I am often shy about taking pictures of people especially when face to face with them. I miss a lot that way. One of the constants in Southeast Asia is the presence of the sudden rain shower. It can be sunny one moment and pouring rain the next. And so it was that I ended my visit to Besakih when the sky clouded over. As I descended the mountain a light rain began to fall. I pulled into a small village looking for shelter, hoping to wait out the storm. I rushed over to a building and stood under the eaves. An older woman came to an open window and motioned for me to come in. Inside was a dirt floor, a table and several chairs and not much else. There were just three of us, the woman, a girl and myself. No one said much since my Bahasa was almost non-existent and they spoke very little English. There were a lot of smiles and nodding heads. The girl was sitting on the floor and had been sorting through what appeared to be yarn. She took out a thin board with five small holes in it. She threaded a different colored string of yarn through each hole, knotting them at the ends. She then produced a second identical board and ran the ends of the yarn through the holes in that board. Finally, she picked up a smaller piece of wood, ran a string through a hole in one end of the board. She held the first board in her left hand, wedged the second board behind her toes and proceeded to run the smaller board through the five strings much like the shuttles used in weaving. In a few minutes she had a three-foot ‘belt’. Shortly afterwards the rain stopped. I purchased the belt from the girl and started back down the mountain. I did not get any pictures of her. As I turned onto the main highway I was hit by a wall of water. Monsoon rains can make you feel as if you are under water. Since I was already thoroughly soaked and had miles to go I surrendered to the elements and begin to sing an old Mexican song titled La Bamba. Para bailar la bamba Para bailar la bamba Se necesita una poca de gracia Una poca de gracia para mi para ti Y arriba y arriba Ay arriba y arriba Por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere Several times I road past shelters made of wooden beams with thached roofs. I noticed the astonished looks of the people standing under them. Here was this madman riding into the teeth of a monsoon storm and singing at the top of his lungs. They must have thought I had just come down from the moon. Yo no soy marinero Yo no soy marinero, soy capitan Soy capitan, soy capitan Bamba, bamba Bamba, bamba Bamba, bamba Bamba, bam Ah, good times! By 1987 I was a reasonably experienced traveler. Before I left home I would sew pockets on the inside of my pants and carry my plane ticket, passport and travelers checks inside the pocket, wrapped in a plastic sandwich bag. When I finally got back to my hotel (of course it had stopped raining by then) I changed into dry cloths and removed the contents of my water logged pants. Everything inside the placstic bag was wet. Such is the power of the monsoon.