This morning, on my daily, pre-breakfast stroll, I passed a gentleman in wonderful local dress. I’m always amazed by the striking colors, this one a psychedelic blue. They’re very formal and flowing costumes, worn to mark a special occasion, or just a special day for the person, the family, the religion, or the nation. Today is May Day and it’s celebrated here. It’s also Sunday; perhaps he was going to pray.

 As we crossed, we wished each other a good morning, him in a clear American accent. A lot of Ghanaians have moved to America I understand, “They got lucky,” I recently heard a local reflect. I wonder I thought to myself.

 “Another day in Tamale” my gentleman walking colleague noted as we went on our way.

 “Yes,” I responded, “hot.”

 I generally don’t stop to chat. I tell myself it’s not because I’m rude. I do stop from time to time, sometimes young lads ask if they can take a photo with me. Other times, younger kids ask for a football, a bike, sometimes money. Their directness hits me, “Give me money” is a frequent demand from little ones less than five years old. Even teenage girls, dressed in hijab, have stopped me to speak.

Once, a young lad working in a small field near my home bounded out from his digging. “I am Abdul Hafiz,” he said. “Hello Abdul Hafiz,” I responded, “I am Scott.”

“I’ve often seen you walking by, can I have your phone number? I’d like to WhatsApp you”

These young folk, free from inhibitions, often ask me for my phone number. They want to practice their English, to have a foreign friend. I politely decline and try to explain that if I gave my number to everyone who asked, I’d soon be swamped with messages. Whenever someone writes to me, I feel it polite to respond. Getting hundreds of messages from young Ghanaians eager to practice their English would tug at my heartstrings and call me to service, but that would be the end of my day.

At 8am as I was approaching home, it was already 30oC. It’s forecast to reach 38oC this afternoon. Feels like 40 my local weather app says. Yep, that’s about right.

As we watch in shock at the heat wave smashing India and Pakistan, my heart goes out to the people there suffering ridiculous temperatures, temperatures that kill. I arrived in Tamale in early February, in the midst of the dry season, and for the 6 weeks I was here, the mercury hit at least 40oC every day. I have the privilege of air conditioning but on days when that didn’t work, I quickly got to know just how debilitating and dangerous living with high temperatures can be. “Drink lots of water” a good mate advised.

I grew up in southeast Australia knowing a thing or two about hot weather. Back then, a heatwave constituted three or four consecutive days over 40, and I lived through a few of those without air conditioning. Grown soft and coming out of a Swiss winter where there was still snow on the ground as I left home, arriving in Tamale was a jolt. Travelling out to communities to meet smallholder farmers we hope to partner with on this new project was heat on heat. The community meeting grounds are always under the shade of a tree but sitting quietly in air temperatures above 40oC on ground that had been baking for months made for long, sapping days.

But I could escape. Hopping back into our Hilux, AC on, we’d travel to the next community. We had water. I did drink a lot and the lack of the need for pee stops told me just how much water I’d been losing to sweat. Left behind in our swirling dust clouds were struggling farmers and their families, rich with dignity, but lacking water to help them cope, struggling to feed themselves, in need of a hand.

I’ve been reflecting lately at the growing wave, for it’s almost a tsunami now, of news, reports, studies, podcasts, videos telling us just how much climate trouble we’re in. Like my weather app, I know they’re all correct too. But telling me about it in wave after wave after brutal pounding wave isn’t helping. And I’m someone inclined to action. I’m here in Tamale to do something. Yet even I feel disempowered with all the social media telling me what we must do. It quickly becomes too much and, in my heart, if only for a moment, I stop.

The world can’t afford us to stop. We can’t afford to disempower. We are heading for the abyss, yes, yes, I get it, I know it more deeply in my soul than most, but resignation to the fact means that future is certain. We will arrive at that abyss, and we will plunge over into eternal darkness. We can feel good writing about it, sharing our despair helps us cope, but it won’t turn us away from that path.

I try to imagine a different future, a different way. I prefer to think that if enough of us each do what we can, no matter how small or large, if we could build action upon action, then perhaps the world will change, imperceptibly at first, but step by step more visibly and those folk who like to write and share can start pointing to better news stories that inspire.

We are in the poo, very, very deeply, no doubt about it. Yet, my sense is that all the reporting about our predicament is dragging us further into the mire. The reporting isn’t going to stop, so we might better rethink our approach to how we deal with it.

For my part, I don’t read reports. I stopped reading gloom and doom articles long ago. I do read the headlines, it’s enough. Yep, that sounds right. I don’t feel that I’m missing anything. I know what they say, I can see it with my own eyes. I don’t feel I’m deluding myself though there’s no doubt an element of self-protection for my mental well-being happening there. In the second half of 2018, I fell into a deep, dark despair when I lapsed and did read a compelling paper around Inevitable Near-Term Human Extinction, INTHE.

Now, I walk. I do. I act. When I see a problem, I try to fix it. I act.

I say good morning to strangers and try to be a good person. I often fail. The key thing, it seems to me, is to do. To do something, even a small thing, to contribute to making the world a better place. If kids don’t have education materials, buy them some. If farmers don’t have food, help them grow more without destroying the soils that underpin their futures. We know how to do that now.

There is so much that needs doing that it’s easy to be overwhelmed by calls to do it. It’s easy to give up. Being told, “We need to do this,” or “If we don’t do that, we’re cooked” five thousand times each day, doesn’t help. It stops us because it’s too much. And for sure, the actions aren’t coming. And anyway, who is we? We is in itself disempowering. It implies there’s someone else out there who will do the doing.

Another day in Tamale begins and ends the same way. Hot, challenging, sometimes boring, but ultimately, with opportunities to do something. A smile to a fellow walker, holding the hand of a child thrilled to be with you. Writing a blog, thinking about what you can do and then getting out and doing it.

Another day. Another day. Another day. How will you spend this time? What will you do?