Hot, dry winds, dust-laden, pervade the houses, and have such an effect even on well-seasoned hardwoods, that tables, wardrobes and door-panels, split from end to end, or from top to bottom, with a noise like a pistol-shot, leaving cracks a quarter of an inch wide that gape till the rainy season restores the moisture.
At this time the heat is at its maximum, and all nature gasps or fades. Not a drop of rain has fallen for months, the roads are inches deep in dust, the rivers nearly stagnant, and covered with a green scum, the whole country quite brown, the vegetation burnt up by the sun. Only the cockroaches rejoice; at this season they fly at night, and you may have a few fine specimens of the Blatta Orientalis alight on your face, or on the back of your neck, should you doze a moment on your long chair. Personally, I am proof against a good deal, but must confess that the hairy feet of a cockroach on my face or neck make me shudder.
As the month draws to a close, every afternoon the storm-clouds gather over the Antipolo Hills. All Manila, lying in the glare and dust, prays for rain. Overhead, a sky like burnished copper darts down heat-rays that penetrate the roofs, and literally strike the heads of the occupants. The dry air is surcharged with electricity to such an extent that every living thing feels the powerful influence; the sweetest natures become irritable, and quite ready to admit that “this is, indeed, a beastly world.”
The nervous system suffers, the newspapers relate cases of stabbing, or even running amok amongst the natives, and perhaps some suicides occur. If, as not unfrequently happens, you should at this time receive an invitation to the funeral of a friend or compatriot just deceased from typhoid fever, and to be buried within twenty-four hours, you will begin to wonder whether Manila is good enough for you. Day after day the rain-clouds disperse amidst the rumbling of a distant thunder-storm, and day after day do longing eyes watch for their coming, and hope for the cloud-burst.
At last, when the limit of endurance seems reached, a cool breath of air heralds the downpour. The leaves rustle, the feathery bamboos incline before the blast, the sky darkens, the cataracts of heaven are loosed, and the water tumbles down in torrents.
Now keep yourself in the house, and on the upper floor, and let the water from your roofs run to waste. The natives, usually so careless of a wetting, avoid bathing or wetting themselves with the first waters, which they consider dangerous, and not without reason. The exhalations from the newly-wetted earth are to be avoided; these earth-vapours are called by the Tagals Alimóom. Now the dust is washed off the roofs and leaves, and in three days the fallows are covered with small shoots of grass or weeds, the maidenhair ferns and mosses spring from every stone wall. The reign of dust is over; the reign of mud begins. Now the frogs inaugurate their nightly concerts. After a time you get used to the deafening noise; you do not even hear it. But they suddenly stop, and you are astonished at the stillness.
As the rainy season proceeds, the air is almost entirely saturated with moisture: the saturation in August sometimes exceeds 97 per cent.
Now green mould will grow upon your boots and other leather articles, if left a couple of days without cleaning. Everything feels damp, and it is a good plan to air your wardrobe round a brazier of red-hot charcoal.
You will have noticed that the natives universally build their houses upon piles. So do the Malays all over the Far East. This is the expression of the accumulated experience of centuries, and you will be wise to conform to it by never sleeping on the ground floor. To a dweller in the Philippines this tip is worth the price of the book.