The only thing people talk about these days in Gone West is the heat, and I am that well-loved person who cheerfully says, as we walk out into the rush of hot air, "It's still not as hot as Southern Sudan." It isn't as hot as Southern Sudan. I mean, technically, by the thermometer, it might be, but it doesn't feel as hot. This is a function of trees tall enough to provide actual shade + lack of humidity + air-conditioning in many buildings that you can duck into cool off + roofs that are made of something other than tin + windows that open + availability of cool beverages.
About three weeks after I arrived in Southern Sudan, I sat, sweating, one evening, and tried to remember what it felt like to drink something cool. I could not. I had forgotten what cool water felt like in my throat, or ice cream, or basically anything at a temperature other than room temperature (at 100+ degrees F). When I had soft serve strawberry ice cream a few weeks later in Juba (I don't even like strawberry ice cream), I willed myself to remember the sensation of eating something cold, so I could take it back with me.
You get used to lack of cool things, though. After a few more weeks, I found the barely-cooled mango Vita at the little store in downtown Tiny Little Town as satisfying as any ice water I've ever had, when combined with a rickety wooden bench and a sunset.
When I step out into the sun now, here, in these brilliantly hot, dry days, I lift my face to the sky while those around me run for shade. I tried to sit in the sun on a metal bench in the park, but it was too hot. It burned me even though my clothes.
I've been to the K.'s pool twice this week. Last night it was still 98 degrees (37-ish, for you Celsius people) at 7 p.m., and I laid back on an octopus floaty, my head resting against its maniacal face, its wide mouth grinning like something off the midway at a carnival, and floated around in circles.
I would take years of this weather over one single winter.
About three weeks after I arrived in Southern Sudan, I sat, sweating, one evening, and tried to remember what it felt like to drink something cool. I could not. I had forgotten what cool water felt like in my throat, or ice cream, or basically anything at a temperature other than room temperature (at 100+ degrees F). When I had soft serve strawberry ice cream a few weeks later in Juba (I don't even like strawberry ice cream), I willed myself to remember the sensation of eating something cold, so I could take it back with me.
You get used to lack of cool things, though. After a few more weeks, I found the barely-cooled mango Vita at the little store in downtown Tiny Little Town as satisfying as any ice water I've ever had, when combined with a rickety wooden bench and a sunset.
When I step out into the sun now, here, in these brilliantly hot, dry days, I lift my face to the sky while those around me run for shade. I tried to sit in the sun on a metal bench in the park, but it was too hot. It burned me even though my clothes.
I've been to the K.'s pool twice this week. Last night it was still 98 degrees (37-ish, for you Celsius people) at 7 p.m., and I laid back on an octopus floaty, my head resting against its maniacal face, its wide mouth grinning like something off the midway at a carnival, and floated around in circles.
I would take years of this weather over one single winter.
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