Dusk

It’s dusk and I’m looking out from my little porch, through the rain dripping off the eves, over the lush, verdant and soaking wet jungle that makes up the grounds of our hotel. Overhung by palms and papaya trees, flashes of red, pink and yellow flowers everywhere fighting through the green like tropical birds. The call to prayer from the mosque next door, a woman’s voice, repetitively chanting but surprisingly soothing, despite the notes that seem discordant to our western ears. Another downpour, rattling off the big leaves, a percussionist joining the song. Now the downpour eases, and is immediately replaced by the cicada’s buzz, almost drowning out the mosque with its energy. The air is so humid that it has weight and texture, carrying the loamy scents of the jungle, the vanilla and perfume notes, much more than just a cooling breeze. A proud, or confused, rooster crowing in the distance. As the light falls, the rain starts again and its crescendo becomes everything.