It is hot. The tropical sun beats down relentlessly as I scuttle for shelter beneath a mango tree. The humidity weighs heavily on my shoulders and the grass crumples under the weight of palm leaves falling. A stone church lies empty as the crowds depart for lunch, clearing the town's jungle-bordered suburbs of all but the faintest echoes of afternoon laziness. No grass is being mowed now; it's just too hot and dogs are barking. Mad dogs. Mad dogs and Englishmen. I suppose the Englishmen left in the dull coolness of the last pink sunset, quite some time ago. The ball of fire that burns shadows onto whitewhashed walls roars o'er a sky as blue as pastel paint, splashed with dots of acrylic white.
The whirring of a dozen fans sweep the cool of air-conditioned rooms but only the shadow of a passing cloud brings a brief respite to this equatorial hothouse. Food is served and the chopsticks are ready; chattering mouths open for slurping noodles. Stately palms sway. I sit securely in the shade, gazing at the sun-soaked patio. Peace. For now. Peace until tomorrow when the sun rises again.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment