Monsoon

Reading time: ca. 16 min

Seeing off Kaori in Kathmandu marked the end of another chapter of my journey through India and Nepal. We had shared quite a few adventures in the North of India and now she had gone back to Japan, but not before making sure that I would not forget her final words of advice: “You could make it big in Japan,” she had insisted, “the Japanese would adore you. Blue-eyed tall Caucasians have a massive market value in the entertainment industry!”

 

As I headed back to my little cottage in Goa, her words kept echoing in my head. The idea of going to Japan had a devilish allure. I daydreamed being on TV there, surrounded by beautiful Japanese girls. I imagined making tons of money advertising fashion or sportswear. The more I thought about it the more I was convinced that I had to go for it.

 

When my train pulled into Bombay Central station, my mind was made up. I was going to Japan! The only hurdle I still had to take was to convince my mother, as she was the administrator of my bank account back home and hence my ‘sponsor’- and she surely expected me back in Europe! I was logically a little apprehensive when I called her to explain my plans. Her response, though, was quite unexpected: “Great idea,” she exclaimed enthusiastically, “I’m so relieved you’re finally leaving India. I have always wanted to visit Japan and if you are there, I will have a good reason to go there myself.”

She also promised to send money for the undertaking. I must say that I had run out of travellers’ cheques a long time ago and relied on cash sent by ordinary mail ‘poste restante’ to post offices along the way. This admittedly rather risky way of transferring money had worked out well for most of the time; only one or two letters had gone missing during the whole journey.

While I was waiting for my funds to arrive in Bombay, I spent a few days in this megalopolis of extremes. In Madras I had already experienced the bright and dark sides of Indian cities, I had seen people being born, living and dying in the streets but here it was even more of a smack-in-the-face kind of sensation. My hotel occupied the top floor of a building located near the central railway station. I had a room with a tin roof that became so unbearably hot during the day that I much rather spent that time wandering the streets. I visited the magnificent Taj Mahal Hotel and the massive arch of the Gateway to India, slaloming my way through the legions of peddlers, beggars and prostitutes of all ages that populated the streets and sidewalks. The days passed swiftly and by the time I could finally retrieve the letters containing my travel money, I had already spotted an agency where I booked a discounted one-way ticket to Bangkok.

 

Japanese immigration regulations required a return ticket for the entry visa, so I reckoned a round trip ticket to Thailand would be decidedly cheaper than a return to  India. The most economic ticket I could find left for Bangkok via Colombo in the middle of April. Since it was March then, I had ample time to return to Goa, spend some weeks at the beaches, get ready for the new adventure – and experience the beginning of the monsoon season, a still unmarked entry on my bucket list.

A few days later an overloaded, lopsided ferryboat brought me back to Goa and I was glad to be once again in my old house which I had left two months earlier with the promise to be back. Nothing much had changed, only Bernhard, my former neighbour, had left and an Englishman by the name of Michael had moved into the cottage next to mine.

With the approaching monsoon season, though, the stream of tourists had practically ceased, only some long-term foreign residents were still around and gathered in the few restaurants and bars that were still open for business. Also, the famous beach party season, which attracted people from all over the world, had come to an end. The make-shift surf shops and palm leaf covered sea view bars had disappeared, and the beaches were practically deserted.

 

One morning there was a knock on my front door. It was Rosaria, my neighbour from across the street who stood on my front porch with tears in her eyes. “Tom,” she said with a sobbing voice, “you must help me. Last night, a roaming pig got into my vegetable garden and destroyed it completely. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t got enough money to ask someone to repair my garden wall, but if I don’t do anything the coming monsoon will ruin the entire wall and my brother and I won’t have enough to eat.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her while I followed her across the road to take a look at the damage, “I will try to repair your garden wall. Let me see what we need to do to get it fixed.”

When we arrived, I saw that a part of the about one-meter high wall had collapsed inward onto her kitchen garden and had smashed the vegetable beds, and the invading pig had made sure that nothing edible was left. I also noted that the roof that was meant to cover the well had fallen into the spring and the rotting palm leaves had rendered the water undrinkable.

 

Rosaria was one of the first local people I had made friends with when I arrived in Goa. She was an old Indian lady of about 70 who lived with her elder brother in one of the beautiful Portuguese villas, carving out a meagre income by renting rooms of her house. In fact, when I was looking for a place to stay, I had visited her to see the house, but later decided to rent a cottage on the opposite side of the road instead because my intention was to stay for a longer period and I needed more space. However, we became friends. I liked to listen to her stories. She vividly remembered the time when Goa was a colony, in fact, she had worked for a Portuguese family and spoke the language.

After our survey we entered her house and sat in the living room. “Rosaria,” I started, “your garden and your spring needs work. I will help you fix the wall and I will ask someone to help me remove the muck from the well. You absolutely mustn’t drink the well water; you have to promise!”

While I was talking, I looked up to the ceiling of her living room. I could see the sky through the many holes in the broken tiles that covered the roof.

Rosaria had gone into her kitchen and returned with two cups of chai. While I was sipping the hot brew I remarked merrily, “look at your roof! I’m sure when the monsoon arrives you will be swimming in your living room!” But she didn’t find my comments funny at all and started sobbing again: “I use much of my pension to buy medicine for my brother. He is almost blind and the medicines are expensive. If I can’t rent out my rooms I don’t know how to pay all the bills.”

Her situation wasn’t very encouraging indeed, therefore I decided to help her get the house ready for the monsoon as well as to find customers to create a little income for her.

 

Fortunately, Michael, my new neighbour, was keen to lend a hand when I explained the project and together we spend a good ten days fixing the garden wall, clearing out the well and re-tiling the roof with still intact tiles we found half-buried on a pile in the garden. During this time, Rosaria cooked for us – of course, we had to buy ingredients, but she turned out to be an excellent chef and provided us with a culinary roundtrip through India.

