For months now I’ve heard the name “Tacuazin” (tah-kwah-seen) mentioned plenty of times, but never saw one. I figured it was a weasel from the way it was described, but alas, it’s simply an opossum. And apparently, El Salvador is full of so many they are considered a pest or a nuisance, much like raccoons back home.
I alerted my husband and ran back to the kitchen with him. Here, he says, and hands me the “Corba,” a type of machete. My face turned into a question mark. I found the little guy behind the fridge and tried to “shush” him out the kitchen, while my husband yelled from behind “kill him!” in Spanish. “Nooooo!” I replied. The tacuazin started making its way out of the kitchen, but not fast enough. My husband grabbed the broom and I screamed “Don’t kill him!” BAM! I let out a yelp and dashed to other side of the patio.
I’ll never forget the look of agony on the poor little guy’s face; his mouth wide open in a silent scream, and he was looking right at me. Oh gawd! He looked something like this before the matanza (massacre), only much smaller: