What if these gigantic raindrops turned this building back into the sand and limestone it’s made of? Maybe all it takes is one raindrop hitting just the right spot. An avalanche of gray powder and metal, office furniture, computers, water coolers, and people wearing ties. Paper would collect in pools of rainwater, ink, and black coffee, making a Guinness-worthy paper-mache from which there would be no escape. Office people beware! Your cubicle walls won’t save you.
I’m on the 7th floor, looking at people running for cover. A river is disassembling in midair and regrouping like liquid mercury.
It’s rained most everyday since I’ve been here. It felt weird those days when it didn’t, like someone forgot to leave the water on in the bathtub. I’ve survived on a diet of gin and questionable pork minced and fried in its own fat. Actually, it tastes good. And I haven’t been sick from it thanks to the native chili pepper I learned to eat with each bite. The local gin is more assertive than what I usually drink back home, hinting of detergent and Listerine. I’ve had to put extra holes in my belt. But overall, I feel healthy. The humidity is thick like oatmeal soup.
I slept peacefully through the worst storm in over a decade to hit the area where I was staying. The sound of violent winds ripping roofs off of houses and smashing things against cinder block walls was my lullaby. More than a hundred people died. Tragic. But there's a resilience among the people here; an attitude that life goes on, and you just have to make the best of each moment.
Electricity was out for 3 days, but I still managed to find a few cool places that served cold drinks. Lit by candles, everything and everyone seemed calmer.
It’s the wild, wild west here, and there are no traffic laws. Buses and motorcycles jocky for positions with cars, making 3 lanes into 6. Red light?! What red light?! I was riding in a car when we were rear-ended by a drunk guy who was actually very amusing to speak with. He even drove me to the police station where charges would be filed against him. He kept insisting on taking me out for a night of drinking. I just left it up in the air.
Hot balmy nights and drinks. The sound of ice clinking on glass meld smoothly with the music playing on a boom box that a decade ago played tapes of Michael Jackson. Self discovery turns to self abuse. And all I can look forward to is when I slide. Broken beer bottles rain over me. A roach the size of an apple is splattered against the wall. For an instant, it feels like a rain of fireworks, yellow light trapped in shards of glass in flight. I hear nothing and things move in slow motion. And I begin to wonder if the plants are listening….
Suitcase to suitcase. Room to room. And one day, I’ll call you for lunch. We can eat spiders and talk in tongue clicks like bushmen in the Kalahari. Clickity click click click. Seriously?! Bring napkins and answers. And of course we’ll have cake.
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