Goodbye dust, hello mud

It has been feeling like each day over the past two weeks has been just a little hotter, and a little more muggy than the previous one. The dust has been continuing to rise from the ground like a misty lake in the morning, but on the horizon clouds have been quietly but ominously gathering, and Mt Meru has had a grey sombrero pulled over her head.

Two days ago a thick black front – tinged with brown – was advancing upon Sinon. Rain at last! we squealed with excitement in anticipation of a thunderous storm. Then to our surprise a dust laden gale blew through instead of rain. A dust storm from the south east, carrying cool air off the approaching rains. Some locals claimed rain would now not come until December, others said it would be here tonight. But the smell of rain and cool air suggested an imminent fall. Sure enough there was rain, but only a little, barely wetting the ground. Will we have to wait until December for rain?

Yesterday was again a hotter and more oppressive day than the others – I spent the day lifting concrete slabs (although nowhere near as many as our labourers – Jonas ad young Franki in particular) and placing them on the walkway we’ve been building around the outside of the accommodation block. In the evening everyone felt drained – it wasn’t a great day, not a bad day, just okay – but we were all flattened by the day. Then, moments after collapsing into bed last night - the heavens opened. The rain thundered for several hours before settling, like a middle distance runner, into a steady pace that still continues at 9am this morning.

The pressure has been lifted from our sinuses and now drags at our feet in the form of sticky mud. It sounds a bit like a transfer of complaint, but despite the delay the rain has caused to the building progress and possible damage to timber, it is such a fundamental part of life here that it would be grossly unfair to begrudge it any way. I can almost hear the ground and the plants slurping and sucking up the delicious cool rainwater.

If only such rain would fall a little more regularly at home on the farm. That it where my thoughts focus whenever I have a moment to rest. I’d become so accustomed to Rob’s projects and developments at the farm while I’ve been away, I’ve always been excited to return and see the changes, be talked through them, to help out with them and to discuss ‘the next phase’ of Rob’s jobs. I know that this week mum and Christian are working hard spreading urea and painting the timber storage shed among other things. In fact mum has been working hard on the farm the whole time. These jobs getting done – progress being made, is comforting. I’ve come to a new realization recently (part of the grieving process I suppose). The doctors at the hospital where Rob died told us how hard he fought to stay alive, the incredible strength for his age as he held on to life for as long as he could. His fight would have been for us, not for his own desire for life, but to share it and enjoy with us, to assist us with our own wherever he could. I wouldn’t want him to feel bad that he couldn’t win this final battle for us. Not making people feel bad was one of Rob’s principles. So I’m going to try and make sure that we don’t make Rob feel bad for having a Barry (or Gazza as Rob called it).