Rain

The rain doesn't pour in American Samoa, it pummels. The roar is deafening, like an army of HVAC exhaust units, the percussion of billions of heavy raindrops hitting billions of thick, leathery leaves, not to mention rooftops, cars, roads, trash cans, piles of detritus, puddles turning into ponds, and of course, the ocean. Even indoors with the windows shut, you have to converse in decibels usually reserved for busy sports bars on game night. You can hear the deluge approaching well before feeling a single drop. Being fourteen degrees south of the Equator, there is no proper summer or winter here, only a rainy season from November to May, and a slightly less rainy season May-October. Clouds are a near-constant, amazingly unpredictable aspect to the scenery here, billowing up the steep cliffs as if birthed from salt spray, gathering in ominous bouquets then just as suddenly evaporating, marching along the horizon like celestial tankers, or reflecting a psychedelic palette with hues that mix and splatter as the sun sets into the ocean. A black cloud usually squats over each island's highest ridge, threatening though not always delivering. But when it does, it really really does. Luckily, the deluge rarely lasts long, sometimes a few minutes, sometimes a few days. Sometimes it's pouring on your house while your neighbor enjoys sunshine and rainbows. Sometimes it doesn't even rain all day. But the sheer force at which clouds can throw water on these islands is why annual rainfall for the territory can average two to three hundred inches per year.