Rainy Season (Dec25)

Shopping for breakfast 8am the tai chi ladies were found under Block 9 going through their routines, in that echo chamber the co-ordinated rifle cracks of their bright red fans amplified. Putting that acoustic together with the later image of the Indians sprawled across the same space a few hours later, the connection was inescapable. On the bus lunchtime on Guillemard corner further along, some of the Indian chaps without plastic sheeting had laid themselves down longways on the path, leaving the passage clear for any shoppers going to City Plaza. Within the room the early rain had been inaudible; it was only after emerging that the drips from the awnings could be heard and some gurgling in the drains. In JB once in the rainy season a croaking from a palm had one puzzled. It was an unearthly sound, a cry of pain that made you almost wince. A dying bird, perhaps, or some other afflicted animal. Within the sparse, wet branches above there was no sign. You stood there lost for long moments, looking around. Finally, a passing uncle was enquired, who solved the mystery with a quiet smile. No, there, pointing below at the corner of the path. The struggle was occurring even ten minutes after the last fall deep down in the drain.