Rain on the Island

Thunder rumbled across the skies. There was that distinct smell in the winds – that of trampled vegetation picked up by the winds, aided with a dip in temperature - which hits you just moments before the heavens open up. I couldn’t help stopping all that I did – in this case, packing up, to leave the beach – and stare at the contrasts that was flooding my senses:

Turquoise blue, shallow playful waters of the white sandy lagoon below as against, the dark indigo blues of a moody, tempestuous sky above;

The lull of the lapping waters of the sea, devoid of crashing waves as against the sparkling crackle of the lightning bolts;

The taste of warm brine from my dip in the lagoon as against the taste of the cool moisture laden breeze;

And then to cap it all, the sweaty, moisty warmth of a tropical island being washed anew with a coat of cool windward rains.

Life loves contrasts indeed, the distinctions all the more perceptible when the contrasts are extremely disparate, thereby stretching the senses, almost waking one up. Such was the wake-up call that day at Lord Howe Island. Normally one would abhor rains while on a vacation – who wouldn't want to stay cooped up inside if it rains? But then, why coop up inside, in the first place? Why not break the stereotype of blazing sun and tinder dry beaches even if on a holiday? Where’s the harm in walking in the rains on a beach and feeling that overwhelming sense of wetness cleansing yourself? I love the rains, the only problem being trying to stay dry when one is already beginning to seep and soak – throw the failing umbrella aside, halt the resistance to getting wet, and then embrace the rains. In other words, get wet. Completely. From head to toe. And then enjoy the sense of being bedraggled even as more rains hit you, almost acupuncturing every inch of exposed skin. If that has joy, imagine then, the joy of accepting rains on a slice of tropical paradise, lush green with vegetation.

Standing on the lagoon, the first signs of rains came as lenticular clouds engulfed the twin peaks of Mt. Gower and Lidgbird, two tall sentinels always keeping an eye on the island. Thereafter indigo clouds covered the skies and the rains poured, as the towering Norfolk pines seemed to shake like excited Totoros, dancing and swaying with the breeze. I couldn’t help slithering back into the lagoon, whose waters felt warm in cold contrast to the conquering rains. Floating upwards, waddling in the sea and watching the shards come down was a way to experience the rains like never before. I had seen rains draping the Kanchenjunga at Pelling, I had monsoon-ed myself in the jade green vales of the Western Ghats, I had even enjoyed both piping hot tea and ice lollies in the madness of the metropolitan rains of Calcutta and Mumbai, and yes, I had allowed the cold winter rains of Wellington to usher in peace at the harbour while I happily ignored my Raymond suit and leather shoes. That day, I had added yet another note to my rain-diaries, worth re-reading for many days to come.

The rains continued, while I decided to get back to my forest villa. If swimming was not enough, I even cycled (the environmentally conscious island permits only bikes) in the rains, completely conscious of the lashing rains creating mini-cascades in the tall palm trees, while I cycled through a thin ribbon of asphalt that meandered through the forest, watching the famous Lord Howe Island woodhens strutting happily in the rains.  I also noticed that the few passers-by who braved the rains did not bother using umbrellas. Perhaps it is the magic of the tropics, perhaps it is the relaxation of island life that makes people embrace nature more whole-heartedly, whatever form she appears in.

The lesson for me that day was a refresher of not just the rains, which I love in any case, but also the acceptance of nature, in whatsoever form she comes in, especially when you are travelling. We will all have our shares of miserable holidays when bad weather ruins our vacation mode. A sandstorm here, a hailstorm there, and more often than not, brooding clouds and soaking rains that sap the joy of travel. But the ask is, are you reaching out to the weather, or the place? We most often stop at the former and in the process completely forget the latter, which should be more important. When elements are beyond your control, acceptance is the first step to calming that inner restlessness. In little time, you will open your eyes and be able to see the big picture, which is often the actual picture, otherwise blinded by our own interpretations and self-inflicted miseries.

I remember once travelling to Munnar pretty much in the late monsoons. Of course, there were rains – why should once expect crispy blue skies if travelling during the rainy season? Even when the rains stopped at night, there were swirling misty clouds that wrapped the Cardamom hills all morning. But imagine the other side of beauty - hot filtered coffee in hand on a balcony swirling with clouds, breathing in that earthy precipitation, while the sun played hide and seek and illuminated you once in a while, with the occasional beams of sunlit blessings. I remember walking to a nearby waterfall through this misty ambience down lush green hills, dripping moss and vines, which felt like a scene straight out of another moisture laden Pandora movie set from Cameroon’s fecund imaginary world. Gushing with water, the dwarf of that waterfall had grown to a giant overnight, roaring like a local Niagara. Standing on a fungi covered wooden bridge and watching the waterfall gush down, I was thrilled and thankful that I had actually come in the rains. The alternate to all of these would be to grumpily admit how the rains spoiled my vacation and made me stay indoors #badweather #foulrains etc etc etc. I can keep repeating these on  countless situations – the relentless monsoons in Lansdowne, Shimla and Maldives, thunderstorms in Milford Sound and Etretat; sleet in Liechtenstein; and even the reverse – parched summer madness in the hill-stations of desiccated Matheran and Bhandardara (which are gorgeous treasures to revel in the rains). Staying back at home and not exploring is always the easiest option – cosying up with a book and hot pakoras is always a great experience. But the greater experience is that of doing what one would normally not do – that stretch in itself creates richer diary entries worth remembering. Gobbling that tandoori chicken roll while I was completely drenched in Etretat, Normandy and then waiting for a warm, air-conditioned bus to take me home will always remain unforgettable. What I did in many other weekends in the rains during the same tenure has already been long forgotten.

Going back to the island that day, I stayed out as long as it rained, exploring rain drenched glades, and watching the waters trickle from the hibiscus and frangipani flowers. When the clouds were emptied and the sun came out warming the body and soothing the soul, I looked around anxiously for a rainbow. There was none sadly, not from my vantage point. But rainbow or not, deep inside, I had already collected a pot of gold at the end of the rains – it was overflowing with an ecstatic morning from cerulean lagoon to jade forests, and brimming with an experience I will never forget – that of tropical rains, that of an emerald ark in the Pacific, that of rain on the island…

 

Summer’s storm comes to pour,

While water-colours swirl

And grow even more…

 

27^th August, 2021

Images: Author's archives (1) Clouds begin to gather for a summer storm, Lord Howe Island, (2) Monsoons in the Maldives, another day, another isle