It has been a long time since I read Salman Rushdie, but I believe it was he who wrote about The Loo:
the northern desert wind that slips sand under barred doors and hisses it through shuttered windows;
infiltrating dreams
to drive the lonely house-bound Begums mad
as they seek sleep
from each darkday's dusty torrent.
Here, this wind is called the Harmattan. l'harmattan : in French, the muted h
Here, aspirated; The Sahara coating my throat,
while shrouding the furniture and silencing the floors...
