminded them of Gerry’s depictions of his colourful life on the “unsuspected isle.” This comparison is a wonderful compliment, but perhaps more a reflection of the fact that living in Nicaragua really is like entering a time warp—a return, in many ways, to what it was like in the 1950s in most places, if not the 1930s, which is when the Durrells made their home in Greece. 

But I see some of the similarities with particular poignancy now, as Bonnie, our spaniel, valiantly chases us all down to the carretera that leads to town--Treva on the bike, trailing our truck full of kids dangling out the windows, our procession making its way down the winding road through Palermo, the relatively upscale area where we live, with its white stucco houses adorned with bougainvillea spilling voluptuously out onto the avenue. 

I observe with pride—in spite of myself—from the front seat of our battered truck, little Margaret bouncing on my lap, as Treva weaves with well-feigned confidence through the morning traffic, dodging mangy dogs and potholes and the surging murmurings of other motos, many of them carrying entire families, including helmet-less babies and toddlers balanced jauntily on their mothers’ hips. Watch out for the dilapidated taxis which slow to a crawl even during the early rush in hopes of luring customers, and Alfredo, the dairy farmer on his horse-drawn carriage delivering milk through all the barrios. But wait— here come a team of oxen, driven by a cowboy who also happens to be glued to his cellphone.

The anachronisms abound in this land of paradox and absurdities, and "safety," whatever that means, is (as a friend recently pointed out) third, if it has any place at all on the podium of cultural priorities. 

A friend of mine recently asked me if I would go to the hospital and allow an x-ray to be taken of my child's body-part if I suspected they might have broken a bone. My response was to reply reflexively (and somewhat flippantly, I'll admit) "My children aren't allowed to break any bones." I know, I know--famous last words.

The much more nuanced (and true) answer is: