The road is
macadamized with white granite, and after one of those tremendous
downpourings that occur every hour or so the wheel-worn depressions on
either side become narrow streams, divided by the white central ridge.
Down the long, straight slopes these twin rivulets course right merrily,
the whirling wheels of the bicycle flinging the water up higher than my
head. The ravines are roaring, muddy torrents, but they are all well
bridged, and although the road is lumpy, an unridable spot is very rarely
encountered. For days I have not had a really dry thread of clothing,
from the impossibility of drying anything by hanging it out. Under these
trying conditions, a relapse of the fever is matter for daily and hourly
apprehension.
The driving drizzle to-day is very uncomfortable, but less warm than
usual; it is anything but acceptable to the natives; thousands are seen
along the road, shivering behind their sheltering sun-shields, from which
they dismally essay to extract a ray of comfort. These sun-shields are
umbrella-like affairs made of thin strips of bamboo and broad leaves;
they are without handles, and for protection against the sun or rain are
balanced on the head like an inverted sieve. When carried in the hand
they may readily be mistaken for shields.
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