Tropical Musing

The rain isn't what I thought it would be here. I know now, because I've seen a lot of it. Rain that would wash all of San Diego away falling in a few minutes. But it's not how I expected it.

A tropical rain is a mystical thing, drawing huge leaves out of the ground and cleansing the sky for a sun that can beat up the sun from back home. It darkens the burning skies, floods the earth, infrenzies the rivers, traps the pedestrians, and humbles all but the most distracted onlooker.

But it isn't what it was supposed to be.

Tropical rain is supposed to be magical. It should fall in long, slow drops, coating the leaves and branches with its viscous course. It should soak without cold and dry without mud. It's supposed to be an aromatic, healing salve - the cure for the world. A tropical rain should fall all at once on the dancing heads of the natives, washing their fears and justifying their dance and when they are done dancing they should feast on the corn and mangoes that the rain planted in the ground.

But as it turns out, it's just rain. Really hard rain. If you ever manage to see a tropical rainstorm approach though, with all its great weight and motion; if you see the sky darken to duskiness and your surroundings dissapear behind the curtain of falling water, you might just think it's magical. I still do.