When it rains

(Pour tout le monde qui connait bien la saison de la pluie.)

Those of you who know me well are onto my penchant for mixed cds.  I made one, once, called when it rains.  Part excuse to share the title track (an earthy song by Meg Hutchinson—thanks, Beth), part tribute to the rainy season in La Réunion, and part peace offering to the drops that trammeled my unsuspecting bike and I on our way to work in Sainte Marie, it tells me the rainy season is arriving in Rwanda.  Early.  My internal cd player just can’t get enough of that track.

And I’m a Portland native, remember?  When those azure-sky-for-as-far-as-the-eye-can-see-why-make-such-a-big-deal-about-rain Coloradoans or fair-weather Ohioans would say, “Portland?  Doesn’t it rain out there?” I would scoff and reply that, to the contrary, I find rain to be quite beautiful.

I can be rather self-righteous about rain.

The soothing droplets born from the convergence of cool Pacific air and shimmering eastern heat were my childhood lullaby.  I’ve set my watch to the afternoon thunderstorms that shake their lightning rattles at the American plains at 4:00 p.m. sharp in the summers, only to dissipate as quickly as they emerged (just enough time to emerge from the pool for a coconut popsicle).  I’ve literally danced in the rain to celebrate the downpours that bring relief from the oppressive humidity of August in the Midwest.  I have (still) fantasize about waterlogged camping.  I’ve driven around tropical islands for days at a time in a futile chase of sunshine (mon Dieu).

But Rwandan rain is not to be scoffed at.  It is not one dealt with by mere human implements like rain-jackets, umbrellas, and galoshes.  Even the mighty Gore-Tex jacket cowers in its glare. 

This is rain that drowns out my voice on a Skype call and then traps me in an internet café and forces me to accept the assistance of an all-too-accommodating hotel desk clerk who loans his umbrella and steadies me as we navigate the rivulets-turned-waterfalls along the footpath to my house and sends shivers down my spine and turns my hair turn to ringlets as I pray that our night watchman hears my feeble pounds on the gate and…finally…lets…me…in.   Shelter.  I stand under the alcove of our porch and watch the water and revel at the awesome power of Captain Planet’s fundamental four: earth, wind, water, fire. 

 

I dare not wax poetic about Rwandan rain.