Blue Skies

To say that the sky in Burkina is huge or that the weather here is intense would be to belittle the power of those adjectives and demean their subjects. The sky is the Earth’s all-encompassing blanket, a complete entity in and of itself. It is on this stage that the clouds float and the stars sparkle, all beneath the watchful gaze of the sun and moon.

Clear, cloudless days are initially unappealing. The sun rises, traverses the sky, and sets. But despite this plain plot, I find myself completely enraptured by the day’s majesty. If you look straight up, you get the feeling you are trapped on an island the size of your sandals in the middle of the ocean. Water continues in every direction as far as the eye can see. Looking to the horizon you can almost feel the sky reaching down to hold the Earth in its delicately balanced position in the solar system.

Cloudy days are another story all together. The clouds here are not the low-lying fog of San Francisco or the instantaneous presence of their mountain counterparts. Clouds are tiered, multi-layered puffs of whipped egg whites, floating pleasantly overhead. As the sun sets and rises, its light bounces off the clouds to create purples, pinks, reds, and oranges that transcend the ability to be named. Wind rearranges the clouds throughout the day, and they morph into shapes and figures recognizable only to a child’s imagination. With a little luck one will temporarily pass between you and the sun, providing a momentary respite from its often brutal gaze.

When I first arrived in Burkina, the hot season was just coming to a close. The hot season: let me define. I checked my roommate’s thermometer one night as we were finishing dinner. An hour and a half after sunset it read 98 degrees F. Sleeping outdoors is virtually required as no fan in the world could cool the air in the mud-brick houses sufficiently for a decent night’s sleep. Daytime highs are well into the 100’s, a milestone requiring an asterisk since few people outside of the three or four largest cities have electricity. Air conditioning is almost nonexistent, and cold drinks are hot commodities sparsely scattered about even in the big cities.

By the middle of June the rains had come, and with them a significant (15-20 degree) decrease in temperature. We now go through cycles of 3-5 days, with temperature and humidity rising to a sudden drop mediated by a colossal storm. My guidebook described these storms as “apocalyptic-like”, and based on my experiences, that is an apt description. Thunder begins as a distant rumbling and gradually crescendos, frequently falling back on itself, to a monstrous climax after as much as 20 to 30 seconds. Rain doesn’t fall; the sky opens and throws sheets of water downward with seemingly enough force to knock a person off his feet. If you’re lucky enough to be indoors during the storm, your tin roof amplifies the fall of the rain to the decibel level of a small fleet of jet planes. All work ceases during a storm; no one is on the streets. Morning storms are the worst because the completely disrupt the daily schedule. You can’t shower during a storm in an outdoor shower and hope to ever dry off. If the storm lasts longer than a couple of hours, good luck in the outdoor latrine; toilet paper quickly becomes a mush of useless goop.

I’m told that it gets “cold” here in the winter. As a Minnesotan I question the use of the word “cold” inside 15 degrees latitude. I shudder to think that anything could be more amusing than watching Southern Californians bundle up in parkas, mittens, and scarves in the “frigid” Northern California winters, but I will keep you posted.

Pleasant sailing to all.