tiete

The last evening I spent out of this country was a night such as this only more so. The rain lashed down. Mr Cowley, who was giving me a lift, said as we slalomed through the twelve lanes of traffic to get into position to take the airport road, that there was a good chance the Tiete would have flooded. No doubt he was just trying to wind me up. The idea of that excuse for a river surging out of its concrete banks to wash us away seemed unlikely at first. But the more the rain cascaded from the sky, the more the trucks skidded across the tarmac, the more likely it became. Despite the advertised Japanese support in controlling the 'inundaciones'. We made it to the airport. The air was warm. Macarena helped me choose a caipirinha masher, with head of toucan. It would be another year before I saw them again, at The Wheatsheaf, another year before I left the country.