Same things, different continent

A year ago on New Year’s Eve we spent what we considered a wintry night on a beach in The Gambia, West Africa, with a group of fellow volunteers. Even at midnight the temperature hovered around what felt like a chilly 23 degrees.

Most of us regarded it as being too cold to engage in any swimming but a small group ran enthusiastically from the beach bar to the sea to welcome in the New Year. As midnight chimed, some American Peace Corps volunteers set off some fireworks they had procured from god knows where and for the next few minutes we ducked and dived to avoid the screaming fiery projectiles as they flew back and forth across the bar at head height.
Some made it to the sky but most ended up exploding in the palm trees or clattering through the empty beer bottles that cluttered the tables.
One year on and acclimatisation has again done its mostly imperceptible work. Accompanied by two of the same volunteers who last year stood on that West African beach, we took to the streets of Edinburgh, Scotland.
They had come to visit us for the world-famous festival of Hogmanay, so we attended the renowned street party. Unfortunately, this involved leaving the house. We are currently experiencing the coldest winter Scotland has had for over 20 years and although we have had a chance to readjust to the concept of single-figure temperatures, the weather is packing a very severe punch.
A day of wise preparation led to the procurement of thermal long-johns, the last remaining pair in a major shopping outlet  and two hefty flasks.
We hid at home, clutching radiators and brewing steaming pots of coffee and hot chocolate until 10pm when at last we began our journey to Edinburgh’s city centre.
The entire city has been bathed in a thick blanket of snow for weeks now and is excelling in its attainment of picture postcard beauty. This beauty hides great dangers of course, as the footpaths and roads offer no traction underfoot.
A number of pedestrians have, in recent times, taken to skiing as the safest mode of transport but there were not many that night as the crowds were truly massive in all areas. The temperature hung at minus-six degrees but our many layers were holding warmth well so far.
Within 40 minutes we were on Princes Street. The centre of the city has been transformed into a gigantic carnival for the celebration and people were really getting in the mood.
The levels of drunkenness were quite astounding but strangely there was no threat in the air.
The greatest danger it seemed was posed by the crush of bodies, an inevitability when 80,000 people descend on one street at the same time.
In typical British fashion however, health and safety was top of the agenda and between stewards and police all bases appeared to have been covered in terms of disaster prevention.
Hogmanay is a very Scottish festival and is still held by many here as far more important than Christmas. Its origins are thought to lie in the Norse celebration of the winter solstice but it has also incorporated Gaelic traditions. The Roman festival of Saturnalia also added to the tradition. This festival involved people celebrating without inhibition, so its influence remains in plain sight even today.
Although the Presbyterians frowned on the celebration, for obvious reasons, it continued to be celebrated among the people of Scotland, albeit in a clandestine fashion. The gift that the festival has given the world is the singing of the song Auld Lang Syne, a traditional poem reinterpreted by Scotland’s great hero of poetry, Robert Burns, and set to music.
When midnight struck, the sky and the crowd exploded. From the high ramparts of Edinburgh Castle, perched high above the city on top of a long extinct volcano, fire once again soared skyward. Great streaming fireworks rocketed forth and drowned the night sky in shimmering sheets of light and colour.
The effect was breathtaking. About 80,000 necks craned and stared as the pyrotechnic wizards unleashed their magic. We were at the birth of a new decade in the 21st century but at that moment, we could have been in the 18th. A throng gathered round to celebrate an ancient festival as our magic-men wowed us with their trickery. Our fascination with magical light and fire in the sky has not diminished in the digital age.   
As the last sparks fell to earth, spent and sparkling, we linked hands with strangers and friends alike singing those words reinterpreted by Burns, wishing health, joy and happiness to anyone who cared to be offered best wishes for the coming 12 months.
The walk home was somewhat akin to walking through a post-conflict zone. Although there was no actual conflict it was clear that the night had created a significant number of alcohol refugees. Groups and individuals stumbled, staggered and lurched from pub to club to home.
Watching the BBC news next morning, we discovered that from that crowd of 80,000 people there had been just four arrests. Whether this was indicative of the good mood of the revellers or a practical and balanced approach to policing is not clear but either way it was a successful start to the New Year for all involved.
At our traditional times of celebration, it seems to me we have very basic desires. Whether we are on the West African coast or the freezing centre of a European city, we want people around us and a little fire in the sky.
These things are inherent to us and no matter which number sits atop the next page of the calendar, that is unlikely to change any time soon.