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| On opening my door © A. Harrison |
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Anyone who's been to the tropics during the rainy season knows the feeling. The tension grows – and grows – until the sky can simply bear no more. The heavens rip apart, and in a flash the rain falls through the tears in the sky. This is not the gentle rain of a summer afternoon but a tropical downpour. As the first drops smash to the ground people squeal with delight and run for cover. In a matter of minutes the streets are deserted, and before long the street gutters are gurgling with water.
I'd arrived in Luang Prabang barely an hour earlier. Although the heavens stretched deep and blue above me, the heat and humidity were so high even the sky was sweating. Somewhere on the drive between the airport and my hotel (which included a few detours for sleepy oxen on the road) white clouds started foaming over the horizon.
I stood on my balcony, looking over the street. It overflowed with people walking, laughing, riding bikes, sitting at outdoor restaurants. Lanterns had been strung between the trees. Below, a set of steep stairs led to a river, which raced beside the road. Just out of sight it joined with the mighty Mekong.
I stood for a few moments, wondering if I had the energy to explore. Before I could decide, the first raindrops fell, solving the problem for me. Soon I could barely see across the street.
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| A disappearing view © A. Harrison |
The rain brings with it a sense of relief. For a short time the temperature drops and the humidity becomes bearable – until the rain stops and the world starts to steam.
I’ve been caught in tropical downpours in a few places. In Singapore, as I sat at a hawker mall with a dish of Hainanese Chicken Rice, (seriously, do not leave Singapore without trying this) the deluge came, trapping everyone inside inside. A few braved the line for the taxis, drenched before they reached the safety of the cab.
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| One of many offerings in a Hawker Mall © A. Harrison |
In Saigon the storm came as I headed out for dinner. The taxi pulled up outside the restaurant, and I opened the door onto a totally flooded gutter. I couldn’t even jump over it. There were no awnings to offer cover in the desperate dash to the restaurant door. In Hoi An the start of a typhoon whipped the sea into a frenzy, nearly flooding our hotel and scattering rocks and boulders over the lawn.
Back in Luan Prabang the rain soon passed. The rainy season had only just begun and the Mekong was still low, yet to be fed by heavy rains and flooded rivers. Monks could still safely cross the river in their longboats, and once more the streets were filled with people. Soon the lights came on in the trees across the road, beckoning me to come have dinner.
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| Monks heading home © A. Harrison |
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