The taxi collected me from the hotel as the blistering sun began to sink below the horizon, bathing Cable Beach in a swathe of orange. The humidity clung to me like glue, visceral and omniscient at this time of year. My clothes were plastered to my perspiring skin, moisture condensing on every glassy surface.
The wet season thickened the air, increased the friction so that even walking required more effort than normal. In this weather, even the beer doesn’t get properly cold.
But, six hours later, I couldn’t feel a thing. Copious beers and cocktails at the iconic Roebuck Bay Hotel followed by tequila at the Bungalow Bar had rendered me impervious to nature’s sadistic taunts that are manifested as humidity and mosquitos.
I staggered out of the club and fell into the first taxi.
“To the bluesh…I mean the Ocean..umm..shumthing…,” my drunken slurs were barely discernable to me, I had no idea how the cabbie knew where I wanted to go.
“How ‘bout I drop you off where I picked you up from?” He asked.
It was the cabbie from earlier in the evening. That saved me a lot of grief.
Broome sure is a small town indeed.