Rain can mean many things

Rain is ‘pula’ in Setswana and Pula is the name of the official currency in a land where, for many people, wealth is measured in the stock at their cattle posts. When, after the long dry season, the rain finally arrives people run out smiling, to dance in the promise of new life. Rain can mean many things.

A gentle breeze, washed clean of dust and haze had the remnants of summer warmth. Soft, fine rain formed a misty curtain partially obscuring the woods and fields of the weald, from the man who took a rest from his digging and looked out with pleasure across his land. Our gardener was delighted at the arrival of the rain after a long dry summer - a season of abundance then a thirsty garden, rock hard soil and wilting plants. Over the boundary the harvest in the fields had been gathered in, the hedgerows were laden with berries, nuts and soft fruits.  Now the rain began to soften the earth for the future. Spiders’ webs strung between brambles, glistened with the mist caught in the fine silk strands. A stream stirred down amongst the trees as the welcome rain continued to fall. The gardener, grunting with satisfaction, turned to heed the call from his wife at the door of their home.

‘Will this incessant rain never end?’ wonders the man on the other side of the world, huddling with his family under a corrugated sheet. They watch listlessly as others struggle waist deep in mud filled water, carrying pathetic bundles of belongings above their heads, searching for the higher ground. Once again the father is wracked by the memory of the tiny son torn away from his arms as the storm reached its height and the torrent burst through their modest, simple lives. He looks up again to see mangled debris, half buried vehicles, roofless houses and the remains of their home appearing intermittently as the relentless rain feeds the swirling river of destruction. Two wide – eyed children cling to their distraught mother as she holds them closer, reviewing the meagre bag of rescued rice and one cooking pot, and wondering how this turn of fate will end. The air is warm but full of cries. Perhaps soon it will also carry the sound of helicopters and help.

Two camels, just two camels and one of those must now be put out of its misery. The once proud, independent head of household had brought the last of his beasts to the killing ground in a dry, empty river-bed. He had owned forty five goats and six camels. All year he led his family and stock over the barren rocks, through the spiny bush and across the hills in search of pasture, which came where the rain had been. He knew intimately every mound and hollow in the wide territory, as did others of his clan. But then one year the rain did not come and then another year and another. Men began to fight for grazing and to raid his stock. What they did not take began to die as the rains failed again and the pasture disappeared. Now gaunt and defeated, with his family out of sight but not far away, he brought the last of his livelihood and pride.

‘Help! Wow it’s cold!’ The young children laughed and squealed as they jumped and splashed in the clear waters of the shallow rock pool. The shadows of the overhanging trees danced on the broken surface of the water as they played. The little girl with goose-bumps and wet shiny curls suddenly stopped and looked thoughtfully at the tiny waterfall tumbling into the pool. ‘Where does the water come from?’ she asked. ‘Will it ever stop coming?