Snow in July

The month of February in northern Cameroon means the height of the dry season. It hasn't rained since October, and won't until sometime in April or May. So needless to say, there's quite a bit of dust floating around. Often several hours after sunrise or before sunset, you can look directly at the sun because of the dust; at this point it looks a bit more like the moon. And at the end of the day, I can wipe the sweat off my forehead and find it to be a lovely tinge of brown. The dry season is indeed, dry.

So you can imagine the shock two weeks ago when I wake up in the middle of the night to hear rain falling on my roof. Rain, in the middle of February. I heard this, went outside to see if it was really raining, and it was. Not dreaming. This was not a downpour, but was not just a misty haze falling from the sky. But it's something that has literally NEVER happened as long as this area has been populated. Ninety year old men in my village have never seen rain this time of year, nor had they ever heard such stories from their elders. This was quite the aberration.

I went back to my bed feeling incredibly confused about how the northern climate could have changed like th-- oh. Global climate change. Let's not forget, global warming is not an accurate term because regions are becoming hotter AND colder, dryer AND wetter; generally more extreme. And here I was seeing with my own eyes a change that is considerably more detectable to someone than an inch less of snow or a tenth of a degree in temperature. Rain in February.

The guilt actually began to overwhelm me, because every single one of my neighbors and friends in my village depend on the climate to survive. Rain waters crops. People eat their crops. That's the only source of income. So recognizing that the actions like mine by people in countries like mine were contributing the most to make such an impact on people's economy and very EXISTENCE was unsettling. Especially when those people are my friends. Even if my village gets some more rain, that change is still dangerous for peasant farmers, and it's likely that some village on the other side of the world is losing their rain anyway. Not good for anyone.

In any case, it really illustrated to me how insulated most Americans' daily lives are from the direct economic implications of climate change, and perhaps is the reason we're a little slow to react to it all. Most of the farmers I work with know and understand the concept of global warming, and instinctively understand its implications because they have the most to lose. For most Americans the direct implications amount to wearing another sweater or carrying an umbrella. But in the end, it's all going to even out because, alas, Americans also eat food. And food needs to be grown. With water.

So I'm doing my best to play my part here, but the distressing thing is that no matter how many trees I help plant on farms or in villages, it's still such a small step in the bigger picture of global climate change. And the progress can only be made if we really get our acts together. Cross your fingers, and carry an umbrella.