It was truly a sad spectacle. Yesterday I sat on a hammock near a gurgling river and watched the brutality as a small lizard ate a fly. The fly was alive when it first found itself in the clutches of the lizards jaws, its little legs fluttered with each chomp. Forty five minutes later, it was all over, a satiated lizard darted away with a satisfied demeanor and a few fly guts left on the chair. The horror... the horror.
Yes, you know you are on vacation when you can waste a good chunk of time watching this spectacle. I'm writing from Esquinas Lodge, deep in the jungle and things here are magnificent. Yes we're still alive, and there's no snake bites or tarantula encounters to speak of. In fact there's barely any insects here at all: you can hear them, millions of them, but you're lucky to them. We saw some tarantula "dens" but they are a shy spider, worried the dreaded spider wasp will attack them, paralyze them, then lay their wasplings in their belly. Indeed, if I faced such doom, I wouldn't wish to expose my hairy body during the daylight.
We arrived at Esquinas Lodge early on Tuesday after leaving Don Carlos at 4:45 am. The flight was interesting, a small airplane packed the fuselage with travelers heading to the South and the forests and fish filled waters of the Golfo Dulce. Over Costa Rica it was dense forest virtually everywhere, quite different from Honduras and Nicaragua that seemed barren, with few pockets of trees dotted with plumes of smoke, the last vestige of slash and burn deforestation. We landed in Golfito on what could be described as a road and got off the plane in the humid air and curtain of tropical foliage. Yes, winter was officially over.
We arrived at Esquinas Lodge and promptly napped for two hours before exporing the grounds, lodge and pool. This place is incredible. I have few words, few metaphors, few adjectivs that can truly do it justice. It's a tropical paradise, everywhere you look there's long strands of colourful flowers, green vegitation and all encompassing sounds of the jungle, a caucophany of bird chirps and insect buzzes and bleeps. It's virtally impossible to make out the number of noises eminating from the forest. You could not design a more complete tropical lodge even with the masters hollywood movie set designers.
On day two we did what everyone would do, we went off for hike through the tropical rainforest, to learn of the flora and fauna of this forbidden land. We saw stately mahogany trees, figs, "panama hats", palms, banana and even a tree the locals call the kerosine tree: a tree, when cut, that emits an inflammable vapour. The animals were less obvious, a few birds, butterflies, termites and ants. The forest floor is ruled by ants, the hard working in leaf cutters, dilligently returning their leaf harvest to the mound and the ants that live symbiotically with a horned plant where the ants derive their nectar of life and where the pant get an army of aggressive defenders in the violent life of the jungle. Our guide, Jose, said: "Don't touch, ants are very painful." Good to know. We chose not to touch, but I was tempted to lick the poison frogs to see just how they tasted.
The next day we decided to strike out on our own...
Friday, March 14, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
Do you know the way...?
Greetings everyone from San Jose, Costa Rica. After a death defying taxi ride we made it to the Hotel Don Carlos in one piece. We almost killed a motorcyclist and rode with two very old grumpy Texans, one of whom uttered "good thing I didn't bring a gun, I woulda shot someone by now." The sums up for us the land of freedom, the good ol' US of A. Our hotel in Florida was nice and we loved the roof-top hot tub and pool but geez the States gets on my nerves.
We arrived in Montreal just minutes before the big storm. Within twenty minutes of getting to the hotel, the snowflakes were the size of cotton balls and fell vigorously. Within a few hours, it was an all out assault, with winds gusting near 100km/h and the hotel across the road was barely visible. We decided to simmer in the jacuzzi tub because, by divine intervention, someone must have screwed up and given us the the "Honeymoon Suite." Boo hoo.
The next morning it was bedlam. We got up at 4:55 am and hustled downstairs to take the shuttle to the airport and met a mob in the lobby. The shuttle hadn't been there for thirty minutes and we knew were weren't going to make the next one either. Our flight left at 7:45 am and it was showing "on time." At 6:45 we finally pushed onto the shuttle and to our surprise, it took 5 minutes to get the airport. Hmmm. It took one hour for the shuttle to return, yet it only took five minutes one way. Are we to believe it takes 55 minutes to get back to the hotel?
