It’s raining…

I just walked into my office and noticed that it is raining.  I didn’t realize it until I stepped into my office and looked out the window.  My office has a wonderful view out into the neighborhood where we live.  I was surprised to see the rain, because it rarely rains during the day in Davao.  When it rains in Davao, it is usually at night, or in the very late afternoon.

I like the rain, I find it refreshing.  The rain washes away the dust that is so common here.  The leaves of the banana trees become clean and glistening instead of dusty and dingy.  The smell of the air becomes fresh again.  The heat dissipates, there is a bit of a chill in the air.

It’s funny, because rain is one of the reasons why I wanted to live here.  I came from the Pacific Northwest of the United States where rain is an all day/everyday thing.  That’s right, where I came here from, it rained basically 24/7 for about 9 months straight, with a 3 month respite from the rain in the summer months.  I hated the rain, despised it.  I was so happy to be away from the rain when I came here.

Now, though, rain takes a different meaning for me.  Firstly, it is not a 24 hour affair.  Here in the tropics when it rains it is usually for an hour or so, rarely more.  It’s not every day either.  It is refreshing rather than depressing.  It’s a whole new rain now.  And, I like it.

Yes, today is unusual in Davao.  Daytime rain.  It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it calls for a different kind of day.  I’m going to relax.  Forget my troubles.  Kick back and listen to the water fall on the roof.  There is something peaceful about that.

Might as well savor it.

Rain and a floating taxi

As a typical UK guy I think we are used to the rain and I am often heard saying to my local friends that rain is NOT a reason to not get on with your work or even social appointments and in the main I believe that to be very true.

However yesterday I experienced such a downpour in a short period of time which paralysed everything where in a the space of less than two hours the evening skies dropped such much water that Taxis could not move and people got drenched. Crossing the main roads between trapped cars and about 5 inches of water was only the start of the problem.

After waiting for another hour the rain was so so so heavy that the roads and walkways were all as one with people even using passing taxis as a form of aqua surfing. The kids enjoyed it, but by now I was drenched and even walking home was not really an option as the water level was bout a foot and rising and showed no signs of stopping.

After five minutes of walking down a side road I managed to hail down a taxi who even with giving him double fare was reluctant to take me on the five minute journey home, I assumed this was just a way to hike the price more and I refused, Lucky for me he took the fare and we proceeded to get to the main road which by now as getting to two feet deep in a space of a short period of time. Hundreds of people were trying to find transportation and at the same time shelter from the unyielding torrent of rain.

He turned into the road and we passed what was the VICTORIA PLAZA which now looked like a port as the water level was so high. The engine struggled and the water was literally coming up through the floor. He had no choice but to continue moving forward and when a huge truck rushed through on the other side the wake hit the car and I am sure our taxi floated for a few seconds.

As we escaped the first problem area we saw many people and Jeepnees broken down with flooded engines and harassed looking people, feeling smug that we got through we continued until we hit the next wall of water and again we spluttered our way through, JUST!!

The rain was amazing and although I took many pictures of the downfall and a video it just did not come out well enough to show the true measure of the onslaught. It was bad and amazing at the same time.

A Mosquito Philosophy

Mosquitoes. I don’t like them very much. In fact, I don’t like them at all.

You’d think that, having lived all of my twenty-three years in the Philippines (the tropics!), I’d be used to these blood suckers. That the marks they leave would go unnoticed on my dark brown skin. You’d think that I no longer flinch at the sight of their scaled wings, and long, thin legs, or that I have mastered the sort of willpower needed to keep from scratching the terrible itch of their bite.

But I am not that hardened.

After two hospitalisations (one when I was eight and another when I was sixteen; now I dread turning twenty-four), I am actually more intolerant of mosquitoes than ever. Contracting dengue fever is not fun. Days, weeks, years since palely emerging from a Quezon City hospital with little nasty-looking, syringe-related dots on my arms, fingers, and rear, but also with the fortune of not having fallen as a WHO statistic, I have come to nurture a great fear of basins with stagnant water; of broken air conditioners, and holes in the window screen; of my grandmother’s unkempt living room. With exposed legs, I feel vulnerable and unnerved.

Mosquitoes have also caused me much mental irritation. You know what it’s like when you just have to think about something all the time? My habits have taken a prophylactic turn; when I read, for example, I have to swat away at the air after every five pages – my legs after every two. On bad days I cannot relax without first rubbing repellent; on worse nights I cannot sleep without a blanket. And how can I drink my San Miguel al fresco when the brittle evening breeze is dishonoured by the hovering omnipresence of mosquitoes?

I am not, however, going to lose my sanity –or my love of life– over these insects. (In the Philippines there are better ways to do that.) Yes, they are a great nuisance, and there hasn’t been a day when I did not question the meaning of their existence, when I counselled patience to myself and sprayed Baygon all over my room and wondered rhetorically what it would be like if only –oh, if only!– they did not bite.

But the reality is this: nature is not something I have control over. The macabre mosquito diet is not something I can change (or will try to), and the temperate, tropical climate is not something I can reconfigure (besides, it’s lovely enough as it is).

The only power I have is in accepting that mosquitoes here are a way of life, just as much as the traffic and the dirty politics are. They fly, bite, suck, frolic with us in bed, and serve as faithful reminders that nothing –no place, no creature, no being– comes without imperfections. Especially not me.