Surviving
C hapter MMMLXVII
T
COSTA RICA
his is not about just rain. As you know it’s the rainy season here and precipitation is what you’d expect.
No, this story is about “The Rain”, which, as I sit here writing, happened two days ago in mid-July, the effects from which the town is still recuperating. It’s no surprise that the fateful day began with a steady drizzle instead of the beautiful sunny morning we’d come to expect. This put a cramp in the daily dog walk on the beach as our dogmate Sun Tzu doesn’t like to get his delicate little paws wet on his way to swimming in the ocean. Finally the call of nature won out and the dog got walked in the increasingly heavy rainfall. Although it seemed pretty much like a typical rainy day there were some ominous signs that something menacing was on its way; large groups of raccoons, monkeys and armadillos were seen flocking to Langosta’s abandoned five-storey condo site and making life unpleasant for the local thief community therein; vacationing Josefinos proceeded to drive in an even more irritating manner while the local “parking attendant thieves” were seen driving out of town in packed “pirata” taxis, no doubt being charged exorbitant fares to make it to higher ground. I was particularly interested in the oncoming deluge as it was a Thursday and I was planning to do my normal solo gig at Witch’s Rock. Prior to my move to Costa Rica in the waning years of the previous millennium I was used to playing in mostly indoor and enclosed areas where, other than the occasional hurricane, weather was not a big factor. In my years of performing locally I’ve maybe played in an enclosed area once, and weather, usually rain, is something you have to deal with at least half the year, so I usually try to tough it out. Plus I need the dough. It was only a few weeks earlier that, during a heavy rain, a clogged rain gutter caused
The Rain
a surprise waterfall on the band’s monitors during a performance at the Rock, which is covered but open. Not wanting to stop mid-song, we were saved by the quick intervention of Yana, the manager, who swooped in to save the speakers and then single-handedly repaired the offending gutter. Around five pm, to my surprise it had stopped raining…mostly, and I took advantage of the envelope to load my trusty (rusty?) Rodeo with equipment, still planning to do the gig. The “almost stopped” rain continued so I drove to town on an ominously deserted Langosta Turnpike and made it to the gig just in time for the rain to really kick in. I backed in and unloaded, only to see that the regular spot for playing was becoming extremely wet as the rain came down heavier than ever. Our man Yana was again on the scene and we figured out a Plan B which revolved around the weather and if the rain would stop, which it didn’t. It soon became obvious that Plan B wouldn’t happen; by now the rain was coming down about as hard as I’d ever seen it here. As the accompanying wind threatened to turn my umbrella inside out I managed to back my car in and just managed to re-pack the stuff before an approaching street swell engulfed it. I left the water-whipped group of surfers huddled around pitchers of Imperial and made my way home through streets that were rapidly filling with more and more water and the only other cars on the road were filled with confused city dwellers who were driving backwards and sideways trying to figure where their driving abilities could cause the greatest disruption. As I swerved to avoid the offending vehicles the road became more and more flooded and by the time I made the turn to Langosta by the white monstrosity it was pushing two feet deep or so. I was hoping no one else was on the road ‘cos I was gonna drive right down the middle of where I hoped the road was, going as fast as I could so the engine wouldn’t stall.
Story by Jesse Bishop
About halfway home and still in deep water two red “idiot” lights appeared on the dashboard, an ominous sign but I kept on going. Fortunately, by the time I made it by Capitan Suizo the flooding was behind me, and as I pulled into the carport of our home I was met by my wife busily dealing with water coming under the front door and entering the house. This was certainly not the first time we’ve had to deal with something like this and she had every towel and rug in the house being used as a linen dike, which was now soaked to the brim. As I pushed the wet towels out of the way and furiously swept water out of the front door the rain started to ever-so-slightly lighten up, and after another hour or so it finally stopped. I picked up the twenty or so wet towels, weighing about a hundred pounds, and deposited them in the washing machine on spin and then put them in the dryer, so within the hour we had them all dry and waiting for the next inundation. Which never came. The next day dawned with a clear sky, although the official forecast for the day was for more of the same. Just about every one I spoke to thought it was the hardest storm they’d ever seen here (21cm; 8.5 inches - editor) and had similar tales of house flooding, roof leaks and dangerous car stories. I heard that the road between Brasilito and Flamingo was blocked off, not a good sign for the band’s gig at Marie’s Restaurant that night. The afternoon started to darken and, fearing the worst, we decided to re-schedule the performance to the next week for fear of a repeat outburst, something I really didn’t want to do. So of course by about five that afternoon the sun was out with a delicious breeze accompanied by a gorgeous sunset. That night what little rain fell was gentle and nourishing. My only consolation is had we not cancelled the gig the forthcoming rain would have made the previous night look like a baby shower.