Boiling Hot

We are dripping wet all the time. I have never been a sweaty person and actually bragged about that fact. Oh, of course I could get a tad moist under my arms or around my waistline when indulging in vigorous exercise, but really it was quite lady-like dampness and of no consequence.

Sweaty armpits, limp hair- nice!

Here, in the heat of the Jaffna sun and under the weight of oppressive humidity, every single body pore leaks. Pools of water form in my sandals and then puddle the floor as the moisture streams down my legs. Water leaks from my back and around my waistline, leaving my shirt and waistband soaking wet. I always eschewed patterned clothing, but now, patterned tops are sought in the shops to disguise the dark stains.

Note sweat and dark stains on solid clothing?

My face is dewy and for the first time in my life I am wishing I had more of a mustache to soak up the dew on my upper lip. My neck is slick, shimmering like a sunbather coated in Coppertone Suntan oil, my hair constantly damp (and limp). People in Sri Lanka carry a handkerchief mopping themselves as they go about their daily work. Both Bill and now carry a dew rag. I shower three times a day. Bill doesn't but should. Thirst is our constant companion.

Three house fans spin day and night with little cooling effect. I cycle home and change into the closest thing to naked: a baggy patterned moo moo. I don this the minute I am home (following one of those earlier mentioned showers). We lay prostrate at night under the mosquito net, begging for breeze. We languish in the house like old dogs. We have moved from the Arctic to the Sahara Desert.