Whale of a Cloud (July26)

Nearing 6 when the Buddhist teahouse was left. Strangest of ghostly rainstorms. Down the lorong people were scuttling along trying to make cover before it started. The bus stop, the motor car, the covered five-foot-way 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 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 service. Badly discoloured and the peak torn after an accident in Melbourne with a truck’s side mirror. The straw would provide welcome cover. Locals in the Tropics knew what they were about covering the tops of their heads in the slightest of showers. G. Road effortlessly skipped. Couple 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 they shared. Big drops on the first crossing, bounding over with an elastic stride in case the girls might be looking. Peds in flight, bums up & heads down. In the puddles the drops appeared low calibre gun-fire—a shoot-out had been narrowly avoided. No. 2 lorong passed: every prospect 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. The ugly, portentous black cloud had indeed hung easterly on this other side. Looming. 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 & Hungary. One was heading into its heart; 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. Some soap would have been handy in order to save the $8 coconut-based shaving soap from FOE. (Friends of the Earth.) Brought along in the hand luggage. Onward—we were under cover after all. What awaited further up 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 dubious. Perhaps a shower here could be omitted that evening. In the Spring cool of Melbourne 3-4 day intervals had been possible between showerings. Strange. There did not seem to be a breath of wind. What with the cloud? Ladies continued with their brolleys raised, but wherefore? Without reason. Clear, bright skies through & through. Plain sailing as far as the eye could see. At the third crossing a look over to the East confirmed: nothing but delectable, scrumptious blue, wide-stretched such as was rare in the Tropics, athwart the Equator at least. Luscious tone reminiscent of scooped ice cream in a tub. The movement of currents here remained a mystery eight years on. On the flight back two days before the captain had forecast some rockiness in the last portion of the journey, 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. The Canadian panama trader around in Joo Chiat, a long-term resident himself, had made the point during the purchase of the No. 2: Windlessness guaranteed, no need fear the straw blown away in a sudden gust. Down in Carlisle Street, St. Kilda (Melbourne), the sought-after classic Ecuadorean had been nowhere to be found.