Dark Water

The air con lulls me with its synthetic hum, a discreet tranquilizer. The local TV news, on silent, screeches at me mutely from the screen. Ambulances, twisted metal, flashing lights. Wreckage of one kind or another. I lie on the pristine hotel bed in a stupor, the tiredness proper to these climes. It's been raining for three days, thick hot rain, and the river has all but burst its banks.

Earlier this afternoon we were lucky to see one of those spectacular subtropical thunderstorms, clouds brewing up in the sky like poison in a witch's broth. Of course for a hydrologist like myself, this whole thing has been a treat. The conference itself was nothing special, the usual procession of self-important mediocrities. But the storm was something else.

I reach for the remote and zap the TV. I switch the air con to off and open the window. The night rushes in. I am inundated with the buzz of mosquitoes and the swish of tyres kissing the tarmac outside. I sit on the bed and allow the heat to wash over me.

I want to walk, run; I slip on my trainers in the bathroom and catch sight of myself in the mirror. A not quite middle-aged man, distinguished if a little paunchy, stares back at me. I sigh, reach for my phone. My hand hesitates. I leave it where it lies. I feel reckless.

Outside the lift, I jiggle impatiently then take the stairs. The fluorescent lights in the stairwell flicker, giving the walls a green hue and throwing shadows. The paint is flaking here. Detour the lift and you slip right into a parallel dimension of people who move about on foot. You are relegated to the servants' quarters, invisible, where everything is not centred around those who use lifts, cars, vehicles. Cases to transport and protect them, encasing them in case of unforeseen events.

I reach the fire exit at the bottom and push the red metal bar. I have a distinct sense I am somewhere I'm not supposed to be. The door swings open and there is the night, lying black and gold before me. The road shines, wet onyx under streetlights.

I step outside and breathe in. The smell of earth rises, even here. I start running.

The road slopes downwards. I follow it around the hill and find myself on old tarmac fraying at the edges, the curb broken and the houses blind. They are stacked on top of each other like a favela in a textbook. Their windows stare blankly as if to ask what I am doing in this part of town. There are lights on and the sounds of voices inside some of the crumbling apartments, but the street is empty and still slopes down.

Soon the old tarmac ends and a mud path leads through long grass to the river. The sound of water draws me on. The humidity is oppressive; my whole body is sweating, little rivulets running down my forehead and back. I start to clamber up the grassy embankment – artificial of course, it was built to protect the city from flooding – and I slip. I fall front down and slide some distance before I can pick myself up. I climb up again, carefully this time, clutching big tufts of vetiver grass to keep my grip.

The river is right up to eye-level when I reach it, dark water, a glass filled to the brim. The sheer volume takes my breath away. Rarely have I seen a body of water moving at such close quarters and with such a sense of menace. Currents twist silently beneath the surface, sinewy, hypnotic. Looking at it now, I can see why – if one didn't know better – one might suppose it possessed by some powerful and malignant thing.

According to my guidebook there is, in fact, a local myth among the Creoles about a "serpent priestess". Her name is Mami Wata; she appears near water to abduct people and take them to her realm, especially men. The legend says that she is the spirit of a beautiful but jealous woman and is liable to exact revenge on those who escape her.

I turn to look back at the street and hear something behind me, a flop in the water. I whip my head round and scan the river. What was it? A gator? No, they don't make a sound. You don't know they're there till they're on you.