Rinse Cycle

1. Many factors contribute to monsoon conditions. The main drive is the summer sun, which heats up the Asian landmass at a rate faster than the surrounding ocean is warmed. 2. An intense low-pressure system develops; moisture-laden winds from the southwest rush the continent, bringing a deluge of rain. This cycle reverses in winter. 3. As the monsoon's warm, wet air hits the Himalayas, it is forced to rise and cool off. Cooler air can't hold moisture, so it dumps heavy rains. (Chris Philpot)

THE PLAN WAS TO HEAD into the Kerala countryside and, not unlike Linus waiting for the Great Pumpkin, find the most sincere place to await the rain. After a fair amount of research I chose Munnar, a mountain town in the Western Ghats coastal range. In addition to being impossibly beautiful, these are some of the wettest mountains in the world.

At a shop in Cochin, a providential encounter led me to Baiju, who insisted that his only real deficiency was his height. "Too short for the Indian army," he said in a tone suggesting that a life of target practice and drilling at dawn would have been just the one for him. "The army's minimum-height requirement for permanent commissions is 157.5 centimeters."

That's about five-two. Baiju missed the cut by three-quarters of an inch.

It took nearly a month, but I think I finally pulled an honest man out of India's endless stable of crooked drivers. Barrel-chested and bearded, Baiju is exemplary. His 2004 Ambassador is clean, and he keeps it in the kind of shape my engineer grandfather kept his Caprice Classic in. He senses the moments to be quiet and let the scenery do the talking. And, as an amateur photographer himself, he's savvy about light and angles and stopping points whenever I see a photo op, which is often.

The Western Ghats are India's highest peaks south of the Himalayas, massive rock towers rising to 8,000 feet, so the four-hour drive from Cochin to Munnar is spectacular. The lower slopes are covered with fluorescent-green tea plantations. As we gain elevation, fragrances of cinnamon, carda­mom, coriander, cumin, vanilla, pepper, ginger, garlic, and clove pour through our open windows—Kerala grows half your spice caddy—along with smoke from small cooking fires.

At a scenic viewpoint, we get out to immerse ourselves in a steady patter of rain and assess a promising mass of dark clouds on the horizon. Across the parking lot, four guys in their late thirties, leaning unsteadily on the hood of an SUV and passing around a shot glass, are rolling like a whiskey bottle down a set of stadium stairs.

"Hello! What is your country?" the friendliest of the crew yells. Then he lurches toward me with an insane grin and the apparent idea of planting a wet-bearded welcome on my lips. I turn my head just in time to get a sandpaper slurp that starts on my cheek and slides down my neck.

Baiju and I have stumbled onto an Indian version of the weekend roader. Buddies out to drink in the monsoon. Or just drink. Like a trip to the AutoZone Liberty Bowl, the main event is really just an excuse to get out of town.

"We are four from Cochin," one of the guys tells me, tilting his head to catch a spray of warm rain and thrusting a filthy glass into my hand. "This is our annual trip to the mountains. No wives and children. Now, toast the monsoon!"

Normally, I'm pretty sociable in these situations, but drunks on windy mountain roads shouldn't be encouraged, especially when they're chugging something called White Mischief, which turns out to be a popular Indian vodka. I consent only to a quick courtesy snort before we shove off.