Motorcycle Explorer February 2015 Issue 4 | Page 251

f
rom the sun, and shelter from the rains. If the roofs were corrugated iron then the noise under
them would be deafening and there was no point in trying to talk – even shouting at the top of
our voices didn’t work. Miming was the only way to communicate. As the water literally shot off
the iron it would gush out right into the street with amazing force. When I put my hand into the
gushing stream one day, the force of it smacked my hand back down to my side.
If we were sheltering under the thick terracotta tiles of an older building then the experience
was quieter but even more surreal. The noise of the water hitting the ground took over as being
the loudest. This made us feel as if we were standing in a quiet pocket that was surrounded by a
noise that was a violent and very persistent collection of slashing and thundering. But, under a
terracotta overhang we could hear each other talk and sometimes could even hear the
conversations going on inside the building.
The longer the rain continued the cooler it got. It was almost as if the rains were sucking out and
washing away any of the warmth that had built up in the buildings during the morning. But the
cool that had eased in with the rain soon turned into a sticky, sweaty heat as the sun tried to
work its way back though the now much paler grey above.
The dirt of the road would always steam in front of us as the sun came through the remaining
clouds in laser-like beams. As we rode, these beams of light eased across the landscape like a
slow-moving, mirrored disco ball. As they hit the shiny leaves of the coffee bushes they would
turn the world from a dank and moody place into one that was alive with brilliant light and
dancing shadows.