Viene El Agua

I stood there with my shovel, tired cold and out of breath. Night was falling, but the noise of water slapping the concrete was still audible. Dark shadows, which took a human shape when a candle was positioned to illuminate an area in need, moved this way and that; these silent shadows hunched over, toiling with their shovels, push brooms worked mechanically ignoring the oncoming darkness, their stoic faces still unchanged even after three hours. I looked around and took stock of the street that I had been walking to and fro for the past three weeks. The seemingly innocuous characteristics, that one takes for granted all rushed to me in grandiose style: the doorways that are halfway blocked by a cement extension coming from the opposite side wall, the elevated front door stop that appeared to be a small mountain impeding anyone from entering a house, save a giant. The excessive amount of push brooms that Mariana, our Guatemalan mother, has within her house when one push broom is bordering on the ostentatious; the U shaped street that we live on, like an old race horse that has seen too many races and saddles; and finally the drain system, the holes seemingly miniscule compared to when I used to catch my heel within is Swiss cheese drain cover. All made sense in that instant alone as I stood there. I felt not unlike Sherlock Holmes, or more like Scooby Doo, in that all these clues, overlooked and insignificant, amounted to the horrible conclusion that it was Mr. Jones, not a flying ghost, the crusty man who looked after the factory that was responsible for haunting the place and scaring all the owner’s business away. It took that one event to finally string everything together.
As I slowly walked back to the house, cursing my back before it actually started to hurt, I thought about how travelling was not unlike what just happened, that sudden understanding. Most of the time, people travel and see their immediate surroundings on the outside whether that is for lack of time, complete rejection, or never become fully absorbed. I have experienced this many times - India – and never had the chance to fully grasp the small life attributes of a culture that open up all the doors into understanding- not necessarily a good thing. I never could pry that door open, sometimes it seemed ajar, but as I closed in, it would slam shut. After yesterday, I believe I have a foot in the door, but still struggling for it not too close. Here in Xela, everything has gone extremely well. I have picked up Spanish and Sam and I have settled into a routine, which is a blessing and a curse. We have stopped asking, probing and investigating what life is like around us, stopped commenting on the small things. Through these questions one can understand better what makes the people and life tick. Although we had done a cursory investigation, we had no interaction, no understanding of where we were: housing, city country, environment until El Agua.
About three weeks ago, I picked up the La Prensa Libre and a two page article caught my attention- the huge photo of an eroded hillside helped as well. Aside from the fact that it reported that Guatemala was bracing its self for winter- I know northern hemisphere, I am still not sure how this affects physics-, it reported that many communities should start preparing their houses for heavy water damage caused by massive amount of rain and poor drainage. The western highlands of Guatemala were extremely susceptible to flash floods, flooding and other types of water damage- along with landslides and falling rocks. I think Guatemala is striving to surpass Australia in earthly things that can kill you- you know, besides the rampant delinquency here
Years of senseless deforestation and imprudence has left the hillsides bare of trees and soil. Furthermore the growing population has added to the danger as human carelessness has contributed to the rise of flooding in major cities and towns. The population at most risk is the poor; with their make shift homes, many on the bare hillsides and mountains, entire squatter populations have been completely wiped out in years past. The geologist, environmentalists warned that this year was no exception and could even prove to cause more damage than ever. Ever inquisitive, I asked my family and teacher about the probability of a calamity like the ones described happening in Xela. They assured me that would not happen here and the problematic areas lay on the outskirts of town or towns away. I filed this away and thought nothing more of it.
We have had serious rain storms since our arrival. Bitter and cold, they have lasted all night, dampening the city and our spirits to even go to the local and have a drink. There have been times when thunder has clapped, lightening has streaked and rain has pelted the ground, but nothing like yesterday.
Alone, Sam was at school, I finished up a Spanish movie and got up to stretch my legs. The morning had been gorgeous. All day it had been sunny, warming even the most hardened people. It seemed as if the sun had banished the clouds to some indiscriminate corner far from Xela and was putting on a show for the whole sky. Around four in the afternoon, the clouds crept in slowly and filled the sky, yet the sky continued to be abnormally bright, even though there was no break in the clouds above us, only in the East. From the tiny frosted window in our room, the light from the day kept seeping in. I took no heed of the environment and moved towards the door to step outside. As I stepped, the sky growled like nothing I have heard before and rain began to fall gently.
