Whale of a Cloud

It was nearing 6 when the Buddhist teahouse was left. Strangest of ghostly rainstorms. Going up the lorong numerous people were scuttling along trying to make cover before the downpour started. The bus stop, the motor car, the covered five-foot-way were being desperately sought. Skipping across Geylang Road the segments ahead needed to be measured up until the Chinese Cyber, if it was indeed still operating. Three crossing in all. In Jogja a single crossing of no more than five metres between verandas had once needed an ojek payung to prevent a thorough dousing. This rain here would be nothing like, but still—a new tee, new trousers. The panama, the second in the almost eight years, was near the end of its honourable service. Badly discoloured, now the peak had been torn after an accident in Melbourne with a truck’s side mirror. The straw would provide welcome cover and no need fret over the damage. First afternoon of the return a soaking of the scone would not be what the doctor ordered. (Locals in the Tropics knew what they were about covering the tops of their heads in the slightest of showers.) Geylang Road effortlessly skipped. A couple of Viets they may have been near the corner—new imports to the red zone they looked—needed to be ignored. The older hand escorting the slightly younger and prettier who had called her up on the phone a minute before had brought along a shield that the pair shared. Big drops on the first crossing bounding over with an elastic stride in case the girls might be looking after. Peds on every side continuing in their flight, bums up and heads down. Wielders of umbrellas darting beneath the pillars kept their pieces aloft even once they had reached safety. The drops in the puddles on the roadway appeared as low calibre gun-fire—a shoot-out had been narrowly avoided. Number two lorong passed: every prospect of reaching the goal with only minor spattering. Glancing over to the other side of the four lane road toward Sims Avenue from where one had started, uncannily vivid blue now in a wide band somehow appeared. The dangerous, ugly, portentous black cloud had indeed hung easterly on this other side. Looming large. Whale-shaped. Possibly at the outset it had been more like an inanimate form such as a promontory, a peninsular or half peninsular. (Not a camel certainly.) The Balkans perhaps, including Greece, Albania, Serbia, Montenegro and perhaps portions of Croatia and Hungary. One was heading into the eye of the storm; the guts of the darkly hovering beast. A beast which had seemingly shifted its position in the interim, moved to the other side of the shop-row perhaps. Some soap would have been handy in order to save the wondrous $8 coconut-based shaving soap from FOE. (Friends of the Earth.) Brought along in the hand luggage, in lieu of another that precious bar had been used the day before showering and washing. Risking it then—we were under cover after all. How far progress might be achieved further up Geylang Road was a question. (Certainly City Plaza, 500 or 600 metres on, was a bridge too far.) One Indian place, the regular Bangla and another Indian that may have been Chinese produced precisely nada—only manufactured supermarket product. The single “homemade” cake in wrinkled plastic appeared altogether dubious. Perhaps a shower here too could be omitted that evening. In the Spring cool of Melbourne three and four day intervals had been possible between showerings. Strange. There did not seem to be a breath of wind. What then with the cloud? Ladies continued with their brolleys raised, but wherefore? There was no reason. Clear, bright skies throughout. Smooth and plain sailing as far as the eye could see. At the third crossing a look over to the East confirmed the impression: nothing but delectable blue stretched wide such as one was rarely gifted in the Tropics, athwart the Equator at least. Inviting luscious tone that made one think of scooped ice cream in a tub. The movement of air currents here remained a mystery almost eight years on. On the flight back two days before the captain had forecast some rockiness in the last portion of the journey, the last couple of hours, for which on landing he had unnecessarily apologised. The usual Tropical “turbulence,” did he say? Could have fooled me. Ground level certainly there was anything but on the Equator, that was for certain. The Canadian panama trader around in Joo Chiat, a long-term resident himself, had made the point during the purchase of the No. 2: There was no wind on the Equator. No need fear the straw flying off in a sudden gust. Down in Carlisle Street, St. Kilda, in Melbourne, the sought after classic Ecuadorean had been nowhere to be found among the stands.