Another strange thing that I’m becoming more accustomed to? The weather. The Guatemalan invierno (“winter”) began a few weeks ago, and now we get rainstorms lasting several hours virtually every afternoon. I’ve started compulsively carrying around my rain jacket wherever I go, but it’s probably for naught. Give or take 20 minutes, you can set your watch to each downpour’s approach. I suppose a clock that’s off by ±20 minutes is really not all that useful, but you get the idea. I suppose you could say that like everything else here, including my scheduled work meetings, the rains operate on Guatemalan time.
The parabola of the weather necessitates a description. When I awake—which, depressingly, is becoming more and more frequently around 5am—you can see the mountain fog backlit by the rising sun. As I finish my cup of much-needed java, it begins to burn away, appearing almost as if it’s falling off the mountain.
I leave to catch the 6am jalón with departing teachers, it’s nearly clear, and were I still in Minnesota, every indication would suggest that it was going to be a sunny, puffy-clouded kind of day. If I remained at San Se’s elevation of a little under 6,000 feet, it would be 80 degrees by no later than 10 or 11am. As I currently travel to as many as five mountain schools per day, many of which are over a mile higher, it rarely reaches that temperature. Paradoxically, it becomes chillier for me as the day progresses.
By noon the day starts to become more ominous, with bread-like storm clouds seeming to suddenly find they have too much yeast; swelling and congealing, they become a single baguette of promised precipitation.
If I’m not inside by 2pm, it’s usually too late. I’ll be soaked in a minute, and even my raincoat is not enough to protect me if I have to sit in the back of a pickup as we wind out way down the mountain for the better part of an hour. Truthfully, I look forward to the daily storms. Sitting on one of the family’s outdoor couches, protected by an overhang, makes me feel cozy, especially if I’ve worked up the energy to brew a second cup of coffee. The noise the fat droplets make as they smash against the tin roof is hypnotic in its way. Off in the distance thunder claps, but I rarely see the flash that preceded it.
It would seem that these few hours would make a perfect siesta, which is certainly how I spend them, but it’s not as culturally tolerated as I have found it in other Latin counties like Mexico and Spain. Things may close down for a while, but I still suspect that I’m still seen as huevón (lit. a “big egg”, lazy) for watching a movie or reading a book in the middle of the afternoon.
I’ve heard that the Rainy Season quickly becomes a headache. I expect it too, especially as the prolonged dampness breeds mold on my clothing and wooden cabinetry. The roads will begin to flood in the low spots, and the dustiness of a couple months ago will turn to thick muddy sludge. It’s then, when the soil is barely able to cling to itself, that we have to begin worrying about landslides, the most severe of our natural disasters. I am on the far side of a river from the nearby mountains, high up on the opposing bank, so I am well-protected from both landslides and flooding, but most roads are cut into the sides of slopes, and it will become problematic when the Interamerican Highway gets bisected by several hundred tonnes of moved earth, disconnecting me from Huehue and the Peace Corps beyond that. There are emergency action plans, of course, so don’t worry about me being at risk, but it’s frustrating to think that with a little more foresight, or infrastructure, these annual problems could be prevented rather than repeated. In some areas they’re still clearing the roads from last year’s disasters.
When I leave my dry confines the rain has stopped but its clean, fresh scent still lingers. I love that smell. Like too many things, it’s gone far too quickly, and the spent clouds are burnt away by the sun just before dusk. It’s sunny again, and had the bath towel I had left outside to dry not been forgotten there, all evidence of the day’s deluge would have been erased. In some sense it could seem like time has stood still. The pinks and oranges of the day’s ends streak the sky, my towel is still waterlogged, and it looks for all the world like rain never did—nor will--occur. Is it dawn or dusk? A single reminder snaps me back to reality: If I just showered, why do I still smell like a dusty skunk?
Don’t answer that.
I only have a few photos this week, but they hopefully show the progression of the day’s weather while also showing more of the terrain and manner in which I live. Enjoy: https://picasaweb.google.com/sigrinj/Week19?authkey=Gv1sRgCJGxocG11KiKEQ#
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