There are too many things to see, to describe. My senses are overwhelmed by this montage of colours, shapes and textures. A palette of a million shades of green grace the leaves, the trees and the grass. A coconut tree rises into the sky; an awkward skinny teenager embarrassed by his height. The ground below it gasps from thirst; it’s deeper layers protesting and attempting to rise up, as if to say, “Here! Let ME search for water!” It is cracked, hard and dry; a thin layer of dust covers this patch of the desert. Sporadic clumps of fat grass, rumput gajah, have gripped on and survived. They are the colour of limes and their bellies look worn, as if their greenness has been stained by the bright midday sun and turned to patches of ochre as consequence. Their veins are clear against the background of yellow. Beyond this barren scene there is a sudden explosion of foliage, the way a tropical landscape should look, stretching away into the distance. It breathes a hot and heavy air, blurring the sky above it. I can feel the sun beating down jungle rhythms on my back and droplets my sweat seep from my skin and splatter on to the page as I try to recreate this paradise in my battered orange notebook. My pencil scratches at the paper; I want so much to capture everything but how do I even begin to describe this heat, the lethargy it brings, the faded scent of hibiscus and grass?
The sky is cloudless, still and white. People always think that tropical countries are set against a backdrop of azure blue skies and turquoise waters but they are wrong. The harsh sun has bled the sky dry of all colour, it has inhaled in all the shades of blue and left it a blinding white.
See, redemption lies in the beads of sweat dripping from this lazy, hazy, heated summer skin, but now the skies have resigned themselves to a vacant grey and turbulent rains signal the coming of anika. the sun plays hide and seek with me, a bollywood dance behind polluted clouds, i stick my middle fingers up high at them. Obstinate, self-important, heavy masses of grey, fuckers are wreaking havoc on my tan. Fuck them. They’re like the politicians of the tropical skies. Like how all ugly things are envious of beauty, they loathe to see days drenched with heat and lust, gallivanting in a shade of nude. Fuck these slash dash slash fanatics, they stole the rays from the sun and replaced them with turgid words.