Lightning Strike

After a morning even hotter than yesterday, the afternoon sky suddenly went dark, the wind arrived like a cannon shot and lightning flashed in the distance. The outer tentacles of the unnamed tropical storm gripped Hong Kong and tossed bolts of lightning directly onto Wang Tong Village.

Before the storm actually reached the village I ran around the house unplugging things. No matter how much our electrician swears that our house is properly grounded, I won't take any chances. In other Wang Tong houses I've lost two fax machines to lightning strikes and a friend of mine had two fried computers in a row. Any time I hear thunder less than ten seconds after seeing a flash, our house goes into lightning drill.

"All computers off!" I shout, usually to responses of "Aww! Why??" Well, if my kids want to risk their computers because they can't tear themselves away from Facebook, it isn't my problem... until they ask me to pay for repairs.

"Because I said so!"

The kids are out this afternoon, so no screaming necessary.

I rush downstairs to disconnect the TV antenna, then pull the phone wire from the back of the broadband modem. Out here in the countryside the phone lines all dangle through the air, often tangled in trees. A direct strike on any telephone pole in the village would wipe out every electronic phone, fax and computer in the valley.

Just in time! A blinding flash, followed two seconds later by rolling thunder, send the dogs into a panic. Let them inside, quick.

Another flash, total white-out, almost instantly followed by a deafening boom. The entire house shakes. An electric flash bursts behind the bookcase on the middle floor, where a fusebox is located. Lamps and appliances go dark. There's a sour burning ozone smell behind the aroma of sugar cane boiling on the stove.

The rain doesn't arrive for another two minutes, then it makes up for lost time. The view through the window is a blur, liquid static across my field of vision.

Fifteen minutes later the worst is over. The arm of the storm has swept past. Dragonflies dart like sparks outside the window. At least the air is cooler now.

White Sky

It was 33 degrees (93° F) by nine o'clock this morning and the air felt like someone in heaven was bearing down with a plunger. Glancing outside at the white sky and bluish haze in the hills brought premonitions of heavy weather. The usually steady breeze through the valley was reduced to a few puffs. The birds seem nervous; there are more inside the trees, bickering with each other, than flying around or pecking seeds out of the ground. The only things active are squadrons of red and orange dragonflies. This is how it always feels before a typhoon, like the whole world has dug in its claws in anticipation.

I checked the weather satellite photo. There's an enormous spiral of clouds between here and the Philippines which they're calling a tropical depression. Heavy rain is predicted for the middle of the week. It's a normal August, the height of typhoon season.

In the rest of Hong Kong hot and stormy August is the month when traditionally, since colonial times, everyone who can leave does leave. It's still true among most of the expatriate community and the Chinese upper crust. But here in Wang Tong, nobody I can think of has gone away. Maybe it's just too nice a place to rush away from. Who needs the Thames or the Seine or the Hudson River when you've got the Wang Tong Stream?

Typhoon Victim

Last night we had a direct hit from Typhoon Molave, which struck Hong Kong at midnight. 140 km/h (87 mph) winds flattened the ginger fields and uprooted plants. We prepared by supporting our most vulnerable trees with rope attached to the garden fence. One papaya tree nearly fell over, and some of those almost-ripe pomelos dropped like bombs, but otherwise we escaped damage.

We also escaped burglary. Burglars often choose nights like these, with no witnesses out for midnight strolls and the the deafening noise of wind and driving rain covering the sounds of breaking locks and crowbarred windows. At 1:15 a.m. our housemaid got up to get a drink and saw two men in black coats just outside. They saw her, leaped over the fence and ran away. This morning the police told us a house on the other side of the village wasn't so lucky. The thieves got away with a horde of cash.

But the one who had the closest call last night was this baby bulbul in the photo. I found it on the ground beneath a tree, motionless, its wings askew. Cathy thought it was dead, but then we saw it breathing. It had obviously been blown out of its nest. But from which tree? We weren't aware of any nest in the tree directly above, but knew there was a bulbul nest in a tree around 20 yards away. How to return it there? And what if it didn't really belong to that family?

Fortunately Cathy remembered there was an abandoned nest in a bush elsewhere in the garden, comically constructed from twigs and white nylon packing twine. She put on some gloves, fetched the nest, then gently lifted the protesting baby into it. She placed the nest in a branch of the tree below the other bulbul nest.

The photo shows Cathy holding the nest with the baby in it. Note the white nylon twine the birds wove around the nest, as neatly as a birthday present.

An hour later we went to check. The baby was standing and crying on a branch next to the nest. Across the garden we saw adult bulbuls chirping and hopping around on the fence in an agitated manner. Having watched countless generations of bulbuls produce families outside our windows wherever we've lived in Wang Tong, we thought their behavior looked very much like upset parents.

Another half hour later the baby was back on the ground. Concerned, Cathy got her gloves and was about to pick it up again when the baby spread its wings and flew away.

We're no longer worried. Maybe this baby had to leave the nest prematurely, but we're sure it will find its way in the world.

I hope it comes back to visit. I hope those burglars don't.