Whatever, we got to the airport and it was pregnant with travelers, or rather, traveler wannabees. People were sleeping everywhere, on the carpet, on baggage belts and in chairs. The line for Air Cubana looked like it was 500 people long, but we found the lone WestJet counter and were second in line. No problemo. But when we arrived at our gate, the flight was delayed because they couldn't get fuel to the aircraft. Moments later we saw a snow plough at our gate so another problem was solved. But we continued to wait.
We struck up a conversation with the man sitting next to us: Roy was his name, and what started as idle chit-chat eventually merged into a full blown debate on movies, authors, Wal-Mart, the United States, Iraq War then back to movies. Roy remined me of Woody Allen, a manic dynamo of run-on sentences and self depricating humor. He would say: "What's your favourite movie... mine's Apolocolypse Now, the story in that movie, wow, and Silence of the Lambs, that first scene, you know, where they say Hannibal is a Monster, the screenplay, out of this world, and to think it had an 11 million budget, wow, that's puny by today's standards, so what's you favourite movie...? Roy sat in front of Julia on the plane, and as everyone was seated on a full plane, turned to Julia and said loudly: "So, how's that skin rash?". Roy sold paper for the Irving Family, but was also a screenwriter. He had a big screenplay in the works, a mystery called "Final Draft" about famous mystery authors disappearing in the grizzly manner of their best sellers. An interesting concept indeed, but I could imagine a movie mogel seeing another thick pile of paper and grunting "goddamn, Roy, not another one." We wished Roy well in Fort Lauderdale as he had 15 minutes to get from the Airport to his cruise. We got our bags and he was still waiting.
All was good, we got to Fort Lauderdale three hours late, checked in and headed to the bar for a drink and lunch. We struck up a conversation with another man at the bar. He was interested by us being from Canada and wanted our opinion on the United States election and the Iraq War. We were happy to oblige. There's so much news about the primaries down here, but none of it really makes sense, and this guy, Dave, said he really didn't understand it either. This begs the question. If you don't understand your system, how is it democracy? I won't bore you with the whole of the conversation, because Roy was far more interesting, but he said Iraq was a U.S. military base now and would be forever more because the United States could never stand for $300 dollar per barrel of gas. I could not have summed it up better myself.
Again, what's the deal with this county? The taxi driver wouldn't accept credit cards and Fort Lauderdale Airport was abuze with the blinketty-blinks and buzzes of laptop computers and the lonely conversations of people on cell phones and Blackberries. Airport have become a dumping ground of the electronically disposesed. How can you wait for an airplane and NOT do something with a battery powered box? We'd had enough, the people at the airport were grumpy as Hell's janitors and we did not look forward to another plane ride.
But here I sit writing an email from the Hotel Don Carlos and thinking about bedtime. We're up at 4:15 am to travel to Esquinas lodge and I'm ready to really get away from everyone. As long as there's no scorpions, we'll be fine.
We arrived in Montreal just minutes before the big storm. Within twenty minutes of getting to the hotel, the snowflakes were the size of cotton balls and fell vigorously. Within a few hours, it was an all out assault, with winds gusting near 100km/h and the hotel across the road was barely visible. We decided to simmer in the jacuzzi tub because, by divine intervention, someone must have screwed up and given us the the "Honeymoon Suite." Boo hoo.
The next morning it was bedlam. We got up at 4:55 am and hustled downstairs to take the shuttle to the airport and met a mob in the lobby. The shuttle hadn't been there for thirty minutes and we knew were weren't going to make the next one either. Our flight left at 7:45 am and it was showing "on time." At 6:45 we finally pushed onto the shuttle and to our surprise, it took 5 minutes to get the airport. Hmmm. It took one hour for the shuttle to return, yet it only took five minutes one way. Are we to believe it takes 55 minutes to get back to the hotel?
