Two of us stand on the beach where the fisherman take off well before dawn. The clouds are a thick black tangled mass of unravelling wool. The sky lights up with electricity in the pockets of grey haze. The palm trees bend over backwards in the hurling gusts of wind and in the dimming light of the evening the ocean is a cloudy torqouise, stretching far beyond the horizon, unpredictably tossing and turning.
The power goes out and the last of daylight has faded. Rain comes quick and in large pelting drops quickly soaking through our clothes.
A shirtless boy rides a bicyle up and down the muddy slick dirt road pitching his voice into a siren and singing from the bellows of his glistening naked belly, "It's raining, it's raining!"
I'll update in the next couple of days about our final performance here in Nungua and what I promised to update on in the last blog.
David
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