It is early March, almost three months have passed since the storm cut our harvest season short and much on the farm appears back to normal. Just appearance though, below the surface simmers the lingering effect of the storm’s devastating destruction. Trees and vines have produced new leaves, yet no new fruits. The few peaches that withstood the storm and steadfastly clung to their branches were so severely damaged that we could not even sell them for jam making for which inferior fruits are used. The amount of plums yielded by our 1200 trees was laughable; about ten crates, which we decided to dry ourselves. A grape harvest is scheduled for early April. The vines however bear such a reduced quantity, that the harvesters, who depend on weighty bunches closely cropped together, have steeply increased their price to even set foot on the property. Costs are up when spending must remain down. No income can be expected anytime soon. It is a strain and it shows! The area becomes slowly economically depressed. Many people feel low on energy. The good cheer so characteristic for the people here is hard to find.

The storm hits our area at the worst possible time, late December, the height of summer in the southern hemisphere. Week-long stretches of over a 100 degree temperatures (>45 Celsius) makes sprouting of most seeds impossible; thus making any effort to replant the vegetable garden sheer lunacy. Many in the area use their garden crops to supplement their subsistence level incomes, not being able to replant turns out a heavy blow. I have not even bothered to look at my gardens; it is one mess of hip-high tangled weeds. Like many I lack ‘animo’, the desire or will to work. Yet among all the sadness we praise ourselves lucky; on New Year’s Eve an even more damaging storm strikes just beyond our neighborhood and plunges two villages in a starkness of winter out of which their plants will not be able to renew. 

New Year starts with a ferocious heat from an unyielding sun beating our house relentlessly out of a constantly cobalt blue sky. In the heart of the summer we usually languish on our vine shaded patio, but without leaves on the vines there is no shade to shield us and we flee to the relative cool of our house. But the house is equally exposed and we find little relief. Even inside we cannot escape the after-effects of the storm!

Government workers descend on our area a few days after the storm; first we attend a meeting in which all the ins- and outs of the government’s support are outlined. So many people want to crowd in the tiny space where the meeting is held that the government workers run overtime and tell their story twice, each time to a different audience. Afterwards we are approached by worried neighbors who have very little faith in our language skills and who want to make sure that we understand every bureaucratic detail to which we will be subjected. I am queried thoroughly. Fortunately I pass the test; nonetheless, as time passes we realize that people keep an eye on us as they casually inquire about assessors showing up, papers being delivered, checks received.

Our crops are assessed for damage and we score 96% of crop failure, commensurate with our own assessment of a total loss. In the two swaths of devastation cut by wind and hail our property was situated so close to the  center that we were hit ferociously. It explains why neighbors merely 700 meters away fared better. In the damage reports the storm’s path can be traced clearly. By mid-April we receive our first government check and even though the amount is a far cry from our usual income we are grateful for the help; the check ensures we will be able to meet expenses necessary to coax next year’s crop to maturity. Even so, our crops might not complete their lifecycle despite our best efforts; we rest in the hands of unreliable fate, God’s unfathomable will or our unknown karma. For the first time I understand with complete clarity the standard local response to any event in the future “Dios quiere” or “God willing”.        

Its early May; we harvested our grapes with the help of our neighbors and exchanged our labor in return. The vines yielded a pittance; yet, hauling even a mere 5.000 kilos with only a few people demands stamina and insistence, especially when the sun stabs, the earth is hard-packed, one breathes dust from the scorched land which radiates unbearable heat. In four days both properties are picked clean, a few rows remain for our house wine.

Then, as the season ends, Arn is called back to the States to say farewell to his father. He takes the first available flight, but not before the wine barrels are filled to their rims. We leave summer behind; it has been a sorrowful season in which we could not escape nature’s wrathful force. We were entangled in its capricious branches, and came out the worse.