I RECALL almost thirty years ago, we rented what seemed like the perfect place for my mate, me, and a baby on the way. The house 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 house had also conveniently created flat, studio-like acoustics, which was perfect in case I needed a place for guitar practice, if need be, or recording.
For its artsy ambience, in one corner of the yard ‘round back was a small fishpond with a grotto of the Virgin Mary beside it, all facing the gate and the driveway.
In the opposite back corner sat the most appealing add-on for me… a small hut that could also double as a bar. Because of the set-up, we surmised, the former residents must have been langyaws (foreigners).
We didn’t mind at all not having a ref starting out. Who would complain if our tap (and drinking water) directly came from mountain streams, stored in large water tanks provided by the subdivision for us, the 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 to accentuate the minimalist look.
This had been where we enjoyed most of our meals while squatting on the floor as they do in the land of the rising sun. We really didn’t mind the setup because we were thinking ahead then, and 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. I was even starting to feel at ease, playing at a tennis court nearby and meeting new friends.
We had begun enjoying meet-ups with old friends who lived 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 usually assumes that flooding, as we city folks know it, always starts outside the house, then slowly creeps in through doorways like unwelcome visitors.
In our case, the brown 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 water our way, overrunning the waterways in back, entering the septic tank, and then exiting out of our bathroom.
Every morning after the rains, I always found myself mopping and sweeping mountain soil out the doors. Thereafter, until we finally decided to move, whenever it threatened to rain at night, my mind shifted to “Here we go again,” much in the same way when King Théoden whispered, “And so it begins.”
Alas, while that had seemed a long time ago, I remember it as if it were only yesterday. How could one forget? Now, whenever it rains hard, I would totally relate to friends who post about their ordeal, remembering our own version of a Waterworld.
While there are others who alternatively view nature’s wrath as a thing of beauty, I am not about ready to philosophize much less romanticize it just yet.
In fact, I would rather invoke our Pinoys’ penchant for raising the Kraken, ahem, the culture of blame, as my trusty pointer in the direction of those dirty politicians who regard floods as dreamlike while they concoct imaginary flood-control projects that do not see the light of day but instead magically transform into suitcases of money floating their way.