Whatever, we got to the airport and it was pregnant with travelers, or rather, traveler wannabees. People were sleeping everywhere, on the carpet, on baggage belts and in chairs. The line for Air Cubana looked like it was 500 people long, but we found the lone WestJet counter and were second in line. No problemo. But when we arrived at our gate, the flight was delayed because they couldn't get fuel to the aircraft. Moments later we saw a snow plough at our gate so another problem was solved. But we continued to wait.
We struck up a conversation with the man sitting next to us: Roy was his name, and what started as idle chit-chat eventually merged into a full blown debate on movies, authors, Wal-Mart, the United States, Iraq War then back to movies. Roy remined me of Woody Allen, a manic dynamo of run-on sentences and self depricating humor. He would say: "What's your favourite movie... mine's Apolocolypse Now, the story in that movie, wow, and Silence of the Lambs, that first scene, you know, where they say Hannibal is a Monster, the screenplay, out of this world, and to think it had an 11 million budget, wow, that's puny by today's standards, so what's you favourite movie...? Roy sat in front of Julia on the plane, and as everyone was seated on a full plane, turned to Julia and said loudly: "So, how's that skin rash?". Roy sold paper for the Irving Family, but was also a screenwriter. He had a big screenplay in the works, a mystery called "Final Draft" about famous mystery authors disappearing in the grizzly manner of their best sellers. An interesting concept indeed, but I could imagine a movie mogel seeing another thick pile of paper and grunting "goddamn, Roy, not another one." We wished Roy well in Fort Lauderdale as he had 15 minutes to get from the Airport to his cruise. We got our bags and he was still waiting.
All was good, we got to Fort Lauderdale three hours late, checked in and headed to the bar for a drink and lunch. We struck up a conversation with another man at the bar. He was interested by us being from Canada and wanted our opinion on the United States election and the Iraq War. We were happy to oblige. There's so much news about the primaries down here, but none of it really makes sense, and this guy, Dave, said he really didn't understand it either. This begs the question. If you don't understand your system, how is it democracy? I won't bore you with the whole of the conversation, because Roy was far more interesting, but he said Iraq was a U.S. military base now and would be forever more because the United States could never stand for $300 dollar per barrel of gas. I could not have summed it up better myself.
Again, what's the deal with this county? The taxi driver wouldn't accept credit cards and Fort Lauderdale Airport was abuze with the blinketty-blinks and buzzes of laptop computers and the lonely conversations of people on cell phones and Blackberries. Airport have become a dumping ground of the electronically disposesed. How can you wait for an airplane and NOT do something with a battery powered box? We'd had enough, the people at the airport were grumpy as Hell's janitors and we did not look forward to another plane ride.
But here I sit writing an email from the Hotel Don Carlos and thinking about bedtime. We're up at 4:15 am to travel to Esquinas lodge and I'm ready to really get away from everyone. As long as there's no scorpions, we'll be fine.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Costa Rica Itinerary: In Search of the Utopian Scene (Again)
Well everyone, ie. me, back to my blog "Paul's Project." So much for a project, I cannot call it a project when I haven't written in about six months. Damn it's hard for me to write right now because a piece of skin I sliced on my pointer finger just fell off and the fs, rs, ts and gs are excruciating. Crimony!
I thought I should re-engage the blog in case I get a chance in Costa Rica to write something to folk back home like: "Julia was eaten by a 50 lb tarantula" or "Julia ran off with a howler monkey named Biff." All plausible story lines in this nether region we're going to visit. It's funny how we always start to plan a regular, run of the mill trip, then end off at some far flung shit hole in the middle of a bug infested jungle. What gives?
Ever since I was a curious teenager, I've always been in search of what friends of mine called the "Utopian Scene." I mean, Utopia is really a great place, right? It's pretty much perfect and nothing can really ever be perfect, but it can be close to perfect. It's like Calculus, when you always do that stupid equation: if a parabola approaches infinity then you can figure out the volume of some stupid three dimensional bowl on a piece of graph paper, then you proceed to get drunk, miss three labs, drop the course, take more History and work for WestJet. But that's off topic, the Utopian scene is nearing infinity, getting as close to Utopia as humanly possible: that's my mantra. Aitutaki, Cook Islands, pretty damn close--save the giant cockroaches, devilish mosquitoes and sea cucumbers. I'm sorry, sea cucumbers are just gross.
