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The rains are coming, or so they say. You can tell by the dark clouds ominously encompassing the city; pregnant and expecting, yet not delivering.

It’s the time of the year that most locals I’ve met love the most; The Build-up. The time of the year when you know you are in the tropics. It feels like the air, the trees, and the city are about to come to fruition. The Top End is heavy with palpable goodness and possibility.

Mango trees dangle over fences, laden with fruit. Sweet-smelling frangipani trees line the streets, covered in white and yellow blooms. Flaming red Poinciana trees and wine-coloured bougainvillea embrace suburban sidewalks. Green frogs move in to most people’s houses; their nightly echoes heralding the approach of the distant downpour.

Most tourists leave town to escape the sultry climes. The locals breathe a sigh of relief. The streets become quiet again. Most waterholes close for the wet. Locals spend their time lolling in the pool, sitting in louvred houses under fans and walking by a spectacular sunset. Laksas still seem to be consumed with gusto.

People start mentioning the ‘c’ word. Cyclone. Workplaces brief staff on emergency action plans, shelters and surge zones. The council holds a collection day, to cart away anything that can’t be tied down. People stock up on torches, first aid kits, and battery-powered radios.

And so we wait. For the rains to come, for cyclone season, for Christmas; while soaking up the anticipation and perspiration of the Build-up and watching the wet season loom.