I recall a little more than twenty years ago; we had rented what seemed like the perfect place for my mate and I and a baby on the way. It was surrounded by high walls and an equally-high gate which kept out the street noise outside. I thought at that time that this noise reduction attribute of the place likewise created flat studio-like acoustics which was perfect in case I needed a place for recording. For artsy ambience, it had a small fishpond in one corner, with a grotto of the Virgin Mary beside it, all facing the end of the driveway. However, the most appealing add-on for me had been a small hut in another corner of the property which also doubled up as a bar. Clearly, we thought the former residents must have been langyaws (foreigners).
We didn’t mind at all not having a ref starting out. Who’d complain, our tap and drinking water directly came from mountain streams, stored in large water tanks provided by the subdivision for its homeowners.
In all, we enjoyed a brief spartan life, with only a bed, two tall chairs, a stove, and finally, a low Japanese table borrowed from my parents which gave a minimalist look. Here, we enjoyed most of our meals while squatting on the floor like they do in the land of the rising sun. In all, we really didn’t mind the setup because we figured, furniture and appliances could come later when we were finally settled in.
For about a week or two, it had seemed like we really struck a great deal, a perfect house and affordable rent. There was even a tennis court nearby. While there, we had begun enjoying our meet ups with old friends living nearby and fraternizing with new neighbors who all turned out to be cool. For all of about a few months, everything had been like a dream. And then the rains came.
Funny thing, one would usually assume that flooding, as we city folks know it, starts outside the house, then slowly creeps through doorways like an unwelcome visitor. In our case, water started leaking out from the bathroom floor and the toilet bowl like the Blob in an old horror movie. Apparently, the hills behind the house had directed all the waters our way, overrunning the waterways in back, entering the septic tank and then exiting out our bathroom. Mornings after the rains always found me sweeping mountain soil out the door. Thereafter, whenever it threatened to rain at night, my mind would say, here we go again. King Théoden would then whisper in my ears “and so it begins”.
Alas, while that had seemed a long time ago, I remember it as if it were only yesterday. How could I forget? Now, whenever it rains hard, I could totally relate with my friends who post about the ordeals of their very own Waterworld. While there are others who alternatively view nature’s wrath as a thing of beauty (like witnessing lightning streaking across the sky), there’s really no philosophizing this and I’m not about to romanticize it either. I’m also not tempted to make a joke of it, like someone who posted in his FB a photo of water jugs blocking his front door. This with the caption: the water is coming through the door!