So where the Hell are we going?
After extensive deliberation, researching the whole country, emailing places, talking to people, obsessing, drinking, then obsessing more we've arrived at this itinerary:
March 8: Fly to Montreal, La belle Provence.
March 9: Fly to Fort Lauderdale, in Florida, the Jeb Bush state.
March 10: Fly to San Jose, Costa Rica, to stay at a place called the Hotel Don Carlos. (http://www.doncarloshotel.com/index.htm)
March 11: It's off to nowheresville, flying Natureair to a rainforest ecolodge near the southern town of Golfito. It's called Esquinas Lodge and it's buried in the virgin rainforest of Piedras Blancas National Park. Here's the link, this place looks great. (http://www.esquinaslodge.com/)
March 14: It's back to Golfito to be picked up by boat and taken to Playa Zancudo, a beach spot not far from the Panamanian border that, according to Lonely Planet, is "off the beaten track, even by Costa Rica standards." We're staying in a lovely teak hut at a bungalow place called Cabinas Los Cocos. (http://www.loscocos.com/)
March 17: We're flying back to San Jose then making our way either by plane or bus to Mal Pais in the Nicoya Peninsula. We're staying at a place called Moana Lodge which will be the second time in three years we've stayed at a place called "Moana." (On Mangaia, in the Cook Islands, we stayed at a place called Ara Moana--remember, the corrugated steel shed). This place is a little higher end, though, as we gradually re-introduce ourselves back to civilization. I'm sure by this time I'll be talking to a hand print on a volleyball, with Julia saying "stop talking to that stupid volleyball, I'm right here!" Here's the link to this swanky two star resort. (http://www.moanalodge.com/)
On March 20th it's back to San Jose and the Hotel Don Carlos for a return engagement and some nice urban exploring for a couple days, checking out restaurants, museums and the zoo so Biff can eat some gnats off Aunt Bea.
On March 22nd it's back to Fort Lauderdale for a couple days before heading home and if all turns out according to plan Julia will have gotten over Biff and I will not be covered in some heinous rash or welts from miscellaneous insect bites.
Don't you just love the Utopian Scene? Updates coming soon.
I thought I should re-engage the blog in case I get a chance in Costa Rica to write something to folk back home like: "Julia was eaten by a 50 lb tarantula" or "Julia ran off with a howler monkey named Biff." All plausible story lines in this nether region we're going to visit. It's funny how we always start to plan a regular, run of the mill trip, then end off at some far flung shit hole in the middle of a bug infested jungle. What gives?
Ever since I was a curious teenager, I've always been in search of what friends of mine called the "Utopian Scene." I mean, Utopia is really a great place, right? It's pretty much perfect and nothing can really ever be perfect, but it can be close to perfect. It's like Calculus, when you always do that stupid equation: if a parabola approaches infinity then you can figure out the volume of some stupid three dimensional bowl on a piece of graph paper, then you proceed to get drunk, miss three labs, drop the course, take more History and work for WestJet. But that's off topic, the Utopian scene is nearing infinity, getting as close to Utopia as humanly possible: that's my mantra. Aitutaki, Cook Islands, pretty damn close--save the giant cockroaches, devilish mosquitoes and sea cucumbers. I'm sorry, sea cucumbers are just gross.
So where the Hell are we going?
After extensive deliberation, researching the whole country, emailing places, talking to people, obsessing, drinking, then obsessing more we've arrived at this itinerary:
March 8: Fly to Montreal, La belle Provence.
March 9: Fly to Fort Lauderdale, in Florida, the Jeb Bush state.
