The Harmattan

At the end of every year the long rains take a break from tropical west Africa as the wind changes direction and starts coming from the north. Giant clouds blow over the vast Saharan wilderness picking up several million castles of sand, getting darker and thicker as they roll towards the Atlantic. This natural smog enshrouds the countries of the African ‘bulge’ from mid-November to late February. If you could see it from a satellite, it’d probably look like someone has taken a giant eraser and rubbed out this whole region.

As I’ve mentioned before, a programme of conditioning by the loudspeakerman has resulted in the novel habit of pre-dawn wake-ups. I generally sit out with the Scruff watching the village emerge from the milky gloom. Many of the farmers make their way to farm before light and their voices can be heard having long and detailed discussions over 500 metres. This somehow reminds me of Venetian fishermen calling out to each other in the morning fog. The hawkers then emerge, for instance Mr Pano the bread seller, sometime after 7am with their goods balanced on their heads. The uniformed kids then come strolling by, oftentimes clutching a machete. The students have to tidy the school before classes, which includes cutting back the quick growing foliage. They also have to collect water for the teachers after school and, at the start of the year, spend a week making charcoal that is then sold to fund the purchase of new textbooks. Imagine that in your local compy.

As I say, the morning hills are obscured in the harmattan haze. The air is thick and retains moisture much more than usual. We’ve been told that in the past the dust was thicker and meant that the nights were ‘bitterly cold’. All is relative (or is that subjective?) though, and I can kinda see why John Barnes needed those tights when one of our teachers is wearing gloves going out for a run while I’m sat on my pale behind in shorts and t-shirt loving life.