The tropical tempo
He ran like the wind. He felt no pain, played, played and played some more. The dark shadows of the penumbra focussed his shots. On-lookers took photos; he did not welcome these foreign people with glum, plastic smiles. He kept on training as though a special tournament were on the horizon. He followed the news every day at the first and then last hours. The time zone differences did not matter. He managed to separate the moment here and their moments there. He was as alert as a panther, devastating in his soft touch at an imaginary net. Fishermen were not here to cast, tourists gasped in wonder and puzzlement at the most recent temporary addition to the square. One told him it was about the environment and would impact on those who came and stayed for more than a couple of days. These people, he told him, would take these images and brochures, these they did not cast aside as rubbish, home. He began to waffle, so he took his leave and watched them construct.
The following day, the changed scenery took his breathe away almost as much as the biting swirling wind that had claimed the square as its temporary home. He did not think this was a freak event. In fact, it did not become a dervish. It was a three day meteorological event. Now the skies were clear, clean and the air fresh. Outside in November, people, tourists, office workers, students were enjoying themselves. He had no reason to think that this was only because the New Year celebrations were approaching.
