Changing Seasons in the Sahel

New millet sprouts in the field behind my house in June.



The same field in September.


“How’s the weather” is standard fare for small talk, whether in the checkout line, around the water-cooler, or anywhere else that invites mindless chatter. It sometimes seems strange that the topic is so pervasive when most of us spend all day in a climate controlled office, then get in the climate controlled car and drive to our climate controlled home. Save the odd ice-storm or something catastrophic like a hurricane, the weather has a relatively small impact on our lives. In Burkina, it’s easier to figure why everyone is talking about the weather all the time. Not only do people spend most of their time outside, unprotected from the elements, but basic livelihoods and daily activities are entirely dependent on the rainfall and other climatic forces.

The calendar in Burkina can be broken into three sea sons: cold, hot, and rainy. The cold season corresponds roughly to our own winter, running from November to February. Cold in this context means night time temperatures as low as 55 degrees, complemented by a persistent strong wind coming from the north. Dust from the Sahara is carried in by the wind and can reduce visibility down to nothing, as well as coating everything in a layer of red. The people pull on thick ski jackets and winter hats, and babies are wrapped up like pigs in a blanket. At night the streets and bars empty as everyone huddles in their huts for warmth. Ask a Burkinabe how it’s going and he will shake his head sadly, and say, “It’s not good. Too much wind,” or, “too much dust.” A huge fuss is made over Americans who are still comfortable walking around in shorts and a tee-shirt.

Despite the complaints, the cold season is also a time of celebration. The harvest is finished, and families have some disposable income for the first time in months. With the glut of Christian, Muslim, and traditional holidays all at once, December is a month long party, which continues into January, otherwise known as the funeral season. That’s not to say that people choose to die in such a convenient fashion, but after an important person passes away and is buried, the family typically waits until January to hold the funeral, to take advantage of the relative prosperity and idleness after the harvest.

Wind and dust notwithstanding, the cooler months are a blessing for an American used to a colder climate, time to gather strength for the impending hot season, which descends sometime around March. One night, you notice it’s getting a bit too hot to sleep indoors, and the next thing you know, it’s upon you: Heat, such that you sit in the shade at twilight and sweat like you’re running under the midday sun, while the dust settles on your skin and immediately turns to mud. Mercury busting, grandparent killing heat, causing skin to stick to itself and any other surface it touches. Heat like you drink five liters of water a day and only urinate once, because all that liquid comes out your forehead and armpits. And this is a dry heat. Pity the environment with similar temperatures and high humidity to boot.

The hot season is a time of barrenness. Any last lingering green plants from the previous year quickly wither and die, leaving a vast expanse of red emptiness. Wells and reservoirs dry up, ending the gardening season until the following winter. Even the insects, so persistent the rest of the year, disappear, perhaps recognizing more astutely than humans that this is no time to be alive.

The humans, however, aren’t as discouraged by the turn of weather. There are, of course, comments like, ‘It’s a real scorcher today!’ (windigo zabdame!) but people’s morale is far higher than in the cold season. Perhaps it is because they know what is right around the corner.

One day, usually in late May or early June, dark clouds appear in the sky. The wind, still since the winter, picks up into a frenzy, and people scurry to shelter. A soaking, soothing, quenching rain settles over the land, usually accompanied by some impressive thunder and lightning. In a landscape with few tall trees and no two story buildings, the storm watching is top notch, lightning fork after lightning fork striking through the air. Then after the storm dies down people come out to greet each other in joy, for it is impossible to underestimate the relief, the good feeling that rain brings after six or seven months without a drop.

The season takes a while to get going, with a storm every few weeks at first. If the year is good, it might progress to a few three to four hour rainfalls every week. If bad, there might be rain only every few weeks if at all. While the rain may cause inconveniences including mud, rivers across roads, flooding, and collapsing buildings, there is not a complaint to be heard- all these problems are secondary to the benefits of the season. Along with the rains comes a relief in the temperature, green grass to the land, and work to the people, who spend most of the season in the fields planting, weeding, and harvesting their crops.

These crops bring another interesting change to the village dynamic. Throughout most of the year, you can see a long way, and wave hello to a friend clear on the other side of the village. Now, with fifteen foot tall millet and sorghum stalks everywhere, you can walk down the village paths in anonymity, perhaps passing within ten feet of a neighbor and never realizing it.

The privacy doesn’t last long, however. By the end of October the crops are cut down, seeds piled in granaries, and stalks given to stock as feed. The end of harvest parties start, and the cold starts to creep in, along with the complaints. “Well, we did have a good rainy season this year, but now there’s just too much dust . . .”