Proud of our accomplishments we celebrated the completion of our project with a big dinner at Rosaria’s house. I had also invited some friends to show them the rooms that the host had to rent and create some mouth-to-mouth advertising that way.

The feast took place in the old lady’s enormous living dining kitchen which occupied a good portion of the house. The room had classic terrazzo flooring, a massive hardwood table for twelve or more people, matching iron wrought chairs and other remnants of the bygone colonial past such as a grand chandelier fitted with real candles. We had a sumptuous selection of curried dishes, flatbreads and a great choice of fruit, all accompanied by beers and Goan wines. Indeed, Goa has a history of wine production and I was particularly fond of their port-like fortified red wines.

In all the merry chatter as people around the table traded stories and jokes, Rosaria who sat next to me suddenly nudged me and said in a low voice:” Have you noticed the change in the air? It smells differently. Monsoon is coming. The rain will be here in a few days.”

I was a little tipsy and started laughing: “You’re saying that you can tell the arrival of the Monsoon by smelling the air? That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“I’m right, she said in a determined voice, “You’ll see!”

After the party I returned to my cottage across the street and reflected on what the old lady had said. Before I entered my place I paused for a moment sniffing the air but I could detect no difference. However, I sensed that the humidity had risen to a degree which was an appreciated change. The last weeks had been marked by bone dry weather, the days were scorching hot and the constant wind whirled up tiny dust tornados on the sandy square in front of my house.

I got undressed, took a quick shower in my little cement cubicle and went to sleep. My bed rested with its side against the wall to leave more space in this larger room of my little cottage. I noted some fragments of brittle cement on the sheet but dismissed the observation as negligible.

 

Later that night some odd sound woke me up. It was as if woodworms were drilling holes into my bed frame. When I opened my eyes, tiny pieces of cement fell onto my face. Somewhat in a panic I flipped on the lighter I always had on my bedside table and an instant later I jumped out of my bed with a shriek.

The wall above my bed was covered with hundreds of large black ants. They apparently lived in the brittle walls of my house and, with rising humidity, had started breaking through the plaster showering my bed with pieces of cement. I’m not a squeamish person – you can’t be squeamish in India – but this was too much. I dragged my bed to the middle of the room and sat on the mattress, smoking and thinking. “What if the ants crawled up the legs of my bed and started eating me alive?” All sorts of horror scenarios ran through my head while I was observing the crawlers spreading out all over the wall. Then I had an idea. I went into my kitchen – the other tiny room in my house – and fished some empty food cans out of my garbage bin. I washed them, went back to my main room and put each of the four legs of my bed into a can. Then I took a canister of Kerosene – I used Kerosene for cooking – and filled the cans with the liquid. Now the legs of my bed stood in cans full of Kerosene. The fuel stench was disgusting but I felt a lot safer.

Since for obvious reasons smoking in bed was out now, I got up and sat on the front porch of my house. It was still night but at this moment I understood what Rosaria had meant at the party. The air smelled “wet” indeed. There was the hum and buzz of a thousand insects in the air, it was as if they had all awoken from hibernation at the same time. I didn’t know if I was going to appreciate this sudden change but undoubtedly something new was about to happen.

The next day I went down to the beach for my morning swim. An unusual number of local people had gathered at the beach looking over the ocean. When I asked them what was going on, an old man pointed to the horizon and said. “Look! Big rain is coming!”

I followed his outstretched arm and noticed a distant line of black clouds. So it was all true and Rosaria had been right! The Monsoon was on its way and would be here soon.

I was so excited that I dropped in at Rosaria’s house on my way back to tell her the news. “You see,” she said with a proud smile, “I told you I can smell the monsoon coming!”

 

And then it really did come. Two days later it started pouring with rain. In the beginning, it rained relentlessly for almost a week. The sandy patch in front of my house became an instant lawn, in fact, it was as if nature had awoken from a long slumber. The vegetation took on a lush shine, the land was abuzz with insects of all shapes and colours and birdsong filled the air.

On the downside of things, the beautiful beaches disappeared under roaring, murky brown waves crashing into ever-growing jumbles of flotsam. Streets turned into rivers, carrying with them piles of floating garbage and the occasional bloated body of a dead animal. My house became a battleground: I declared an all-out war against the bugs that had infested my cottage and I was meaning to win, whatever it took. At one point I even incinerated the floor of my living room with Kerosene, killing thousands of ants that were marching across the tiles.

To be sincere, I was becoming a little desperate. The mattress of my bed became so mouldy that I could only sleep on my back to avoid the smell. I could not wash my clothes, they never dried in the humid air. All fresh food I bought I had to consume immediately because there was no bug-safe storage container in the kitchen. Insect bites became a serious issue because they had the tendency to get infected easily.

All in all, I didn’t enjoy staying in my house anymore and hung out days on end in a nearby café, reading, writing letters and counting down days to my final departure from India. It had been a long seven months filled with a lifetime worth of adventures, but I was now craving for something more ordinary, more predictable. As well, the prospect of going to Japan and earning money again made me even more anxious to leave.

 

Then came the day. It had not been a very joyful last week in Goa. Rosaria’s house held out against the monsoon, but her brother’s health deteriorated suddenly and he was admitted to a hospital. When I went over to her place to say goodbye, she was sad and cried desperately. Michael, my neighbour, suffered from the weather and had begun drinking so our farewell was short and gloomy. Before my departure I also dropped in at my regular hangout to say goodbye and it was moving that many of my friends had come to see me off. After some last drinks and lots of hugging, kissing and well-wishing, the owner of the café called a taxi and I was off to the airport and a brand-new adventure in a brand-new country – Japan!