Thirty-Seven Degrees

Golden hour spills across Lake Abbé as I finally climb out of the Toyota 4x4, cramped and dusty after six hours on the road from Djibouti City. A layer of fine dust covers every surface. For much of the drive, our driver works his jaw methodically, chewing khat as the landscape grows emptier by the mile.

White salt crusts the lake's edge. Limestone chimneys rise from the plain like a city skyline. The ground is the colour of used coffee grounds, broken only by stubborn pockets of green grass. Clouds of mosquitoes hover above the water, waiting for dusk.

Sammy, our guide, leads us to a geothermal vent where water boils beneath the surface. Steam escapes through cracks in the earth. He leans down, holds a cigarette over the vent and lights it from the heat.

Even after sunset, the air refuses to cool. We eat chicken and rice while darkness settles over the lake. James opens a bottle of Tusker beer. Dennis, a semi-retired English teacher living in France, talks about the places he still wants to visit. I only drink alcohol brewed in the country I'm visiting, so in Djibouti, that leaves me with a fizzy pomegranate soft drink.

At ten o'clock, I retreat to my circular tent.

It is thirty-seven degrees inside.

The tent holds heat like an oven. Before bed, I cover myself in mosquito repellent, pull the net over me, switch off my head torch and close my eyes.

Within minutes, a high-pitched whine reaches my ear.

Eventually, I find the hole in the mosquito net, but it is too large to patch. Mosquitoes find the opening almost immediately. I place a small mosquito repeller beside my bed and cover myself in another layer of repellent. The smell spreads through the tent. Later in the night, I check the device. It is covered in the bodies of dozens of dead mosquitoes and has stopped working entirely.

Sweat runs down my neck. I reapply repellent almost every hour. By morning, the stale chemical smell fills the tent. I drink water until my stomach feels full, but my mouth never loses its dryness.

Every few minutes, another mosquito finds me. I count backwards. I listen to music. I turn the pillow over, searching for a cooler side that does not exist. Frustration slowly replaces tiredness.

I step outside.

The air barely feels cooler, but at least it moves. A German traveller named Andras has dragged his bed into the open, accepting the bites in exchange for a breeze. For a moment, I consider doing the same, then retreat beneath the torn mosquito net.

By four in the morning, I have managed little more than an hour's sleep.

The tents glow softly against the first light of dawn. In my sleep-deprived state, they resemble an enormous bra stretched across the desert, an image ridiculous enough to make me laugh despite everything.

Dennis is already awake. We quickly agree it is the worst night's sleep either of us has endured while travelling. James joins us a few minutes later, looking refreshed. He slept through everything, untouched by mosquitoes. Perhaps I should have accepted the Tusker after all.

My arms are covered in raised red bites. My clothes are stiff with dried sweat. The mosquitoes are still there. The limestone towers catch the first light and throw long shadows across the salt flats. A single streak of red cloud hangs above the horizon. I stand in the dirt and watch the colour spread across the sky.