March 10: Fly to San Jose, Costa Rica, to stay at a place called the Hotel Don Carlos. (http://www.doncarloshotel.com/index.htm)
March 11: It's off to nowheresville, flying Natureair to a rainforest ecolodge near the southern town of Golfito. It's called Esquinas Lodge and it's buried in the virgin rainforest of Piedras Blancas National Park. Here's the link, this place looks great. (http://www.esquinaslodge.com/)
March 14: It's back to Golfito to be picked up by boat and taken to Playa Zancudo, a beach spot not far from the Panamanian border that, according to Lonely Planet, is "off the beaten track, even by Costa Rica standards." We're staying in a lovely teak hut at a bungalow place called Cabinas Los Cocos. (http://www.loscocos.com/)
March 17: We're flying back to San Jose then making our way either by plane or bus to Mal Pais in the Nicoya Peninsula. We're staying at a place called Moana Lodge which will be the second time in three years we've stayed at a place called "Moana." (On Mangaia, in the Cook Islands, we stayed at a place called Ara Moana--remember, the corrugated steel shed). This place is a little higher end, though, as we gradually re-introduce ourselves back to civilization. I'm sure by this time I'll be talking to a hand print on a volleyball, with Julia saying "stop talking to that stupid volleyball, I'm right here!" Here's the link to this swanky two star resort. (http://www.moanalodge.com/)
On March 20th it's back to San Jose and the Hotel Don Carlos for a return engagement and some nice urban exploring for a couple days, checking out restaurants, museums and the zoo so Biff can eat some gnats off Aunt Bea.
On March 22nd it's back to Fort Lauderdale for a couple days before heading home and if all turns out according to plan Julia will have gotten over Biff and I will not be covered in some heinous rash or welts from miscellaneous insect bites.
Don't you just love the Utopian Scene? Updates coming soon.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Guiness Irish Stew
3 lbs boneless lamb shoulder cut into 1 1/2" cubes.
3 potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2" slices
3 onions, sliced
3 carrots, peeled and quartered
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley
2 cups lamb stock or beef broth
1 cup Guiness Extra Stout
Add salt and pepper to lamb cubes, cover and chill for one hour. In a large heavy pot layer half the potatoes on the bottom, then add onions, carrots and lamb. Place other half of pototoes on top. Pour in stock and Guiness then add parsley. Cover the pot with aluminum foil then place the lid on. Bring to a gentle boil then simmer for about 2 hours or until meat is tender.
Enjoy with fresh bread and more Guiness
Lamb Stock
Bones and trimmings from leg of lamb
1 carrot chopped
1 onion chopped
1 celery stalk chopped
2 garlic cloves
1 bay leaf
1/4 cup whole pepper
1/4 teaspoon fresh rosemary
Enough water to cover all ingredients
Simmer all ingredients for four hours. Strain and refrigerate overnight. In the morning, skim excess fat from the top of the broth. Portion and freeze.
3 potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2" slices
3 onions, sliced
3 carrots, peeled and quartered
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley
2 cups lamb stock or beef broth
1 cup Guiness Extra Stout
Add salt and pepper to lamb cubes, cover and chill for one hour. In a large heavy pot layer half the potatoes on the bottom, then add onions, carrots and lamb. Place other half of pototoes on top. Pour in stock and Guiness then add parsley. Cover the pot with aluminum foil then place the lid on. Bring to a gentle boil then simmer for about 2 hours or until meat is tender.
Enjoy with fresh bread and more Guiness
Lamb Stock
Bones and trimmings from leg of lamb
1 carrot chopped
1 onion chopped
1 celery stalk chopped
2 garlic cloves
1 bay leaf
1/4 cup whole pepper
1/4 teaspoon fresh rosemary
Enough water to cover all ingredients
Simmer all ingredients for four hours. Strain and refrigerate overnight. In the morning, skim excess fat from the top of the broth. Portion and freeze.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Off the Beaten Track - Mangaia
If you're really interested in blasting off into outer space, but can't afford riding with Richard Branson, then head to Mangaia instead. Mangaia is part of the Cook Islands, but it may as well be another planet. We have a great deal through WestJet: only $18 dollars Canadian, round trip from Rarotonga on little used interline partner Air Rarotonga. Mangaia is so off the tourist map, the population has dropped in half over the last few decades: from 1200 to 600 souls. Take the cave tour with Tere, the master story-teller, stay at Ara Moana (one of only two accommodations on the Island) and get ready for an incredible local experience.
