A Real Storm

We've finally had some real rain here! Last week we had a good downpour that got everything soaked, including me. I was with a friend trying to walk across town. Every time it let up we started walking again, and then when the clouds re-opened we had to duck under the nearest roof and chat with the others huddled around.

Last night was the first time we had a really wild storm. My wife and I had just settled into a board game with a couple of friends when we noticed the sky turning an ominous shade of brown and yellow. We got up to close the windows, but before we had them all closed the dust hit.

It is hard to describe a dust storm. Imagine a tornado in a sand pit, except that instead of forming a funnel the wind just whips around in wild squiggles going every which direction. It would have enough energy to do serious damage if only it could make up its mind which way it wanted to go. Doors and windows that aren't latched bang open and then slam shut again. A bucket tumbles end-over-end down the street. A television antenna on the apartment across the street bends over as if there were a pole vaulter hanging off the end.

The air is so thick with dust that it's like wearing yellow sunglasses. If you stand looking into the wind it feels like you're taking a shower, but grittier. If you turn around and look at where the wind is going, you can actually see the wind currents flowing around buildings and billowing up into the air. Every detail of the wind's movement is highlighted in yellow sand.

Before the sand had completely blown over, the rain fell. The fine layer of dust that coated every building, tree and person in sight quickly turned to mud and then began to disappear, as if it were melting.

The rain began somewhat gently but then got into the swing of things. Soon it was pelting down enough rain to qualify as a genuine storm. But it had more in store.

After the initial excitement with the dust and rain, we sat back down to play our game. It took us a little while to wipe all the dust off of the board, cards, and table (we had left the door open so the whole room was coated in dust). Just as we restarted play, there was a fantastic blaze of light. We had the lights on in the house but it was still clearly visible. After a pause, there came one of the loudest claps of thunder I have ever heard. Then came another flash, followed by a rumble that lasted nearly 10 seconds. We were very glad to be in a low house right next several tall apartment buildings, all of them with tall television antennas.

The rain carried on for a while and then calmed to a drizzle, which it persisted in maintaining for the next three hours. All in all, it was a very satisfactory storm.

The Apple of Your Eye

So it turns out that the very latest in fashionable fabric design is... the Apple logo. That's right, bitten-into apples are no longer just a symbol of Mac enthusiasm. They are high fashion in our corner of the world. We found a set of massive, ceiling-to-floor curtains in white and a rich shade of maroon, complete with frilly ruffles at intervals along their length. They were striped, and on the white stripes they had alternating maroon and silver Mac logos. 

Keep your eyes peeled. They could be arriving soon in a Wal-Mart near you. But I wouldn't count on it.

I also saw a glittery, plastic-jewel-encrusted handbag with the word "Perfect" and a giant apple in white and gold plastic jewels. I thought it was the Mac logo again but my wife pointed out that it couldn't be because there wasn't a bite missing. If it were a bit larger I'd be tempted to buy it for my computer anyway. I'm sure it would finally convince my brother-in-law that Macs are superior to PCs.

The Washing Machine

One of our colleagues was trying to get rid of a washing machine. It was a beautiful machine with a two-tone color scheme (the plastic bits were faded to off-white while the metal stayed white) and it even worked -- at least on one setting. It took three hours to wash a load and when it finally got done it gave a 120 volt shock to anyone who opened the door, unless they were wearing shoes. 

The front of the machine boasted "800 cycles." I did the math and discovered that, at a rate of 1 cycle per week, this machine should have lasted 15 years. In other words, it should have died half a decade ago. But then I took into account the bachelor who had owned it, re-worked my calculations, and concluded that it should be good for another 14 years or so. In fact, it may still be under warranty.

The machine also boasts an "automatically variable capacity." I have witnessed this spectacle with my own eyes. When the machine contains a largish load it shakes and quivers and convulses to make sure that the clothes are properly scrubbed together. It's called the "Cha-Cha Overdrive." 

Such a quality device is always assured a place of love in someone's home, and such was the case for this one. Another of our colleagues agreed to adopt it, and I believe some money may have even been exchanged on the deal, though I'm not sure which direction the money went.

