Some peoples have the wind, others the rain, and we, the Canary Islanders, have the calima. A meteorological phenomenon that just as easily clogs the sky with Saharan dust as it serves you a perfect alibi for absolutely everything that goes wrong in your life.
Is the car dirty? It’s not that you’ve gone three months without washing it, no: it’s the calima. Does your head ache? Calima. Are you tired, in a bad mood, not up for anything? Calima, obviously. Haven’t you finished that piece of work you had to hand in? Look, with this calima nobody can be productive. It is the most versatile act of God ever invented.
And when it truly arrives, the big calima, the “can’t-see-the-volcano-from-the-window” kind, then the whole archipelago is transformed. The sky turns brown, the sun disappears, everything is covered in a fine layer of Africa, and we Canary Islanders, rather than panicking, nod with the resignation of someone who knows a tiresome relative dropping by unannounced.
Because the calima, deep down, is family. It bothers you, it dirties everything, it dries out your throat, but it is ours, and it has taught us the greatest lesson of island life: that almost any problem, with the right excuse, stops being your fault. Blessed be the calima, then. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I can’t keep writing. You know why.
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