Travelogue 1250 – 27 June
The Heat

I awake with a headache, as though with a hangover, even though I didn’t drink. My skin is sticky. My arms and legs are spotted with red marks of irritation. My arms are fairly glowing with accumulated UV. 

The little fan nearby emits a persistent hum. It has done so all night. Over all else is a blanket of summer torpor.

When I rise, I move slowly. The muscles engage only reluctantly. The first thing I do is open the front door. The morning air rushes in, a fresh breeze. It feels like I can breathe. The next thing to do is attend to the ants. Once or twice every summer, they mount a concerted campaign to overrun us. They sense an opening in these temperatures, when the human will is weakened. I sweep them out to the pavement outside, where they scramble in circles, stunned by the reversal.

The world outside would be as silent as the rooms inside, abandoned by consciousness, if it weren’t for the neighbours across the compound who have been celebrating something all night. When they talk, they shout. They seem unaware of the peace and stillness gathered about them, sealing them into a dream-like globe of fever.

The flag of Curaçao has been draped here and there around the neighbourhood. This is debris from celebrations, hung over balconies, waving from cars, a kind of signature, though the team never did win a game in the World Cup. This was their first appearance.

My eyes ache as I recall the game last night – not Curaçao ‘s, – as though the TV’s light were too bright after a day of burning sun. The game had been a disappointment. I had hoped to watch Haaland, and he was kept on the bench, like a treasure, like a talisman.