Julia and I, and four Swedish tourists, were guests of honour at their annual talent/model show, which featured more than half of the women on the catwalk portrayed by men in drag. Pack a couple bottles of wine from Rarotonga and enjoy them by moonlight at the "lookout," a short walk from Ara Moana. Watch a lonely fisherman walk the reef and swing a flashlight to and fro in the blissful moonlight. Listen to the adults and children sing beautiful songs in the poetic Maori language, and drum on upside down plastic pails. Yes, Mangaia is so "out there" they may have to ration electricity; but no mind, a flashlight and some propane makes everything better. Say "hi" to Ruff, the Ara Moana dog who dutifully slept outside our bungalow door every night. Tu and her sister Oko love a good chat, and if Jason is still there, thank him for the wonderful meals, especially the fried bread and roasted chicken. (Free range of course).
Mangaia is a gem. Where elso will you find pristine beaches with barely twenty footprints over the past ten years, and coral that is broad and healthy just a few feet from shore? This is the Garden of Eden.
Julia and I, and four Swedish tourists, were guests of honour at their annual talent/model show, which featured more than half of the women on the catwalk portrayed by men in drag. Pack a couple bottles of wine from Rarotonga and enjoy them by moonlight at the "lookout," a short walk from Ara Moana. Watch a lonely fisherman walk the reef and swing a flashlight to and fro in the blissful moonlight. Listen to the adults and children sing beautiful songs in the poetic Maori language, and drum on upside down plastic pails. Yes, Mangaia is so "out there" they may have to ration electricity; but no mind, a flashlight and some propane makes everything better. Say "hi" to Ruff, the Ara Moana dog who dutifully slept outside our bungalow door every night. Tu and her sister Oko love a good chat, and if Jason is still there, thank him for the wonderful meals, especially the fried bread and roasted chicken. (Free range of course).
Mangaia is a gem. Where elso will you find pristine beaches with barely twenty footprints over the past ten years, and coral that is broad and healthy just a few feet from shore? This is the Garden of Eden.
A Romantic Poem
A flight attendant recited a wonderful romantic poem for me today. It brought a tear to my eye:
If I were a cow on the way to the slaughterhouse
I'd kiss you one more time,
Before my lips are mulched into hamburger.
(Sniff)
If I were a cow on the way to the slaughterhouse
I'd kiss you one more time,
Before my lips are mulched into hamburger.
(Sniff)
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Wow, it's been a long time... Mortgage mayhem.
It's been a loooooooong time since my last blog and I know all my fans out there, sorry fan (me), are awaiting a new installment. So I'm going to try again to get into the regular habit of writing this blog. For those of you who were following my Nobel Prize nominated Global Warming... hmmmmm series, I never really finished: no point. I have read recent reports of studies that seem to indicate there's very little proof that global warming is affecting hurricane development, strength and frequency. Not surprising, climate is incredibly complex. So I stick by my view, that everyone should be environmentally responsible but not to the extent of dramatically changing the world to fit a computer climate models. I'm just not buying all the doom and gloom. Humanity has so many more important issues to resolve: war being one of them.
Don't get me started on the war! Maybe later.
One thing that has been puffing me with "I toad-a-so," is the collapsing housing market in the United States that will eventually creep into Canada. Back when we were looking at houses a couple years ago, our Real Estate Agent kept saying "housing prices will continue to rise, it's a matter of supply and demand." I kept telling him it would stop, that rising housing prices could not be sustained if real wages don't rise equally. "Supply and demand... supply and demand." How about "what goes up, must come down?"
Yes, supply and demand is a factor and demand was big because supply was limited, but what caused the demand? Well, low interest rates of course. All of a sudden everyone wanted a house, renting was throwing your money out the window, a waste. People were desperate, paying big money for pieces of, well... shit. We saw it all the time. In one house, I told the agent I couldn't believe he had it listed at $154,000 and told him I wouldn't pay $100,000. He said he already had three offers and days later the SOLD sign appeared.
