For the next several days, I’ll be posting about how I spent my last six weeks. Hope you enjoy a taste of my time in Samoa. You can find more information here.
Here, rain here comes like a three year old in her mother’s high heels. First, the leaves rustle and you strain an ear to see if there are water drops in the sound. Sitting in the old hall with chicken wire over the windows, you can’t see if the heavens have opened up or if it’s merely grey outside. In the corner of your eye, you think you see the rain splattering off the roof but it’s not until you go to the door that you see a heavy blue fabric of water spreading across the road and out over the bay. Sound is dulled in the overwhelming fall. There are no drizzles here, no light mistings or scattered showers as Seattleites know them. Here, rain is a sweeping force, rushing out of the sky as quickly as it can, hurrying to get over itself because it knows it is not welcome in the dry season. Still, the air is cleaner, the mosquitoes cower and the light wind brings the coolness of water with it. The thick and sturdy grass, which has survived trucks, rugby games and toddlers, quickly collects large puddles, rimmed by mud and laced with frangipani. When you were five, you used to play in those puddles, in your Disney Princess underwear, which used to be pink and was now a sort of cream, bleached by the sun which always followed the rain. The frangipani would float and you would corral them in your corner of the puddle and crown yourself queen and your little brother as prince. That puddle, the Disney Princess underwear puddle, had been as big as a lake. Now that you wear non-nonsense cotton undies, it is probably just a little puddle, a few centimeters deep and not worth the mud. Still, whenever you passed a bruised frangipani, squashed in the road and not creating a flower kingdom, you can’t help but think of the puddle crowning days.