Xela, at such a high altitude, is prone to some violent storms and some serious light shows. This was one of them. The sky grumbled again and lightning flashed, first illuminating the sky then striking over the city. I have heard thunder before, those hot languorous summer days, which on the drop of a hat, turn cold and the clouds turn black and rush together as if there was a candy drop amongst 7 year olds. This was a different beast. Every time thunder sounded, the doors vibrated, and the rumble lasted for longer than it should have. I stood outside in our outdoor courtyard, alarmed and amazed. I have never witnessed anything like this, the sky seemingly angelic yet I knew that there was a battle raging up there like two male tigers over territory. It was then the pounding rain snapped me back to reality. It came in sheets, sideways and fast. Hail accompanied the rain. It was relentless and unending. What seemed like 40 minutes, but in reality were about 15 minutes, the rain bounced on the concrete, rushed all around, pelted the roofs and saturated the city. Slowly the rain dissipated into a light drizzle and it appeared to be not unlike what we have experienced before. Still lost in my thoughts about the power of the earth, I noticed our diminutive mother scurrying about in the courtyard. She seemed anxious and excitable. She stopped at once at the doors- our front door serves as an entrance as well as opening up to allow the car to park in the courtyard- and apprehensively looked out onto the street. I walked over to her with an expression on my face that was complete opposite to Mariana: more awestruck and impressed at the power of the earth. Mariana related a story to me that the house had been flooded and the water level in the courtyard had been around a meter and a half. I was marginally paying attention to the story, and to be honest, did not understand it. I thought it was a good anecdote to the situation; I was more preoccupied by the fierce rumbling above me. Mariana remained there in front statuesque, vigilant, her hands turning over and over each other.
I was caught off guard by Mariana’s question: Can you drive a car? I said of course while staring at the little street outside of house. I had been standing there for about five minutes contemplating whether to go to the school and accompany Sam back to the house. As Mariana spoke, the street transformed into a meerkat colony; only faces, scrunched and timid, peeked quickly to stare down the street then ducking back into their respective houses. Unaware of this odd ritual, I waved at the neighbours like some drunken guy who stumbles in front of a mirror and does not realize that it is his reflection. I thought they also shared in my fascination with the weather and I was more than happy to welcome them to this fraternity. Finally, I shook off my zombie like state and started down the road to get Sam. As I began walking three cars rumbled past me and out of nowhere the familiar sound of a siren, the short frog like croak that is meant to grab people’s attention reverberated in the area where I was walking. As I turned the corner, the Xela police force pickup truck came into view and began blasting words over a loud speaker mounted on top of the car. I couldn’t understand what they were saying -my only Achilles heel in Spanish, I can’t understand anyone with a microphone or loud speaker. Unable to go past the pickup the cars turned around painfully and I attempted to ascertain what was happening, but just received gawks and silence. I walked another five meters and turned right.
In the famous video of the Tsunami, instead of seeing this 30 meter wave, the water comes at a slow pace, but you can tell that it is rising to epic proportions and cover vast amount of lands. I had one of those moments of complete clarity in which I understood how that happens; the street in front of me was slowly filling with this brown liquid not unlike that video. Frozen, I stared at this menacing flood about 1/2 meter high, my concentration broken by the screams of the neighbors above me: YA VIENE EL AGUA- Here Comes the Water. The warning shot out and passed down the street like electricity; it would have made Paul Revere proud. With the spell broken, I turned back to my street. I slowed down about four meters from the house. I was unsure what was going on? What should I do? I looked up; Mariana was screaming, as well as the elderly lady next store- VENGA VENGA VENGA- COME! I slowed down even more, unsure of my next more, subconsciously waiting for instructions in English, and finally the gravity of the situation hit me: the house would be flooded with this brown sludge water. I ran to the elderly lady and entered her house. She sternly told me something in Spanish and moved towards the kitchen. I instinctively followed and then realized my job. I picked up a metal sheet that resembled the door and brought it over to the opening of the door. There I slid the sheet in two grooves located on both sides of the doorway. This sheet was a preventative measure to hold back the water from entering. After completing that task, I clumsily climbed over the sheet, aided by a lot of pushing from the elderly lady, and helped the neighbour across our street slide a wooden board into a groove on the doorway, and finally it made sense, the other groove was located on the cement jut that cut off half of the doorway. It hit me like a ton of bricks, this was not some peculiar design, but served an actual purpose. I turned around and looked right. The brown water, as if sniffing a meal, began in earnest to move onto our street. I was frantically beckoned to our house, where Mariana and I ran around like a chicken without a head, yet controlled and began to throw everything above ground: tables, beds.
