Alms for Rain

(This post I started quite some time ago but I'll add it here for continuity's sake)


It is almost 1am and I'm wide awake, sitting in the kitchen of my mud hut by the light of my gas lamp, wondering, "Alla mene bi?" -- Are the rains coming? Although the human sense of weather forecasting is becoming more and more acute for me here, I'm not yet as versed as the Malians. Tonight I ate toh in the pitch dark with the Kansayi family (my homologue), and we all remarked how heavy with dampness the air was. Only hours later do I realize that this was an indication of the storm to come. I fell asleep outside under my mosquito-net covered mattress, reading a book called Blindness by Jose Saramago, thinking about what it must be like to live without the precious gift of sight. But then just an hour ago I awoke because of some almost imperceptible change in the air-- my body sensed that something was happening, although the air was still and the temperature unchanged. I opened my eyes to see faint flashes of lightning in the distance-- something that should be imperceptible in slumber, but that nonetheless I was somehow keenly aware of. Sure enough, thirty minutes later the wind picked up, the sky let out a whisper and then a beckoning thunder. Le temps menace, as they would say.

Such a gift of rain would surely ease the troubled and lost mind of the village vielle -- an old woman of 80 or 90 (or so the villagers say) who has been posted up outside my concession under a neem tree every day since my arrival, asking when the rains will come. The first time I came to Pelleni everyone blessed my arrival, for the rain came swift and strong that evening- a sign of good luck and much promise from a stranger. Perhaps this is why the vielle was so dismayed at my second visit's failure to produce such positive results. In response, she called to me from outside my gate, asking for alms as an alternative to the rain, her eyes clouded by cataracts (can she see the rain coming?), skin and flesh hanging leathery off her old bones like half-dried venison. The hot sun will dry her up all the way soon enough, I imagine (Is this why she laments the absence of rain?).

Surely, I too will be sad to see the rainy season go-- to watch the green turn to brown and the rivers and creeks trickle away until they become sandy beds. But now I look forward to the coming of the cold and dry season, because of all the practical annoyances of the humidity and rain. Every time the rain comes like this at night, it means a forced and abrupt end to my much-needed slumber: I have to hop up and untie my mosquito net and drag it and my mattress, mat, sheets, pillow, chair and lantern back inside the sauna that is my house. I re-set up this scene indoors, and then have to check that all of my valuables are covered by a sheet of plastic or properly stowed, so as not to be splattered by the chunks of mud that invariably come weeping out of my poorly built cieling with every hard rain. I'm also concerned about the presence of heat and humidity inside this stuffy house, because various forms of white mold have sprouted up on the rafter beams, spreading white fingers weaving through the support branches and down the mud walls. (Another reason I prefer to sleep outdoors rather than inhale these spores...) But, it is pleasant to sit here and write by the light of the lantern, the sound of the rain tapping on my metal window panes.

I'm going to feel a lot here.