It was dark and loud inside at the middle of the day when it started pouring, so there wasn't much point in doing anything but going out to watch it come down on a Saturday afternoon. "20th October, 2007: rain." That's what Levi, one of indigenous translators said with a smile as I stood on Friesens' porch watching it pour.
Within minutes the path (read: Main Street) was a fast-flowing river. An empty plastic water jug carried on the current sailed past my eyes. The empty stockpot Lisa placed outside to catch rainwater for the water filter filled up in 4 minutes flat.
Naked kids streaked toward the improvised soccer pitch at the clearing. Mudsoccer is a favourite. Between the soaking from the sky and the splashing from the ground, there's really not much point in clothing.
Thunder sounded non-stop: not loud crashes, just gentle rumblings which never completely died away before another began.
As soon as the rain let up to a steady drizzle the chickens came out of nowhere, scurrying around eagerly to gobble up worms and bugs coming out of the saturated soil.
The rainstorms of transition season can come up very quickly-the sky going from full sun, to pouring rain, back to full sun in the course of an hour. Other times you hear them coming; the curtain of rain is audible in its approach-first the hail of water on the leaves of the jungle, then drumming on the zinc of far-off houses until it hits and becomes the roar of your own roof.
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