Think about it. When we bought our house in 1995 for $68,000, we were originally only given a pre-approved mortgage for $60,000 dollars. Anything beyond that, the Credit Union said would risk our being "house poor." The rates at the time were near 10%, so it certainly made sense. At the time, our gross combined annual income was probably around $55,000. That was not too bad, we both worked full time and had few other expenses and no other debt besides car payments. Gas and electricity were also a lot cheaper back then; gas was less than half of what it is now. We convinced the Credit Union to up our mortgage to $70,000 because most of what we saw at $60.000 back then was crap, very much like a lot of the stuff you'd see today at $160,000.
So what has changed since then? How come twelve years ago a mortgage institution would turn you down for anything above $70,000 dollars when today, someone with a similar income and debt profile can qualify for a mortgage around $200,000 dollars? How can anyone realistically afford that? If interest rates continue to rise, which they most likely will, people's monthly payments could double when they renew a fixed rate five year mortgage and few people I know have seen their salaries double over that same period. How can anyone afford that and still eat? Lending institutions just kept moving the bar higher and higher: why have a mortgage at 30% of your income when you can have one 70%. But it's the lending institutions in the United States that are suffering as well, loosing millions on defaulted loans and reposessing homes that no one can afford to buy anyway.
To think, we're building Waverly West to deal with the massive demand for housing. If things continue along this destructive road and lending institutions keep being loose with their loans, Waverly West may be a graveyard for a generation of homeowners' broken dreams. Buy what you can afford and if you can't afford it, don't buy it. It's such a simple equation.
Don't get me started on the war! Maybe later.
One thing that has been puffing me with "I toad-a-so," is the collapsing housing market in the United States that will eventually creep into Canada. Back when we were looking at houses a couple years ago, our Real Estate Agent kept saying "housing prices will continue to rise, it's a matter of supply and demand." I kept telling him it would stop, that rising housing prices could not be sustained if real wages don't rise equally. "Supply and demand... supply and demand." How about "what goes up, must come down?"
Yes, supply and demand is a factor and demand was big because supply was limited, but what caused the demand? Well, low interest rates of course. All of a sudden everyone wanted a house, renting was throwing your money out the window, a waste. People were desperate, paying big money for pieces of, well... shit. We saw it all the time. In one house, I told the agent I couldn't believe he had it listed at $154,000 and told him I wouldn't pay $100,000. He said he already had three offers and days later the SOLD sign appeared.
Think about it. When we bought our house in 1995 for $68,000, we were originally only given a pre-approved mortgage for $60,000 dollars. Anything beyond that, the Credit Union said would risk our being "house poor." The rates at the time were near 10%, so it certainly made sense. At the time, our gross combined annual income was probably around $55,000. That was not too bad, we both worked full time and had few other expenses and no other debt besides car payments. Gas and electricity were also a lot cheaper back then; gas was less than half of what it is now. We convinced the Credit Union to up our mortgage to $70,000 because most of what we saw at $60.000 back then was crap, very much like a lot of the stuff you'd see today at $160,000.
So what has changed since then? How come twelve years ago a mortgage institution would turn you down for anything above $70,000 dollars when today, someone with a similar income and debt profile can qualify for a mortgage around $200,000 dollars? How can anyone realistically afford that? If interest rates continue to rise, which they most likely will, people's monthly payments could double when they renew a fixed rate five year mortgage and few people I know have seen their salaries double over that same period. How can anyone afford that and still eat? Lending institutions just kept moving the bar higher and higher: why have a mortgage at 30% of your income when you can have one 70%. But it's the lending institutions in the United States that are suffering as well, loosing millions on defaulted loans and reposessing homes that no one can afford to buy anyway.
To think, we're building Waverly West to deal with the massive demand for housing. If things continue along this destructive road and lending institutions keep being loose with their loans, Waverly West may be a graveyard for a generation of homeowners' broken dreams. Buy what you can afford and if you can't afford it, don't buy it. It's such a simple equation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)