Winds out of Africa
After the last few day's southerly winds, here is an excerpt from my first experience of the "Wind out of Africa"
Excerpt from my diary, Georgioupolis, March 1989
I awoke in the night to the sound of window shutters banging somewhere nearby. The wind had changed direction and was now coming from the south, blowing hard and still increasing in force. I tried to get back to sleep but to no avail. My little travel clock on the bedside table glowed out the time in bright red numerals. It was three o’clock. The intermittent noise of the shutters crashing against the window frames and the winds howling through the trees in the plateia made sleep impossible.
I left my bed and looked out of the window. The tall eucalyptus trees were bending in the wind and loose objects such as cardboard boxes were bowling down the road. Suddenly I saw sparks flying from the rear of a building not far away. All thoughts of sleep now gone, I dressed and found my torch in case the electricity went out -It did.
I could hear no alarms being raised and looked out to see once again sparks flying out of a window.
It was very hot. The wind was bringing the heat with it, straight from the Sahara Desert. Borne over the Libyan Sea it had now arrived with us.
The night drew on. I lay on my bed waiting for the dawn, loath to get undressed, listening for any sounds of commotion or alarm. All I could hear was the roaring of the wind in the trees, the clattering of the shutters and the bump of objects blowing down the road. I tried to doze but found it impossible. The lights being out I was unable to read but, fortunately, the batteries in my walkman were good and I turned it on to try to distract myself.
Eventually morning arrived but there was no abating in the force of the wind. I crept into an empty room across the corridor which overlooked the village square and looked out.
Branches littered the ground blocking the traffic. The Eucalyptus trees, denuded of leaves, bent and swayed in the wind. Across the square one large tree had an enormous branch hanging on by what seemed like only a thread, threatening to fall on passers by.
What passers by? Nobody could move in this wind but must scuttle from one doorway to the next like scared mice. The wind was effectively trapping us in our homes.
The sparks I had seen in the night seemed to have stopped and no one appeared to be worrying about them. I couldn’t think what they could have been or where they had been coming from I was only relieved they had come to nothing.
As there was no question of my being able to leave my room I rummaged around to find something to eat. I munched on an apple and washed it down with some, now luke-warm, water. It was not very appetizing but it satisfied my immediate hunger.
I lay on my bed trying to read. Every so often I would get up to go to the window to look out but the wind showed no signs of lessening.
I went, yet again, to the window to see how other people were managing. With some difficulty it seemed, but movement was possible with caution. After a while I decided the time had come to brave the wind and make my way to the cafeteria with the ‘Gorgon’. It was only next door and I thought that I should be able to make it that far. I didn’t want to remain trapped in my room all day
I left the shelter of the doorway and stepped out into the street. The heat hit me with a blast; I had not appreciated just how hot the wind was. Keeping close to the wall of the hotel, I carefully edged my way to the café. I had to stop many times to lean into the building so I would not be blown over and a journey that would usually take two minutes took more like ten.
There were a few people in the café, all of course discussing the weather. Fortunately the electricity was by now back on and I was able to order a cup of tea and a toasted cheese and ham sandwich. The wind raged on. We could see twigs and leaves flying past the window, sparks flying as they hit the electricity wires. Suddenly, with an almighty CRACK, the branch hanging from the tree broke free and was flung with great force down the road, hitting the side of a parked car with a resounding crash. Everybody rushed to the window to look. “Whose car is it?” was the general refrain. Having ascertained that it did not belong to anyone in the present company the interest died down.
The storm continued all day and well into the following night. I ventured as far as the tiny supermarket and bought bread and salami and took it back to my room as there was no possibility of going anywhere. I spent the evening writing letters. I eventually dozed off, the sound of the storm still ringing in my ears.
The next morning I awoke to flat calm.
No noise in the village. No howling wind. No crashing of trees.
I looked out. The storm was over but what a sight met my eyes.
Devastation.
The trees were shredded and bare; the street strewn with debris and rubbish, even the bus kiosk on the main road had been blown several yards down the road.
A few villagers were making a desultory attempt to tidy up. Shutters were hanging free, canvas canopies shading the cafeterias were torn and tattered, twigs and branches blocked the road.
As I watched some of the more enterprising men of the village began to gather the wood and take it home to store for later use. The village president saw what was happening and ordered that all the firewood must be taken to the school and stored there for the warmth of the pupils in the winter. He ordered all the wood to be returned and the shouting began. Men came to blows and were eventually separated by the onlookers.
The village slowly returned to normal, cars were beginning to get through from the other villages and tales were being told of the damage wrought on the main highway and in the bigger towns.
Around the harbours of Chania and Rethymnon the waves had crashed over the sea defences, causing havoc to the shops and restaurants along the promenades. Luckily many were still closed and had not opened yet for the summer season. Cars had been washed away and, of course, the ferries had not been able to make their voyages to and from the mainland. This resulted in a lack of fresh produce on the island and also newspapers and magazines. There would also be a knock on effect to the supermarkets and the farmers who used the ferries daily, not to mention the travellers left stranded for two days in the ports.
The villagers told me that this was not an unusual occurrence at this time of the year and since the wind blew in across the Libyan sea they called it the ‘Gadaffi’ wind. It was worse, they told me, when it was accompanied by rain as everything was then covered with the red desert sand that dropped when the rain fell leaving red mud everywhere. This was extremely difficult to clean and usually seemed to happen when they had just whitewashed their houses and hotels ready for the new season.
I walked along the beach. The sea was still muddy brown from the churning waves. Wood, branches, rubbish, and seaweed were strewn along the shoreline. There were old shoes and plastic bags, blown in. The beach would need a thorough clean up before the tourist season began.
Joni Michell's song "Carey"from her album "Blue" ( 1971) starts by mentioning the southerly winds. This album was inspired by her time spent in the south of Crete
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