I, because of my magnanimous character, agreed to help move this machine. I also felt somewhat responsible for it because I had used it for some time. If you look deep into the annals of my blog you discover an incident in which a washing machine installation project nearly flooded our bathroom. That was this same glorious machine.

I already helped move one washing machine out of this same apartment building, and it had been more excitement than I cared for. I ended up riding it down the stairs like a angry bull and only narrowly escaped serious bodily harm. So this time I took necessary precaution- I got my colleague to take the dangerous end. 

We maneuvered the machine down the stairs, out the door, and into the bed of a pickup truck with surprisingly little hassle. We did snag an electrical cord on the tailgate, but the odds are 5/6 that it was for one of the cycles that doesn't work anyway.

However, we realized that the clunker was going to be a beast to carry up three floors in the stairway that I described in a post last week. So when we arrived we asked around for help, and we happily found a third guy to help us out. However, before we had ascended two stairs we realized that there wasn't room for three guys and a washing machine in the stairwell. So the new guy took the bottom, I took the top, and up the stairs we went. One step at a time, all three floors, without stopping.

 I would have loved to stop but I wasn't sure I would be able to pick it up again. After half a flight of stairs the bungee strap (elastic band) that was holding various components in place popped off, and that had been my handle. I was left with nothing to hold onto but the metal itself, and my sweaty hands were sliding at a rate of 1/2 inch per second. I had to keep re-grabbing so the machine it didn't slide out of my hands and cause another toboggan-run-down-the-stairwell event. I wouldn't have been the driver this time, but I didn't want to be a bystander either.

We eventually got the machine into the apartment upstairs. That's when we realized that it was two wide to slide between the sink and the toilet in the bathroom. We finally decided to tilt it 45˚ on it's face and slide it that way. We pinned my colleague in the corner so he had to hop over the toilet, gave another shove, and PRESTO! it was in place. Only then did we realize that the door of the washing machine was too close to the toilet and there was no way to open it.  

So we wiggled it around, tipped it back on its face, my colleague hurdled over the toilet again, we pushed it out, spun it around 90˚, tilted it on its side, just managed to squeeze it between the toilet and the sink, pinned my colleague in the corner again so he had to hurdle the toilet one last time, wiggled some more, and finally it was in place. 

Then we realized that somebody needs to come in and drill some holes for the plumbing behind this thing anyway. Odds are, we'll need to move it again.

A Bubu of My Very Own

I got dragged to a clothing market recently and came out with 3 meters of green fabric. That's how clothing starts around here- as fabric. And then I got dragged back into the market with my newly-acquired fabric so that it could be magically transformed into something wearable. I guess I could have theoretically turned the bolt of fabric into a toga, but that is neither here nor there. Nor anywhere else near here or there, for that matter. But I digress...

So we (I and 3 women, whom everyone assumed were my wives when in fact only one of them was) payed a visit to a local tailor in the middle of the market. While I tried to describe the outfit that I had in mind, the ladies looked through his stack of magazines displaying the latest in local fashion. Eventually they found a picture of a guy wearing a very spiffy-looking shirt. It was better than what I had in mind, so I told the tailor to just go ahead and make that, with a couple of modifications. We'll see what he comes up with. Getting something made here is always exciting. It never comes out exactly how you expected (or probably how you requested) but it usually looks good anyway.

Once we had a pattern selected it was pretty straightforward. He measured me with his tape, we haggled over a price, I gave him enough money to buy the necessary extra materials, and we were good to go.

This is the third shirt that I have had made here but this is the first time that I will have matching trousers to go with it. At last I will have a full local outfit that is actually my size!

Grandma

My Grandmother died on Thursday morning. I haven't really known what to write. To be honest I've had so many things going on I've barely had time to think about it, much less write. So now it's Saturday and in between epic trips across town, I'm thinking. And writing.

I wish the Western world knew how to talk about death. I have no idea what to say to someone when they lose a loved one. I also have no idea how to tell anyone else when someone I love has died.

And I wish I could be there with my family right now. But I'm glad that I was there recently and that I was able to somewhat say farewell to Grandma, though at the time I doubt she knew who I was. Then, as now, I had to say farewell in my heart and trust that in heaven she would understand, even if she didn't on earth. Heaven is more important anyway.