Waiting for the Monsoon
Seeing him go, I'm struck by the memory of Kurt Vonnegut, who I heard speak once, convincing an audience that there aren't four seasons, but six. The two most of us ignore are the opening-up-time, after winter when the earth is preparing to awaken, and the closing-down-time when she gets ready for sleep. This island is preparing to hibernate, I think.
Monsor drags on his cigarette and tells me about his plans for next season. He started with four chalets and has built more every year with the money he's saved.
"We want to keep it with the feel of a family. That's why we all work together and don't advertise. People just come to the island and see what we have, the deck, grill, chalets, showers, and they can decide. We've finished building now and can just concentrate on making it nicer. If you come back you'll see a garden, new bathrooms, electricity. You'll like it."
Finished with his smoke, he gets up to light the grill, and I write my order of chicken and Jill's request for fish in our log-book.
The mosquitoes start to bite. The rascals are the only downside to the island. The bugs are fierce, and particularly bad at dawn and dusk. Monsor has equipped each hut with a mosquito net, but in the restaurant we're completely exposed.
So, I have to end these scribblings now, before I'm eaten alive. I'm going up to my room to put on long pants and shirt, find Jill, and come back down for Monsor's famous BBQ. The chicken and fish are, as I write, both being marinated in a coconut curry sauce. Soon, they'll be served with seasoned vegetables on a bed of white rice, just in time for the sunset.
It should be a good one tonight, the clouds are starting to dissipate.
Until the next time, safe travels.
Details mentioned in this article were accurate at the time of publication