We’re under a rolling blanket of black and blue storm clouds, the humidity already at saturation point, then it intensifies still further. You can almost feel the static in the air. Strong, gusting wind blows up, opposing the easterly prevailing wind. Next comes a prelude of lightning, which is as good a signal as any, to stop and extricate the waterproofs, get the boots and socks off and into sandals. The first drops are big dollops of warm water, that spatter on the road, releasing pent up smells of baked earth, dry grass and old tea chests. It’s not long before the torrent hits and rivers are running down the side of the road. The motos are still on the road, moving more cautiously as visibility diminishes and rain cascades down their faces. For the Formosan is as rainwear averse as any Scottish fashionista. That or they’re into wet teeshirts and shrunk denim, certainly the poncho-less gaucho who rids past didn’t seem concerned. He knows, just as the motoistas do, that the sun will come out in a few hours and dry everything up again.