The Day After The Typhoon: A Photo Essay

January 5, 2020

Under the champaign fog of the summer afternoon, a weightless cloud seeped through beachside huts and over the stillness of temples. It flowed up the mountains and down Jiou Rou Street, spinning off into open windows, swirling around the people drinking their evening tea.  It flowed over the bridges, alit with colored lights, and into the city center. There, opaque and hungry, it turned into water. It swelled and filled the streets from corner to corner, whooping with laughter as it pushed the tops of palm trees into a violent waltz. 

The anticipation of the Typhoon lasted longer than the storm itself.  Johan and I were eager to pack our gear, get in the Delica, and go for a little drive into the mountainside beside the bay. By the time we got to the shore, the waves still showed remnants of the typhoon, producing waves that crashed into break walls washing silver fish onto the street.

People perched on top of the concrete walls watching. The fishermen sat on buckets, casting but not expecting any catch. We parked the van, grabbed Thula, and took a walk.







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