One of the glorious things about tropical rain is that it stops, just like that, as if the gods have turned off a tap. Then the ground steams. The earth smells like plum pudding. Everything is washed down and wiggling with geckos.

I’d rather avoid the drizzle of grey places, but the tropics’ lashing rain is a spectacle of power and wonder. Never mind if the buses grind to a halt, pavements become rivers and a lake forms in your hotel lobby.

Get yourself a cold beer, sit in a doorway and admire the pitter-patter, the gurgle and roar. And afterwards the silence, as steam rises and humidity hugs you once more.

For a while the world is brighter, more scented and more luminous. When you realise you’re already looking forward to the next downpour, you’ve grasped the wonder of the monsoon.