the bus ride

If there is one thing worse (& of course, there are many, and far…) than riding a top-heavy jam-packed Sri Lanka bus from the sky-scratching heights of Ella down and this way and that way, and down and etc, it is doing so, etc etc, in the rain. Now I can probably count the number of times in my life where I have prayed for it NOT to rain, myself being a Rain Lover and such, and I would still have fingers left over. But today, as we rolled and swerved and careened down and down, etc, I did so, starting right after we after passing the scene of a grisly accident where some unfortunate soul lost control and flew through the (useless) guardrail and off a 700 meter or so cliff to a gleaming green grassy and near certain death., r.i.p…. With a wink and a nod and a middle finger stretched upward, god answered my prayers, and it started to rain. No, not rain, pour. As in buckets. Sheets. Cats and dogs. Choose your adverbial analogy. It RAINED. I braced a little harder, and recited my Airplane Takeoff-&-turbulence Prayer (“today is a good day to die.i have lived a good and full life, loved as best i know how, leave no standing hurts or grievances behind that i know of (& if i am blind to any, may the hurt or aggrieved parties please forgive me), i am ok, IT is ok, i’m ready, let’s do this”), and we rolled on…
I am seated near the back of the bus, in an aisle seat, right across from the back door, which is open. This has some distinct benefits, and some potential drawbacks. During the downpour, there is a lovely blast of cool, sometimes spray-filled, air, and the visuals of the side-blown sheets of mist and rain over paddy fields and yards and jungle as we speed by, are spectacular. Also in the event of our flying off one of these scenic death bends, my proximity to the door could afford me rapid egress to safety. The flipside, of course, is that in the event of said potential accident, said ease of exit could also, and less desirably, result in my being hurled out to death and dismemberment (preferably in that order)… No way of knowing, really, just noting the possibilities as we go.
Also there is a large speaker across the 1ft aisle in the luggage rack and aimed directly at my left ear. This falls onto the “cons” side of the issue of seating arrangement, in case there is any confusion. Have I ever spoken to the issue of contemporary Sri Lankan music? Well, yes, it’s an “interesting” phenomenon… the old stuff, I love, in judicious portions, but the modern stuff gives ( not unlike its global counterparts) the unfortunate impression that there is more money than talent in the pool - the downside of improved access to technology and the internet. Featuring a mix of mariachi-esque instrumentation (the accordions of old replaced by god-awful synthesizers), canned and clumsily thumping bass-boosted rhythm tracks your average speaker can’t handle, and swelling in sugar-soaked, waves of sentimentality, the songs are all pretty similar, pretty boring and/or cloying, and, at the volumes they are almost ALWAYS played at, skull-splittingiy oppressive. Perhaps I am officially a cranky old lady now, or perhaps it is my keen ear and inability to enjoy (ok, tolerate) off-pitch singing, but it also strikes me that there is a near-ubiquitous (genetic?) tone-deafness in Sri Lankans , sending the needle nagging the reddest of the red limit on the Painful-to-Listen-to meter. I will say, though, that there is another, and redeeming, seeming genetic peculiarity to the male (in particular) Sri Lankan voice, and that is a quality of sounding like smoked honey poured over a dusty gravel road - it makes me swoon (and even though Dinesh can barely stay in tune to save his life, I am ever-thankful that he loves to sing to me while we are driving).
Until I change seats I ride this bus permanently right-sidebent, with all my weight on my left sitbone, in an effort to brace and balance and avoid inappropriate contact with my nearest neighbor, a surly and diffident young Sri Lankan man who has that ever-irritating Male Entitlement Leg Spread thing going on, for which I have little tolerance even at the best of times. This not being the best of times, with the music-drill in my cranium, the heat, and neck pain further amplifying my alarming capacity for irritability, I just start to push back - his foot, his shoulder, his thigh, the fuck out of my way, asserting my right to my childish cranky brain’s estimation of Exactly How Much Space  my approximately $1.25 -for-2&1/2 hrs bus fare should afford me… he gives, but in begrudging, 2 inch increments.
In the meantime, it is a sea of male pelvises making forays into my personal space (at face level, thank you very much) from the 1 ft wide aisle to my left, for it is here that the bus driver sometimes stands to prepare to collect fares, and it is here that people sometimes wait before pouncing on a newly vacated seat (and, strangely, it is “here” even when I move one seat forward). Thankfully, this situation does not last the entire trip. The rain ceases after about 30 minutes, and the rest of the ride passes unnotably. Soon, I will be back in Thissa.