Jun 21, 2010
It is evening and from my perch on Kololo hill, I watch the fading of the day. Sunset is a diffuse affair in washed-out browns― the sky painted in earthtones by swirling whorls of dust. There are no riotous displays of dazzling pinks, fiery oranges and golds punctuated with brilliant streaks of light―fireworks in defiant protest of the encroaching night―here, the sun disappears with a mild shrug of resignation behind the dusty blanket of dusk.
It is evening and from my perch on Kololo hill, I watch the fading of the day. Sunset is a diffuse affair in washed-out browns― the sky painted in earthtones by swirling whorls of dust. There are no riotous displays of dazzling pinks, fiery oranges and golds punctuated with brilliant streaks of light―fireworks in defiant protest of the encroaching night―here, the sun disappears with a mild shrug of resignation behind the dusty blanket of dusk.
Thick curls of smoke from numerous fires dot the cityscape. Burning is the principal means of trash disposal—dried leaves, household trash, paper, wood, cardboard, plastics, automobile tires, you name it — all are doused with petrol (gasoline) and set on fire, everyday, with a diligence approaching religious fervor. Nothing is spared, not even the evidently incombustible. If it doesn’t burn, it gets the treatment again…and yet again…until it is eases to exist in any recognizable form. The high population density in the city —translation: more trash, more fires, the smog and automobile exhaust make for a noxious soup that passes for air. There may be some oxygen in it —a faint possibility that cannot be entirely ruled out—I wouldn’t swear by it. Smoke permeates everything, traces of its noxious presence ever evident.
Rain of the tempestuous variety common in the tropics (if only it were commoner here!) that lashes the earth in violent fury and strips the firmament free of its baneful burden, leaving in its wake blessedly clean air and a brilliant blue sky, however transient, is cause for personal celebration – a celebration of the benediction of clean air, an unalloyed appreciation of that most elemental of life’s functions — breathing: I breathe, therefore I am?—and the pleasure of breathing easily and effortlessly—Breathing smog is an effort; breathing clean air, a natural function that requires no conscious exertion.
On the charge of taking clean air for granted, how do you plead? Guilty, Your Honor.
It will rain tonight, I am told by those in the know, and I may expect to awaken to clear skies and a beautiful day.
