Hujan and a Half

The rains had been falling on the other side of the world too recently. Up in the hills of Montenegro it had been preventing some of the works of mid-autumn. A few days ago Zoran, who worked up in the village where he was born full-time now, driving up daily from the coast, reported it. When there was a break in the weather they were harvesting the potato on Uble. Photos emailed from a friend in Australia showing a political rally of the ruling socialists had been forwarded to Zoran with an enquiry how the long-time president of the republic was faring. Djukanovic was not one to let slip his hold on the throne, Zoran had answered, like his father not a fan of the left. There was a suggestion of thievery too, as in the time of Tito. Zoran was a supporter of the union with Serbia; opposed to the separation. In Johor, southernmost Malaysia, two days of big bash downpour—hujan besar. Streets flooded, drains unable to cope, bedraggled people passing under the walkways. Some of the hard-bitten kampung toughs could be found defiantly stomping through the middle of the downpour, in one case a chap standing gazing up the canal as if taunting the thunder gods. Two nights ago the dark had closed in well before 6 and a boat had been ordered at reception for the supper table. As usual the event had not been visible for a good while, only telltale sound and the flashes. Looking down from the fourth floor window onto a patch of concrete outside an awning there it was alright, machine-gun strafing the narrow little square. For some reason best known to itself a pigeon had the not very bright idea to peel off from under the roof of the hotel for somewhere across the way. Good luck to you little birdie! Beating wings, beating; making heavy weather of it. Crossing a couple of lanes later the trouser cuffs were rolled and paddle/waddle gingerly over to the far bank. The working gals around the front were keeping under the walkway, on this dark night a lesser crowd gathered. Come up? Honey…. The full range of the spectrum between the genders was available. Reminded one of a central Java gal down in the south who thought love-making was the perfect response to a deluge. Barnstorming rain on the one hand, and on the other the smoky mountains nearby bursting with hot rock, encouraged amorousness where that girl hailed from. Habitually living with the past these big rains often brought the question how in the old days the shepherds had coped up on the mountain sides. Over at Crkvice, not far from Village Uble, they had the second highest rainfall in Europe. The deluge on the equator was in fact not dissimilar. One could shelter in the lee of a hill, beneath a rocky outcrop, or in one of the many caves of the karst. The sheep and goats themselves knew the terrain; they would find their own shelter. On occasion mother had said brainless sheep would simply hunker down in a tight flock pretending they were stone and patiently wait out the heavenly hammer.