Mrs Extranjera and the revelation of the flying reptile

As much as I love the South African bush, there is something to be said about a country that only boasts one species of venomous snakes - and even if you get bitten by one of these pshaw-barely-a-snake-to-begin-with-who-are-much-more-afraid-of-you-than-you-are-of-them vipers, unless you are an infant or a truly sickly old thing or a sickly infant or possibly a chihuahua, the bite won't even get you high - while the other biggest threats to your health amount to coming across a bear and forgetting to stop playing dead after it has moved along, suicide/ coffee/ alcohol and any and all combinations of the three, this guy with his phone (never claimed to be current, but in my defense the guy and the girl haunt my nightmares and the Finnish tabloids, which I occasionally gander at to laugh at them and verify why I never ever read them. Like never, ever. At all), bad Santa and his reindeer and polar bear minions, blindingly white flesh, water, an army of tango kings and queens, and socks with sandals.

It's a relatively safe, albeit confusingly tango-happy, 100% mobile network covered haven over where I come from.

No crocodile will drag you under water. No buffalo will trample you, although Santa might give some light trampling a shot if you refuse to buy him a mojito, and he's said "pretty please" and everything. No hungry lion will mistake you for a zebra and drag you into the bush to put some meat on the menu for the hungry cubs. You can freely wear any animal print available and come to no harm. From any animals that is. The sandals with socks and matching tracksuits wearing crowd are a different issue. When they start tangoing furiously it's better to move away. Zebra print or no. No dingo hyena or leopard will eat your baby, and no overly zealous hunter will accidentally shoot you in the buttock.

No, wait, that last thing might still happen. And the shooter might be a relative of mine. 

Sooo... If ever in Finland beware of aged, disconcertingly Wolverine-looking (it must be the hair) gentlemen if they happen to be carrying a gun or a set of car keys. If neither item is present, do chat them up and you might score some hard candy. 

But whoa! What's with the Finland praise?

This appreciation for the minor dangers associated with an existence in my watery part of the globe reached its unprecedented peak when a snake flew down from the ceiling.

Yes. 

A living, live, wriggling snake. 

Onto the exact spot where I had just been standing only seconds before, right up until the infamous potty dance reared its crotch holding extremities and also in so many ways wriggling head, and I decided to start making my way towards a bathroom. 

Thank Z for pee.

It flew. A living, slithering snake that then bit the person who was kind enough to not kill it straight away with a broken bottle (I was at a bar. Surprise, surprise.), but attempted to carry it outside and release it back into the wild. 

It bit, where Santa would have only threatened to do so. Or at most handcuffed you to his completely parked sled and only gifted you coals. Or twigs. And absolutely no jewelry or any good books.  

I know it's blurry, but I wasn't wearing my hiking boots or even my converse, so really you should admire me even managing to snap a picture in the first place. And why yes, this was taken in a bar. I already told you that. Remember?

When you really get to know Santa, you can't but feel his pain.

I know now where my loyalties lie. Do you?