Mariana is 50 years old, small, portly her once former jet black hair is greying substantially. Her job is to cook, clean and tend the house. She has housed numerous tourists for the past 15 years and admitted that she needed to do something rather than just watch TV. She decided to house tourists not out of interest of interchange, but to stave off boredom. I asked her if she enjoys it, her answer was tepid and curt: it’s a job. No matter how she perceives us, she has always been extremely accommodating and talkative with us. Our only interaction is when we are eating, so I knew not much about Mariana.
When I came rushing into the house, Mariana had transformed in this militant person with the strength of 1000 elephants. She snatched chairs from the dining room and barked instructions to me to come into the study area. As I helped her with chairs, she bolted past me and was already lifting a couch as I breathlessly stumbled in. She commanded me to put the couch on the chair and then swung around and threw an arm chair on the desk. Before my back had a chance to protest the weight I was lifting, she out the door into another bedroom, pleading for me to follow her. This time she had one side of the bed held and was ordering me to place chairs underneath the legs. She looked like a pizza dough maker and I could have sworn she was going to swirl and toss this bed above her. Once that task was completed, she whizzed by me and went for the door, the water now about ankle height. I puffed into view and she told me, get the car. I asked where the keys were and she told me in the ignition already. I took three large steps and tore open the door. I looked down and, to my horror, saw the car was a manual. At this point, Mariana’s voice was cracking imploring me to start the car and get it out.
There are times when I can say I am proud of my actions in times of stress, this, I am sad to report, was not one of those days. My mind racing, my heart pumping, the shrill cries from Mariana to get the car out made the situation extremely tense. The car stalled, or better said, I tried to start the car with both feet firmly pressing the brake. I fumbled with the keys again and tried to turn it on. Nothing. I tried again to no avail; finally I remembered you need to have the clutch down. It growled and vibrated. I threw the stick into the reverse position and turned my head. I looked at my destination with resolve and hit the gas.
I am pretty sure I moved about two inches before it stalled again and then rolled forward from were it was originally parked. I tried again, slower with more dramatic attention to the clutch. This time the car backed up, but my line out resembled a six year old trying to stay within the lines while coloring. I almost hit the open doors and had the car a sixty degree angle on the street. The street itself is more than 2 meters wide and if I backed up too hard, I would hit the wall of the house behind us. I panicked to be honest. The car stalled and there I was looking like Austin Powers, almost trapped as the water filled up the street. My response was to take the bull by the horn and slowly ease my way out. That was the plan, but I stalled four more times, each one more emphatic than the previous one. However every jerk of the stalled car actually benefited me as it bucked forward and backwards the way I needed it to. My leg was bouncing up and down uncontrollably, but determined not to be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood, I gunned it backwards up on the slim sidewalk and then threw the stick into first gear, and lurched forward. Overcome with relief, I was moving forward, I had done it. However, I forgot to keep driving and in my triumphant state the car stalled once again. I probably set the record, and not the good one, in driving no more than 12 meters in 25 minutes from house to other street. The car bucked and heaved to the end of the street where, I turned the keys over to the recently arrived Juan- husband of Mariana. I raced back to the house the water now pooling before Mariana’s house since that area was the lowest point. I waded through the sludge and got into the house. Water was seeping underneath the door and rushing to the drain in the courtyard. We waited anxiously, praying that the drain inside the house wouldn’t clog. I ran upstairs to the open air second floor. I looked down the water was now a meter high and when the people are no more than a meter high that is quite high.
The scene below me looked unreal. A group of neighbors pants rolled up were frantically trying to unclog the drain below them with picks, push brooms and shovels. It looked like a team of witches brewing this magic, rancid stew. Their work was paying off; water had hit its apex and was slowing receding little by little.
What remains is just dust and mud caked streets. All the frantic sweeping and team work helped to avoid any further damages. Everyone on the street pitched in. There are still remnants of the flood so as not to allow anyone to forget, the water stains on the walls, the random patches of wet mud that I have slipped on. The last time this happened is unclear, some say two years some say one year. Whenever there is a disagreement, you know that this is serious event in people’s life, a real fear. It is almost as if people are trying to push the memory away, and deny when it happened so they won’t remember, keeping the date hazy as to keep the memory hazy. I know I won’t forget, but I also know that walking around is different. I feel closer to Xela than ever.