Rain Dance

I don’t live in a climate that snows; but the rain can catch you off guard. Here's my story:

About 15 years ago, in the heat of summer, my two older brothers, a cousin, a close friend, who was later to become my husband, and a sister-in-law, went out on a one night’s camp to the Cauvery River, just over the hill from my Nan’s farm in Sivasamudram. It was my first camp out in the wilderness, and after a lot of deliberation to go here and go there, and climb this hill, and scale that fort, we all said that it would be a great idea to camp on Heddgora Island.

Now Heddgora Island would not be on the map if you looked for it, but it certainly is there, a huge land mass stretching perhaps half a mile across between two arms of the Cauvery River, before the waters merge together again at the drop of the Cauvery Falls.

At that time of the year, which I believe must have been around April or May, the river was low, filled with pools among its huge, weird formations of black rocks, and flowed rapidly only in the centre where the current was powerful and dangerous.

So, having ridden our bikes as far as Nan’s, and filling up our canteens with water, we all trekked over the shoulder of Elephant Hill behind Nan’s farm, down to the other side and to the river.  When we got over to the island, Larry my brother, and the eldest among all of us, looked around the surroundings with his experienced eye and proclaimed that we camp on a sandy patch between three huge rocks. We inspected the place, nodded at each other and agreed. We were close to plenty of wood, plenty of fresh, clean running water and could cross over at any time to replenish any supplies…and the only one that got replenished during the course of that night was the liquid one, if you know what I mean.

We had one small, blue tent which Mick, my friend at that time and my husband now, owned and which he proudly hitched together, elated at our sighs of admiration at the four-by-four blue interior that had a zip up door in front and a netted ventilator on the top. This could be covered if needed with an umbrella like top and fastened down to the main structure by hooks. While the tent was being put up, I went about cleaning the campsite area with a make shift broom, made from the dried branches of a prickly tree. This swept the dried leaves away quite effectively, leaving only the white river sand below and millions of tiny oyster shells. Meanwhile Frank, my second brother had wandered off to find fire wood, and Larry was building the oven. He sought out three rocks, almost identical in size and shaped like cubes, and placed them together in the formation of a triangle, beside one of the boulders where the breeze was less.

By nightfall we had all bathed in the river, and with a fire crackling in the oven and a second one roaring at another spot on the far side of the camp-site, we were all ready for a nice, happy night under the stars.

Mick and Peter, my cousin, carrying flashlights had crossed the river to get to town for more booze, and I was nodding to sleep by the crackling fire.

Now I had odd working hours at that time. I had worked until perhaps 4:00 AM that morning and had to depart immediately after for the camp, and the 120 Km ride, the heat of the day and the trek over Elephant Hill had taken their toll. The bath in the river had helped, but the heat reverberated from the rocks and hung thickly over me like the night. Now, if you think that nights in the wild are like nights in the city, think again. One of the things that never fail to astonish me is the sudden fall of night in the forest. One minute you’re ‘hooing’ and ‘hawing’ at a breath-taking sunset and the next you’re wondering if you’ve slipped into a world of blackness. The only thing that adds some feeling of reassurance is the sky, with its millions and millions and millions of stars, and of course, the fire. And because you need to trek to places like this, pitch your tent and set up camp, the pure air of the rivers and the hills makes you ravenous quickly.

So, by half past eight that night, we had gormandized our dinner of noodles and bread which was all that we could bring along for this one night out, plus a few eggs for breakfast the next morning, and gathered around the fire to chat aimlessly and to enjoy the night. When Mick and Peter elected to make the journey across the river and back, I crawled into the tent with a huge yawn and lay down to sleep.

Mick and Peter presently returned after about an hour and a half with their quarts, ruing over the only brand that they could get, and being assured by the rest of them that it would do. Now Mick is a jovial bloke when he is sober…when he’s a little tipsy, which he presently became, sipping away at the low rum with the boys around the fire, he gets happily loquacious. He had carried along a cassette recorder and a player, which I really think was unnecessary, because I always believed (and still do) that crocs are attracted to music. So, while I tried to get a little shut eye in the tent, which I came to quickly realise was actually a furnace, and Mick drank and smoked, Larry, Frank and Peter sipped away at their own drinks. Lisa my sister-in-law bedded down on a blanket by the fire to sleep while Led Zeppelin played scratchily above the soothing sound of the river. I tossed about, the music still played and Mick talked and laughed loudly, and told the boys his many stories.

