4M

Not a breath of wind - everything is completely still. It is always quiet here but now it is just silent. Fireflies offer a small, sedate light show. The moon’s reflection dances gently in the ocean.

The first thing you hear is the waves hitting the beach. Normally the reef catches all the waves and you don’t hear anything from the ocean at all. Then all of a sudden swooosh… swooosh. Two waves in a row, nothing more. It’s coming.

A minute later, you start to hear it. A small shh turns into a huge SHSHHHHHH in about five minutes.

You can watch the storm approach and try to time its arrival. Locals run for cover and batten hatches. We, silly tourists, strip down to nothing and open our arms to receive the rain. Suddenly there is wind and you have a moment’s relief from the mosquitoes. Then everything turns black. The horizon disappears and you can’t hear yourself think. The droplets are cool, welcome, soft but fast. In seconds you are thoroughly drenched. Life simply stands still for a few minutes.

Then you can hear it slowing … slowing … and soon all you hear is the remains of the rain rushing through downspouts and into the footbath at the bottom of the stairs. The sand sparkles. The moon returns. You can see the ocean and the horizon again. You hear the faint approaching sound of a small boat motor - the Island Ferry is running again. Life resumes.

One of the things I like best about vacationing in a tropical place is how connected I become to the weather. At home, weather is just an inconvenience. Rain? A reason to turn on the wipers. Fog? Something to complain to your neighbor about. Heat? Let’s bring out the kiddie pool and drink iced tea. Here, weather is a thing visibly alive, breathing, moving, happening quickly in front of your eyes. Roads are washed out in three minutes. The talk of the town is of the first named tropical storm of the season. Alberto.

Belize lies just South of Hurricane Alley. What we are seeing is one of many small feeder streams of weather that converge just a few miles North to become a great frothing monster that threaten lives and property in the Gulf’s coastal lands. It sure makes you appreciate the force of nature when you can barely stand against the rain and you know this is just a rivulet in a giant bathtub.

It’s simply awesome. I often misuse that word, as many Californians do, as a simple superlative. I really don’t know if I can describe a well-cooked burger or a clever movie that way again.

Calm, bright morning.

Someone nearby is using an electric saw. The birds are gossiping. Geckos scuttle. The ‘freeway’ is busy, with a boat every five minutes. The ’surface street’ is practically choked with bicycles - there must be one passing by every half hour now. There is work to be done.

In town, the manic minivan taxi drivers must be devising new routes around the muddy vernal pools that the sandy streets have become. Guatemalan women with huge bundles of textiles balanced on their heads will be making their way to the beach palapas to entice the Canadian and American tourists with bright colors and low prices.

Outside, an old man the color of polished coal slowly rakes the seaweed and fallen coconuts from the beach. Whew. All this hustle and bustle is making me tired. Maybe I’ll open all the windows, lay on the bed and stare up at the fan.

This is what I work so hard for.

~m

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 11th, 2006 at 9:05 am and is filed under Life in Marisaland. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.