When it rains, it pours

San Francisco has the fog, Irvine has the sun and New York City has the snow. Now I have come to know that Goma has the torrential rains. The storms strike with little warning and assault the earth with reckless abandon. If they catch you without cover, you are soaked to the core.

At the slightest hint of precipitation, the Congolese take cover. It is a spectacle to watch hundreds gather under a small awning, some standing quietly and some catching-up with old friends. Despite the mixture of poor and rich, men and women, locals and mzungus, young and old, there is no chaos.

At frequent intervals, attention turns to the poor soul riding his bike barefoot in the street with 10 cases for Coke piled on the back. He must have a deadline.

After the last drop falls, the crowd disperses and people return to the muddy streets to go about their daily lives.

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