Well, it was a little annoying to say the least! I know he wanted to have his fun…the other boys were having fun too in a nice and quiet manner, and I the spoil sport wanted to sleep.

“Mick,” I whined. “Would you please turn that music down?”

“Sure Doc,” he said. He always called me Doc.

“Or better still,” I added ungratefully. “Turn the bloody thing off.”

He laughed good-naturedly and turned the music off.

“Now some rest for the crocs,” I told myself.

The boys’ soft conversations continued. Mick added his own stories now and then but otherwise was unusually quiet. I was beginning to wonder if I had hurt his sentiments. I let it be. Mick and I were fast friends – we went back many years. I closed my eyes and began to doze off and the soft conversation outside the tent continued. Then suddenly an explosion from the cassette player jarred me awake. Mick had turned it on and was laughing at the gasps of bewilderment from the other boys. He had surreptitiously recorded their conversations and was now playing it back for them. They found it funny, because they were a little high too, and there were low laughs and chuckles. Then after the recorded conversation ended, Mick proved once again that he was a fan of Led Zeppelin and proclaimed that this was life!

Now Lisa had been silent, so I assumed that she had fallen asleep, despite the music, the loud talk and the laughter. The night wore on and it was perhaps sometime around eleven. The boys were now speaking in hushed tones, Led Zeppelin was hardly audible and the fire crackled deliciously. Then I heard a movement and Lisa asked Larry to accompany her into the darkness because she needed to answer the call of nature. I saw the outline of a flashlight’s beam and heard their footsteps fade away. I sighed. I really wanted a little sleep.

It never came.

When Larry and Lisa took longer than usual to return, Mick began to get worried and asked a question.

“He’s okay,” replied Peter. He knows this jungle like the back of his hand.”

I poked my head out of the tent. Mick was standing at the edge of the camp, trying to discern something in the night; Peter was munching something and Frank was nodding with his paper mug in his hand.

A storm came on in degrees in the half hour we waited for Larry and Lisa to return. The breeze began to blow harder and the stars were covered by a blanket of gray cloud that strangely looked white in the night sky. We all looked up and then at each other and then loudly convinced ourselves that if the wind blew, then it was likely that rain, if any would sprinkle around and get shooed away. The wind blew harder and it felt moist and chill, and all of a sudden, a deluge was on us, ice cold daggers plunging from the heavens, heavy and decisive.

We scrambled around, found the food and clothing and whatever would spoil when wet, and stuffed everything into the tent. The fire made fizzing sounds, struggled against the onslaught of the storm, and pretty soon was doused and dead. Meanwhile we had dived into the tent, quite wet, taking the moist sand under our feet with us, cuddling against our rucksacks, shivering and silent.

The rain belted down, and my back, flush against the tent was soaked. I asked Mick if the tent was water proof.

“No, it’s not,” he replied. “I think the tent’s more suitable for light drizzles and snow.”

“My back’s soaked,” I added and he made place for me beside him. We all turned silent…and worried. Larry and Lisa had not returned yet, and on the Cauvery anything could happen.

The rum or whatever the boys had drunk had worn off. The storm had taken away all the mirth and the cheer, Mick was more worried than before, and after finding that his cigarettes had been soaked by the deluge, he couldn’t help but open the tent every now and then to check for my brother and his wife’s return to the camp. Finally, he decided that he would go out and look for them and opened the flap again, only to snatch himself in as his head got the fury of the rain.

“Where’s Larry,” he asked again, worried.

As if in answer, Lisa came running back and crawled into the tent with us and I shot her an enquiring glance when Larry didn’t follow behind.

“Is not Larry with you?” I asked.

“It rained so suddenly,” she replied nervously, “that we both ran for cover. I ran back towards the camp. I think he’s taking shelter under the rocks by the river. I hope there are no crocs around there.”

“He’ll be fine,” Peter said. “Larry has camped on this river before. He’s probably waiting for the rain to stop.”

Mick obviously was quite agitated. We were not exactly camped in a safe spot. If the river rose we’d be over the falls in five minutes or less, smashed to pulp against the black rocks of the drop. I felt nervous too. Where was my brother?

“I’m going after him,” Mick said decisively.

No sooner had Mick stepped out, the rain stopped and two minutes later he was crawling back in again with Larry, both having a good laugh.

“I took shelter under a rock,” he simply said. “Good! All the bags are brought in. How wet are we?”

“Soaked,” Peter said. “Some of our clothes are dry.”

I crawled out with Frank and Mick.

