crab sandwich

It hasn’t rained in months.

I honestly can’t remember the last time. March? April? I know that there has probably been the odd drizzle, but we definitely haven’t seen anything like the fury of the rainy season.

The drier air has brought cooler temperatures, which we’ve welcome with open arms—we can actually walk more than ten feet without breaking into a full-body sweat. But the milder conditions have also meant something else: fires. Lots of them.

It’s trash-burning season.

Want to get rid of something? Burn it. Rubber, paper, plastic, whatever: pile it up and light it on fire. Tired of looking at that unsightly brush? Grab a match and torch the earth.

Occasionally things get out of hand. The first night at our new apartment, Kelli, Sarah and I were out on the top deck enjoying a Cuca, when we saw smoke billowing a few blocks away.

“Uhm … I don’t think that’s supposed to be on fire.”

What probably started as an innocent trash fire quickly engulfed a building and sent flames two stories high. The first responder gene in Kelli kicked in and she ran over to make sure everyone was OK. I took another sip of cerveja. I don’t have said gene.¹

Every night and every day since we have noticed fires smoldering everywhere around Cabinda. The air is thick with the tang of burning plastic and soot.

This has wreaked havoc on Kelli’s allergies … and our laundry. It’s great that we have a washing machine, but not so great when you have to air dry your (now clean) skivvies in a cloud of smoke. After hanging outside for a few hours, our clothes and sheets smell like they’ve been draped above the deep frier at a Korean BBQ joint.

But we’ve taken matters into our own hands and have converted one of our small bedrooms into a makeshift drier.

Even so, the Angolan “Clean Linen” scent has lost its luster.