Rain, rain go away

I love the rain in winter in Cape Town. The way it pours for hours on end. The noise it makes on the roof as I lie in bed, snuggled tightly between my wife and the duvet. The wonderful freshness it brings to the garden and the new clarity in the sky. The way our little stream swells in volume and rushes frenetically toward the sea. And the joy of life all of this water signifies.

I met two families this morning who do not like the rain. Families who fear anything from a simple shower to a downpour. The way water cascades through the holes in their roof and down their walls. How it seeps under the ground and emerges on top of their floor. How their meagre possessions suck it up, swell, shatter, and break. How their clothing, curtains, and shoes become soggy and rot. How they hope for this rainy season to be over.

I took photographs of their houses with my phone. Wondering how my current top of mind concern about a phone upgrade stacks up against the plight of people so poor and disadvantaged and hopeless.

I wondered if it would make any difference if more of us who have so much visited those with so little.  Of course it would, because one cannot help but be moved by compassion.

And perhaps this is exactly why we all stay away!

Wet, wet, wet

The heavens opened and it started to rain. It rained solidly for 40 days and 40 nights. No, wait, that’s a completely different story. But the heavens opened and the rain fell, and the land became sea again. Yup, that’s more like it!

The stream in my garden is small and gentle. It usually gurgles over the rocks that litter its path. Frogs croak lullaby’s to each other and our cats drink thirstily from its banks. The Cape thatching grass grows tall, and the bog irises multiply furiously, so much do they love their wet feet. It is calm and serene, the life blood of our garden.

And so it was that it rained and rained some more. Nobody could be found to close the heavens again, and it continued to rain. With surprise and wonder I looked at out the window at my garden stream, now a mere eight metres wide and surging furiously.

Aghast, I waded out in my wellies to survey my new water kingdom. As I watched my wooden bridge was lifted effortlessly and marched downstream where it became entangled in the fence. The bird table without a bird in sight, gave the illusion that it was a concrete disk that could float on water. I waded into the current to rescue it together with the concrete David underneath, who had been holding his breath for some time! The water had already risen another 10cm and was now lapping the base of my half pipe. Oh no! My nemesis was under attack!



Peering over my upstream neighbour’s fence, I was struck by a sense of motion. Their whole garden seemed to be on the move. With my torch cutting through some of the gloom, I realised that their garden was now one with the river. I realised that it was roaring! I silently bid farewell to my halfpipe.

Walking round the block, I ended up on a road just downstream from my house. Here the river was really angry. It had leapt from its banks, overrun the road, and was pouring mercilessly down the driveways of the houses that marked its old territory. The gardens had filled up like swimming pools, the retaining walls that normally kept the river in, now kept it out. Closed front doors did nothing to deter the rampage, inviting as much in as the volumes that swept by them. The sound of big mallets on stone reverberated through the air as desperate owners tried to break holes in walls and let the proverbial plug out of their cold water bath. And still it rained!



This ferocious beast grew bolder and deeper, now up to my knees in the road. After giving what help I could, I walked home, murmuring my prayers for those in shacks.

On awakening this morning, it was all gone. My stream that had become a river had now become just a torrent. A high water mark of debris was all that was left of the beast that had passed our way. The neighbours were nowhere near as lucky.

And still it rains!