“Let’s hang out the wet stuff,” I suggested and looked up at the sky. It was a starry expanse now, with not one sign of the storm that had raged earlier. So all the bags were dragged out and the wet things were thrown over a line that Frank put up. Larry, Lisa and Peter stayed on in the tent and pretty soon the three of them were out like lights! 

Once the clothes were hung out, we turned our attention to starting a fire. At the side of our camp stood an old stunted incense tree that had been struck by lightning; its centre had a black crater where the bolt had rived through it. Into this hollow we doused a good amount of Zippo lighter fuel, and struck a match. The interior of the tree caught with a ‘bloop’ sound, burnt with a dull blue flame that softly waved over the surface like a wisp of a curtain, and then struggling against the soot of the cavity, faded out. We grabbed the Zippo tin again and sprayed another liberal layer of the fuel into the hole. Frank wondered if there was any paper around, and I remembered that I had carried a diary with me. I ran to the tent, pulled open the zip and stared at the three figures lying contentedly asleep inside. Peter was stretched out in one corner, and in the other, Larry and his wife, snug and warm together.

“Lucky buggers,” I thought and gently groped around in my rucksack for the diary. Then, finding it, I zipped up the tent and ran back to Mick and Frank, and the charred tree stump. Some sheets were quickly torn from the diary, doused with the fuel, flung into the cavity and a lit match was pitched in.

I cannot tell you how nice it feels when you are wet and cold, and when the healthy ‘bloop’ of a fire explodes into a glare of light. The paper burnt quickly; we added some more paper and that burnt up too. Then I attacked the tent again; I found my tube of petroleum jelly, and two leg sleeves from a pair of jeans that Peter had sliced off to make a pair of shorts (the leg sleeves had become kitchen rags.) The fire continued to burn, so long as it was fed, and finally after Peter’s sleeves and the tube of petroleum jelly that became stringy and smelly when we poked it with a stick had been consumed, the fire once again fell into a coma and then died.

“The wood is dry inside,” I protested. “Why isn’t it burning?”

“There isn’t enough Oxygen,” Mick said and I scoffed at him.

“There’s more than enough place for air to play around there.” I said. “Let’s try the Zippo again.”

So once again the cavity was sprayed and once again the ‘bloop’ reminded us that a fire was underway in the tree. And once again, like a soft, blue dress, it danced out of sight, into nothing.

All I heard was Frank say, “blast!” Then he picked up the only torch we had and moved to the rock, lying flat against it. Mick lay down on the sand, which, if you’re ever by a river you will notice that it does not retain water for long. I stretched out beside Frank and was almost grateful that the rock felt warm against my back.

And with the stars in my eyes and a lingering fear at the back of my mind, because we were in the middle of the jungle with no fire, I passed the night, never for once dropping off to sleep.

I was never gladder when the black night turned to grey; the stars lost their shine and the sun climbed uncertainly over the hill. Then I closed my eyes and decided to rest.

About an hour later Larry crawled out of the tent and looked around. He stretched and looked at us, sprawled out on the rock and the sand. He looked at the dead fire and the blankets and clothes hanging out on the line.

“Let’s make some coffee,” he said and I sat up. Frank sat up too and we looked at each other, grinning wryly.

“All the wood’s wet,” I said. “We’ve been trying to light a fire all night.”

“Let’s pack up and go back to Nan’s,” Frank suggested. “We can have coffee and breakfast there.”

“Nonsense,” said Larry and hunkered beside the oven. Mick rose from his slumber, watched Larry settle the stones into position, clean out the damp cinders and ash, and poke around for some tinder.

“It won’t burn Larry,” he stated with a sigh. “We’ve been trying all night with Zippo fuel.” And we showed him all that we had tried to do, and he patiently listened, and looked, and smiled and then laughed.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” he asked.

We looked at each other and didn’t say anything. I could only remember how peacefully they slept – and that kind of sleep is precious. Larry meanwhile, with the moist tinder, had taken over the rustic oven, and asked me to get him as many twigs as I could.

I did and they were all soaking wet.

And we stood back and watched, snickering at each other.

In 15 minutes, Larry had started the fire, with no Zippo fuel, diary pages, denim leg sleeves or petroleum jelly. He had only used the wet tinder he had found and the twigs he had asked me to collect. Bigger pieces of wood followed, sizzling in the heat and catching with a healthy crackle and pretty soon, coffee was on the boil.

We only broke camp after we had eaten a filling breakfast of Lisa’s omelets and bread, toasted on a hot grill, all washed down by a second pot of coffee.