Monsoon madness

by Aditha Dissanayake

There is no electricity at home as I pack my bag. A branch has fallen in the heavy rains on the power-lines, meaning all the shirts I will be wearing during the weekend will be un-ironed. But I am excited, because I am in search of paradise or to be more exact I am on a mission to fulfil one of my long-wished for escapist fantasies, to experience the monsoon in the mist covered mountains of Hatton.

Heavenly stench

Riding on the pillion of a CD 200 motor bike, by the time I reach Kaduwela on a not too sunny, not too gloomy Friday afternoon I begin to realize the difference between riding in a covered vehicle and a contraption on two wheels.

Vehicles whiz past my shoulders, spray mud onto my knees and I try not to breathe the heavenly stench of garbage tractors as we ride side by side. The blare of music from three-wheelers, and the mobile phone conversations from passing cars (I'm at a meeting, Muchang... says a guy into his mobile, seated behind the wheel of his car, stuck in heavy traffic) as well as the aroma of freshly baked bread from a bakery by the side of the road come as compensation for the smoke, the dust and the blaring of horns from impatient private bus drivers.

Life on a Friday afternoon out side Colombo. Most of the occupants in the houses on either side of the road are either too old to have travelled to Colombo to seek employment or too young to be in school. Almost all the sixty-something, seated on the front door-steps have grey hair and wrinkles on their faces - the gloomy weather go hand in hand with their countenances.

Exhilaration

Philosophy apart, by the time we begin to catch glimpses of the Kelani Ganga flowing past Kitulgala, I realize the blood circulation to my legs have completely stopped. I yearn to stretch them out and to loosen my fingers from the metal bar I m holding on to, for dear life. It is, three-thirty, and there stands on most of the doorsteps we are passing by, a kid or a woman, drinking tea from huge mugs. The whole of Sri Lanka seem to be regaling in this exhilarating, hot brew at one and the same time. Except us. Relief comes finally when a rest house looms up by the side of the road.

But not for long. Comforting though the pot of tea the waiter offers us is, once back on the road we discover we are rapidly running out of petrol. The two "petrol stations" we stop at, have cardboard notices saying they have no petrol.

An old gentleman standing at the entrance of the office asks me "Are you going to buy land in Hatton?" "No". I tell him. "I'm looking for paradise", and before he can ask me if that is a name of a hotel I add 'to write an article". 'If you are looking for land..." he begins again, but, impatient to reach Hatton we get back on the road before he finishes the sentence.

A heavy curtain of rain; a meteorology throat clearing for the tongue lashing to come. The script is never the same. The story never loses its appeal....

We have no choice but to take the risk and try to make it to Hatton. Knowing that the loneliest, the most deserted stretch of the journey is in front of us, it is with trepidation that we leave Ginigathena, the last town before Hatton. But luck, for once is on our side. No mishaps, the petrol lasts till we reach Hatton.

Except one. Making me realize the prudence of heeding the old adage "be careful what you wish for, you might just get it", once past Ginigathhena, we come in contact with the monsoon at its height. What at first seems like small needles pricking the skin, soon turns into huge drops, the size of pebbles.

We park the bike and run inside a bus-halt, at Watawala, simply to discover that only an architect familiar with deserts would have built such a shelter. Being open on all sides, the wind brings in the rain to drench us as much as it would have done, had we been on the bike. My watch stands at four-ten. But outside, the time seems to have moved faster.

Bags of flour

Everything around us bears a gloomy, mournful air. As the wind begins to wail a mournful "yahoo", as the atmosphere turns slightly creepy, and begins to look like a scene in a horror movie shortly before something ominous happens, we decide to move on, in spite of the rain.

The mist grows thicker and thicker, until it looks as though the gods are pouring out bags and bags of American flour around us. The idea makes us throw our heads back and guffaw. But to laugh is a mistake. To have our mouths open means to have them filled with rain water.

Feeling like "the poor naked wretches" in King Lear, we feel the rain drops falling directly into our eyes and feel icy trickles running down the back of our necks.

The single electric bulbs hanging from the roadside shops in Hatton do nothing to brighten the gloom brought around by the rain and the mist. But the petrol station finally, stands up to its name and has petrol. While a puny man hanging on a thick rope pulls at a huge bell with all his mite, at the Kovil in the town, we begin the final lap home. Though the rain has increased twofold by now, we are too wet to notice. Our thoughts centre round a hot bath and a steaming mug of coffee.

Hmmmmm! Slipping this hot nectar from heaven, in the warmth of my room with the heavy smell of mould, in a planter's bungalow in Hatton, as I write this I hear the three act drama of the monsoons outside my window. Flashes of lightning, thunder, a heavy curtain of rain; a meteorology throat clearing for the tongue lashing to come. The script is never the same. The story never loses its appeal....

Here I am living my escapist fantasy...So, have I finally discovered paradise? Yes. But lost something in the process. My mind. I don't want to return.