Weather and the end of the world

There have been nights in Buenos Aires when I felt certain that the world was ending. Bibically.

I'm not a poetic person, but the storms which roll in over this sizzling city are sometimes so stunningly powerful that they touch something inside of me words in a blog post can't justify; something connected to the greatness of nature, what it means to be alive, and how incredibly insignificant we are, in the grand scheme of things, if there is a grand scheme of things. But if I were the kind of person who was inclined to think that the end of the world was nigh, then one wednesday night not too long ago, looking out over the drenched rooftops of fashionable Palermo would have been my moment of repentance.

It started late in the afternoon, as the already clingy air became a heavy soup, and locals cocked their heads and said ominously 'there'll be a big one tonight'. I walked home from a quiet night with a friend, hot beads of sweat forming between my shoulderblades in the clammy darkness of the capital's streets. Back home, sprawled under a fresh sheet, I finally laid down my book at one in the morning and turned off the light. Moment later, fat, insolant drops of rain spashed on the street below. It never mists in Buenos Aires, or spits, or drizzles. It pours from the heavens like it hasn't rained in decades. When it rains in Buenos Aires, the evening news broadcasts a running coverage of the flooded city, with ticker-tape headlines rolling across the screen shouting in capital letters; “THE RAIN IS COMING”. (It may well also have read “get to the Ark!” but my Spanish wasn't that advanced). The screen flashes between gridlocked traffic and dripping plastic-ponchoed reporters posted at sporting events and music concerts, keeping viewers informed on whether the night's planned entertainment will or will not go ahead in the armageddon-like downpour.

This night was no different. Minutes later, with thunder already beginning it's gravelly grumble and sleep an impossibility, I grabbed a cardigan (for modesty's sake rather than unnecessary warmth) and was perched on the sofa by the window of our fourth-floor living room – the perfect vantage point over the city's eastern skyline. I was not disappointed. The sky lit up like the red carpet at the Oscars. No, that's a trivial comparison. The sky crackled like a thousand lightbulbs blowing a fuse. No, doesn't capture it either. The sky fizzed with silver lightning like live electric cables dancing behind the clouds. Over and over again. Not in neat forks, but in huge bursts of light that vaulted off the rooftops and split into a million glittering diamonds on the pitching raindrops – illuminating them in a final act of brilliance before they crashed to earth below and joined the rivers now thrusting down the roadsides. I opened my eyes as wide as they would go so as not to miss anything. I stared so hard at the incredible, alive night sky that I was sure I burnt an indeliable impression onto my retina as more than one intense burst of white light caught me off guard. On and on and on it went, the gathering purple clouds only lending a thrilling doomsday feel to the scene.

And the thunder had no intention of being upstaged. It started as a treble clef groaning, then rumbled and roared angrily until the pane of glass I was pressed up against trembled. I opened the window, and stuck my head out into the hot, dark night. I felt irritated that the word 'awesome' had been so thoughtlessly abused by the 'other Americans' for this would have been the overused adjective's true moment of glory.

I knew there was no chance of sleep now, the most fantastic part of my brain, usually kept under reasonable check, dashing madly between glee and real fear that this may well be it. The end. The heavens were at war. Good and evil finally face to face, sword to shield, and every crack of metal was a dagger of light down here on earth – every angry rumble of thunder an angelic or daemonic army tramping out the enemy. Soon the furious skies would open and the victors would pour down like the rain, to take their place as rulers above and below the black divide. The rain rushed harder, the thunder drowned out any sound from the roads below, and the metallic glinting of relentless lightning seemed to build up to a frightening climax. I did what anyone would do in the face of such a life-changing event – I ran to get my camera.