Rain !

By Emmanuelle

They are not always right, you know. Nature has not turned all vengeful and merciless.

For example, when the clouds are to burst in a deluge of rain, heaven thoughtfully tips us off with some friendly warnings. Unlike when the earth quakes or when the world ends, where there are absolutely no sure tried and tested early-warning devises.

This is the season of the year when in more times rather than less, in the middle of the blistering heat and the blinding glare of the day, just as we are ready to merge with all other mortals in one big mess of a meltdown, a kindly sort of spell seems to descend, to wand away the awesome power of Haring Araw. At least, for a while here in our little corner of this island.

A hooding of the eyes of the sun (or  is it one big eye?), a wafting then gushing of the wind, a shy splattering of heaven’s tears or the sometime splotch of mighty blobs of raindrops on an uncovered face raised to the sky, or on windshields wanting for a wash.

An enveloping shadow creeps from there to here to where one stands, eyes wide, ears perked up, nose sharp. There, a darkening rushing to engulf, like pacman’s swallowing whams. There, a deep hum, the beat of countless drums. The rainsong of swishing leaves, of groaning trunks. The sound of the band of far-off rain, rushing to its coming.

Then, overpowering the motley of senses, the heavy acrid smell of the ground. As if earth is expunging itself, ridding itself of the heat, the dust, the dirt, the exhaustion.  All its pores heaving up and out, in one huge collective sigh of soiled breath. Exhaling, exhaling. Then waiting to inhale.

The rain is here. And wet is here.

Ignore the warnings? Unwise or simply stubborn, you end up drenched in the downpour. You wake up with a sneeze and a cough, and with fever to spare. You fail to gather the sampay (clothes on the line) on time. You get to wear amoy pusa (smelly cat) clothes, iron dried, but still damp at the waist and the crotch. You slip on shoes still soggy from the downpour, the mud, the flood. Or worse, your house gets carried away by the downpour, the mud, the flood. Or worst, you get carried away by the downpour, the mud, the flood.

Take heed of the warnings? You wake up with your nose dry. Yourself, your family and your home and your properties safe. Wet but safe. You get to eat arrozcaldo, or champorado with dried salted fish. You get to sawsaw (dunk) hot pandesal on hot freshly brewed coffee, or thick chocolate. You get to do a lot of other things.

Or in rare instances, you get to be stranded for four days, alone, in an old house halfway up or down a hill (whichever), in Baguio City. Which is where you are not, and I definitely am now. 

What have I done wrong? Done both ways, ignored the warnings, and taken heed at the same time.

Ignored the warnings by going home to the mountain hide-away, leaving the comparative safety and dryness of the old Pangasinan hometown. Taken heed of the warnings by stacking up on chicken legs, hotdogs, frankfurters, langgonisa, vegetables for salads, cookies, peanuts, and diet cokes. And knee-socks, thick maong pants, pullovers, jackets with hoods, and shawls to cover frozen ears. And books,music and movie DVDs.

I am both highlander and lowlander, but the former in me got one over the later. Got to watch the view of trees beyond the windows disappear through the thick fog. Got to shiver deliciously in the dark while watching TV regardless of three piles of blankets. Got to eat mountains of food then immediately starve after every two hours because one burns energy for warmth. Got to bathe with a pail of warm water gone cold at the third buhos, then scream to the finish. Got to dream of topics for Feelings to last another year.

      And I end up writing about rain instead.

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