Today, as I write this, it is Friday and the month is NOT the ninth (unfortunately; we would have been free from our worries), but rather the 14th of November.
Today marks the first day that “the weather” has graced us with a sprinkle of rain in Limassol. Alright, perhaps more than just a sprinkle. It rained well, in any case.
However, until this “holy” day arrived, a rumor developed in the city, as our English friends would say: a rumor, an urban legend, an almost indisputable certainty (as it evolved and peaked) that the reason it hadn’t rained for so long was due to aerial spraying.
Brothers, they are spraying us to prevent rain. Who? The Brits at the bases. Why? Because when it rains, their radars don’t function properly.
This is the gist of it. They spray to disperse the clouds so that the operation of their radars is not disturbed.
Even this morning, at the café where I enjoy my espresso and freddo, there was a group of meteorology PhDs consisting of a salesman, a shopkeeper, an accounting office employee, and a plumber, analyzing how the Brits are stealing our rain from the city. “Do you see those clouds coming from the north? Soon there won’t be a single one left. It will rain all over Cyprus except Limassol.”
My question is this: can’t the Akrotiri bases get the radars they have at the Dhekelia bases, which are obviously newer technology and state-of-the-art since their efficiency isn’t affected by rain? Because over there, to the east, it rained in previous days. Instead of depriving us of watering our Limassolian pots, why don’t they go and get those good all-weather radars to put an end to this story? I mean, they’ve got us pinned down and won’t let us experience autumn like normal people.
The other thing I was thinking about today is: how much more advanced must those Russians be with their radars?
Because at the end of God’s earth — at the beginning of beastly weather — at the edge of the country where Russia borders the North Pole, as far as I know they have a radar weapon system installed. A Resonance or something like that. And up there, the weather doesn’t joke around. Visibility due to fog isn’t zero; it’s below zero. It’s not just that you can’t see your nose — you can’t even feel it. What kind of radars do they have up there that aren’t bothered by Terzi’s bad weather?
But to return to our own matters, we’ve heard plenty these days, dear reader. From targeted aerial spraying to satellite interference with radio waves. The only thing we haven’t heard is that someone bribed Rainman to send water everywhere except for us. And Kalahari.
However, by noon today everything changed. The heavens opened like a faucet with a broken valve and the streets flooded; drains clogged and potholes turned into small pools for rodents. Water galore. And within hours some of our fellow citizens experienced absolute relief and bewilderment simultaneously.
On one hand, finally some Limassolian soil got wet enough to remember what it feels like to be moist; on the other: what happened now? Did their sprayers break down? Did the substance with which they spray us expire and lose its properties? Or did all pilots of the secret plan to dehydrate our city get repatriated and there was no one left to fly the planes?
Or perhaps none of these things happened and once again we are feeding our need for a bit of excitement in our mundane lives with imaginative conspiracy scenarios.
I understand that it’s very thrilling to explain everything with conspiracy theories and extreme scenarios. However, wouldn’t it be better before attributing anything to something improbable to consider whether things might actually be simpler and that we aren’t being pursued by gods, demons, and wizards along with Tutankhamun who prefers not to rain on us unlike those Gauls?
Your humble narrator
