Chuva: New Perspectives

A brief exploration on the parallel attitudes towards rain, and how culture and upbringing shapes our attitudes towards it.

The rain has been persistent for a few days now — the dry and dusty roads have been transformed into slick puddles of clay, destabilising any foot or tire that attempts to get traction on its slippery surface. The deep blue skies that are synonymous with Portugal have been obscured by thick layers of grey cloud. The Portuguese locals say that in March, it rains a little every day.

Growing up in wet and dreary England was definitely formative in terms of shaping my opinion about rain. Where I’m from, there is no lack of water. We didn’t have a “fire season” —where the severe lack of rainfall turned the entire landscape into an incendiary threat. As I recall, there were rare and very infrequent droughts when we were hit with a heatwave, but this wasn’t an urgent threat in any sense. My cultural perspective on rain is very different to the attitudes of those who live in southern Europe, specifically Portugal in this instance.

For those of us who are native to northern Europe, our relationship with rain is analogous to receiving too much of a good thing. The response to a rainy weather forecast is often met with a sigh of despair rather than a sigh of relief. In mild cases, we would be forced to accept that we wouldn’t see the sun for a while and prepare the vitamin D supplements accordingly. In more extreme cases, we would have to deal with floods and the problems it poses for those living on flood plains or lower ground. It would be fair to say that where I’m from, the general connotations of rain are perceived as negative, at least from our admittedly myopic human perspective.

Since moving to Portugal 18 months ago, I’ve realised that the locals perceive rain in a very different sense. In many ways, it is the polar opposite of the opinions of those further north. A forecast of rain is acknowledged as innately good — a respite from the persistent dryness and lack of water which most of the Iberian Peninsula experiences over the course the year. Finally, the barragems and aquifers can refill their supplies. The plants can rejoice and begin to flower after receiving a healthy dose of liquid life. The humans can relax in the knowing that the fire risk is diminished and their near-future needs of water will be fulfilled, before the next drought.

At the same time, I find myself confined by own limited perspective and cultural programming. I moved here for the permanent sunshine, the golden beaches and relaxed lifestyle. It turns out life isn’t as relaxing when your solar showers are ice cold and everything you own is covered in mud. It also turns out that nature doesn’t really care about our limited opinions. Thankfully.

I find respite in the humour — how insignificant our attitudes and judgements are in the grand scheme of Gaia. It’s not about us. We’re just a microscopic piece of the cosmic puzzle. I’ll be reminded of this once again, when the sunshine comes out and the green hills and valleys are buzzing with aliveness, the land expressing its deep gratitude for water and sunlight, making its joy apparent with the vibrant displays of yellow lupin fields, wildflowers and butterflies. When balance is restored, life thrives.