As I begin my trip home from work, I notice the air has a different smell to it. The weather has called for rain, though, as of yet, none has come. The sky is dark, and rain clouds loom, but they bring no precipitation, only its smell. It is the rich earthy smell, which one imagines rain always had, not more than a few centuries ago. The rain here cherishes its heritage, much like the people below it. It is not like the high-tech modern rain of New York, or LA, scent-less and without emotion. A rainy day here invokes thoughts and feelings.
As the transport propels forward, other smells waft in. We pass a herd of cows on the road. The scent of their fur and manure is strong, and enveloping. It is not a pleasant smell, but at the same time it is not offensive. It is natural, and for that, it has an inherent goodness about it that one cannot understand. A bus rolls by, and spews black smoke as it changes gears. This stings the nostrils upon entry, and shortens one’s breath. It makes me dig my head into my shirt, where another smell lurks. I smell the refreshing yet out of place scent of my deodorant. It relieves me of suffocation, but makes me self-conscious; for I know it highlights that I’m an outsider here. While on the subject, I can smell the driver as well. I do not imagine he has showered for at least a week, and the thought of deodorant is laughable. The smell makes one angry, because for some reason we take B.O. as a personal offence, all while he has done nothing to truly offend me.
We roll on through a small village. The smell of food being prepared fills the air. The spices, and curry are so strong I can nearly taste them, and the flavor of smoked chicken teases my tongue. As we turn the corner a cloud of dirt and sand hits us head on. It is suffocating, not unlike the bus, but it does not sting the same. It stings the eyes, yet penetrates deeper into the nostrils. It can be felt in the chest, as if mini dunes were building in the lungs. We pass a pile of burning leaves, that’s how leaves are disposed of here. Their smell is pungent, and just seems wrong, much like the action it’s self. The smell of the leaves is similar to that of burning plastic, which to me speaks to how unnatural and wrong it truly must be.
As we turn through an intersection an old Royal Enfield motorcycle passes us. It is loud and it emits a nearly pure white exhaust. It smells powerful and raw, the way an automobile is supposed to smell. I do not like the smell of automobiles nowadays, or lack their of I should say, with catalytic converters, big mufflers and such. It takes away from what a car really is; it makes one lose a connection with the automobile itself. Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but I think there is a certain value in the minor suffocation one experiences when trailing the cloud of white smoke a 67 mustang emits as it speeds off.
A car screeches to a halt as it is cut off. The smell of the burning rubber seems to be immediately present, as if brought on by the sound alone. I must say I like this smell. It brings with it a certain excitement, as if one is somehow a part of the sudden stop, or start for that matter.
As we head towards my apartment we pass a flower stand. One can barely get a hint of their scent. It seems their scent is almost too weak to break through from the world around them, and yet they manage, if only just.
As we approach my apartment and I bend to pick up my bag from the floor I can smell the dust from the seats in the truck. It is fitting, and for that reason, doesn’t seem as objectionable. As I get out I can smell the rain again, but only for a moment. Work is being done around my building and I can smell the sawdust, refreshing like the rain, for it is natural, but suffocating like the sand.
As I walk to my gate I see my friend the stray, scavenging for food, not to far from his spot on the sidewalk. I wonder what he thinks of smells, and if he too enjoys the smell of the rain. He wouldn’t know what high-tech western rain smells like I suppose. Perhaps this takes away from his appreciation of the natural smell of his rain. I wonder if rain is like an accent, normal for the local, but strange to any foreigner.
When I leave here I think it is the smells whose absence I will notice most often. I certainly won’t miss some, but I will miss the rain. I will most surely miss the rain.
Today’s lesson, take a breather.
You’re welcome,
x
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