Waking and Dreaming
on Anthony Lovat in Bolgatanga (Ghana), Unknown, 34 days ago
One of the most precious things about living here is the opportunity to sleep. I virtually never need to set an alarm. I wake up naturally every morning and never feel overtired. When I think back to how, in England, my alarm used to ring at 5:30am, often after just a few hours sleep, it seems a strange and foreign way to live. I’ve almost forgotten what chronic and everyday over-tiredness is like. I know that I’ll have to go back to it in September so I try to appreciate the good times while they last.Every morning, Laura and I drift into the waking world from the world of our dreams. We often share some of the stranger dreams we have had before one of us (usually me) eventually rouses the energy to get up and make breakfast. The half-waking half-sleeping state is something I virtually never experienced back in England. My alarm used to crash into my sleep and force me into another working day. It’s a precious and beautiful state to be in and one that I will miss very much.I woke up slowly this morning and, in my fuzzy, dreamlike state, was confused. Something was wrong. Something was different. What was this strange feeling? What was this sensation?Like any night, I was sleeping without a sheet under the ceiling fan. Like any night, I woke up feeling uncomfortable but this was a different and unfamiliar form of discomfort. Why, I thought, I’m not sweating. I’m not even feeling hot. I’m even feeling... can it be? Cold?Feeling cold is not something I have experienced since the harmattan truly ended in the beginning of February. In fact, I haven’t even felt temperate since that time. The only experience I have had is feeling hot. It has become part of my everyday existence. To be hot is to be. Sweating has become as banal a bodily function as breathing. It happens continually and subconsciously without me usually paying any attention toit.It rained last night and, it seemed, drizzled throughout the night. This morning, a thick and heavy cloud hangs over Bolgatanga. I can’t even see the sun. Perhaps more rain will fall today. It’s magical. It’s a gorgeous transformation of climates. Four months of non-stop blazing sunshine has finished. The relief is immeasurable.Cold. Wonderful, fantastical and spine-tingling cold. In my dreamy half-waking level of consciousness, I felt the cold like a long-lost friend. I dreamed of home. I dreamed of the rainy season.Of course, when I say“cold”, I don’t mean it in the English way of understanding. Cold in England is a debilitating, physical presence - an overbearing foe that sends people scurrying inside to escape it’s vicious weapon. The “cold” I was experiencing was merely an absence of heat. In the same way, when an English person describes the weather as “warm” or even “hot”, it’s never a true heat - a crushing and deadly heat that sends people scurrying into the shade to escape it’s power. English “heat” is merely an absence of cold.I lay for some time, slowly allowing my mind to drift into the here and now. I saw that Laura had a sheet over her so I leaned over and pulled half over myself. She groggily helped share the thin, cotton fabric, turned over, and went back to concentrate on her dozing. For the first time in months, the absence of heat allowed me to lie close to Laura - human to human contact has been uncomfortably hot and sticky. I lay, utterly enjoying the absence of heat, utterly enjoying being close to Laura, and slowly but surely feeling myself follow her back into the precious world of dreams.