The passage describes the experience of arriving in Burma from abroad and contrasts it with arriving in the hot and humid city of Luanda in Angola. Upon arriving in Burma, the narrator feels embraced by the familiar humidity, is able to understand the signs and conversations around them, and takes comfort in aspects of the culture like Burmese headlines and the comic book from their aunt. This feeling of returning home is in stark contrast to their experience arriving in Luanda, where the intense heat and unfamiliar environment made them want to cry.

1. Monsoon Summer by Toe Ein Kyawt
“This is hot,” said Jeronimo unnecessarily. It was Saturday, and we were at school, along with
the orphans from Casa das Crianças. His hair was poufy from the humidity. He took off his
glasses and polished them with his shirt.
“This is nothing,” said Ivar, dark eyes glittering with something like schadenfreude. “It’s hotter
in Suriname.”
“I’ve been to Brazil,” Jeronimo rebutted, his chin raised like a particularly stubborn child.
Their exchanges, as always were worthy of Beatrice and Benedick, but I felt that I ought to put in
my two cents. “Depends on when,” I told him. “Also, this is nothing.” Jeronimo looked at the
two of us with an expression that suggested that we had come from Hell.
Luanda is hot. There is no refuting the fact. The heat is undeniable and constantly present, only
combated by the merciful cool air of air conditioning. Luanda is also humid. It was autumn in
Toulouse when we moved here. In Luanda, there are two seasons – hot, and even hotter. When I
walked down the staircase connecting Angolan soil and the door of the Airbus A380, the heat
closed in on me like a particularly heavy (and invisible) blanket, almost suffocating me.
Inwardly, I clutched my memories of snow and the cool air, but outwardly, I gritted my teeth,
tightened my grip on my hand luggage, and grabbed my little sister’s hand. I remember wanting
to cry.
Theoretically, the heat and the humidity should have been comforting. Burma has a similar
climate, with an added season of monsoon. But Luanda’s intense heat was strange and
unfamiliar. There is a different feel to the Burmese humidity. I don’t need to grit my teeth or
blink my tears away. The heat embraces me like a grandma, instead of hitting me like a wall. The
plane door opens and it is easy to walk down the staircase. The bus ferrying us to the main
airport is filled with chatter in my mother tongue. Outside, there are advertisements written in
round letters of the Burmese alphabet. My sisters look uncomfortable. They barely speak any
Burmese and know less than half of the alphabet. I revel in it.
Luggage collection is always the hardest part. There are sufficient trolleys for everyone, and the
conveyor belt runs smoothly, but the waiting. The waiting is always the hardest. My sisters laugh
and chase each other around, and I shout at them. Mum and Dad drag our suitcases and lug them
onto the trolleys. I drag my sisters after them and we walk past the conveyor belts to where the
family and friends crane their necks to look for their loved ones. I remember seeing a mother hug
her son.
We walk past them and everyone else and end up outside arrivals. The automatic doors part, and
there’s the heat again. July is right in the middle of monsoon, and the tarmac is wet with rain.
The air is heavy with that smell of the ground after rain. There is always a cabbie reading a

2. newspaper, I take comfort in reading the Burmese headlines. I soak up every little bit of Burmese
I can sense. It is around this point that I start to feel that I have returned.
My grandmother spots us after a few minutes. My face splits in a large, toothy grin, and I run
into her arms, small and young again. Gran, even at sixty, stands like a formidable wall, towering
over me, smelling faintly of lavender powder. She feels vaguely squishy. Grandpa isn’t far
behind, and I hug him. My aunt is next.
“Welcome back!” Grandpa greets my sisters in English. They look up uncertainly.
I take another gulp of air. My aunt passes me a comic book, an old one. I read the front page, and
it is at this point that I know that I am truly home.