(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)
You can hear the rain and smell it before it comes.
The day has been oppressively hot; the humidity seems to thicken the air as I move. A soft breeze would drift by, bringing with it the delicious sent of wet earth, and moist foliage.
If you listen hard enough you can hear the sound of rain hitting the trees on the hills to the north of us, growing steadily louder.
With a flash the rain is suddenly upon us; huge drops. We scramble to shut all the louver windows, and then stand and look out at the collage through a veil of rain. The air cools. The rain hitting the iron roof is so loud in our house that you can't have a conversation. The smell of wet earth is so strong now you can almost taste it.
It can rain for days, or it can be gone in a few minutes. Then we are left with huge muddy puddles to play in before it drains through the coral filled soil.