banging empty water bottles to celebrate electricity, next to a silent generator

There’s nothing quite like the happiness that comes after losing something and then finding it again.  That’s how we’re feeling about electricity now.  After 3 months with no public power on the island in Zanzibar where we live (Unguja), we’ve had power now for a week, and the pleasure hasn’t waned a bit.  Even the daily blackouts at random times and of random lengths aren’t a big problem–it’s just soo nice to have electricity again.

Here are a few pleasures we’ve been enjoying:

• the sound of birds, bats, and crickets at night, unmasked by generator noise
• being able to hear people talking, even in rooms with electricity
• being able to turn on a light or charge up a laptop wherever it’s convenient, instead of wherever there’s a generator
• paying regular prices instead of hiked-up generator prices
• being able to use electricity guilt-free, knowing that friends and acquaintances all have affordable access (it’d be nice if the electricity were completely renewable, but the immediate guilt of knowing a friend doesn’t have electricity is—right or wrong—stronger than the more removed guilt of knowing that about the environmental impacts of electricity production)
• sleeping through the night in air that’s a comfortable temperature, even under a mosquito net

the Rube Goldberg-esque wiring to our apartment

• being able to cook on a four-burner stove indoors at a comfortable room temperature, instead of outside on the porch over a hot single burner in the hot, humid air
• cold beverages
• restaurants that offer everything on the menu—including ice cream, baked goods, and the aforementioned cold beverages

The list could go on, but suffice it to say that we’re appreciating the wonders of electricity—hope you are, too!

The first item of the day was a meeting at a government office, in connection with my Fulbright research. I’m trying to theorize why adult literacy rates here are declining from the highs in the 1980s. To study that, I want to find out more about ordinary Tanzanians’ literacy practices (How do they find information? How often, what, and for what purpose do they read and write in their everyday lives?) as well as what ordinary Tanzanians think about the value of literacy.

My research assistant and I had met at the government office last week to discuss my research, and I had thought that everything was ready for me to begin surveying people this week. As we talked at the meeting today, though, it became clear that unless I only wanted to talk with a specific segment of the population, it would be very difficult to access any respondents. After being told (thanks largely to my research assistant/translator) that I’d need months more of letters and permissions to do what I wanted to do, I was sent off to another office, where the person I needed to talk to was out of the office indefinitely.

It’s not that I expected the research to go quickly or easily. In any circumstances, doing research takes time and patience and an open mind. You have to know about what’s already been written on the topic, you need to develop a reasonable way of answering your research questions, and you need access to information. In my experience, archivists and ethics boards generally want researchers to have access to information, but they want to ensure that the information is gathered and reported in ways that represent the best practices in the field. And I think it’s generally a good process—certainly, the feedback I’ve received in the process of gaining access to information has always made my work better (and thank you to you invaluable readers who have given me feedback over the years!).

Doing research in Tanzania requires all of the processes to which I’m accustomed, but it also requires permits—for all researchers (native and foreign alike). To get a permit, one must submit a research proposal, numerous supporting document, and substantial application and permit fees to an official government board. It is difficult to know what supporting documents are necessary, as well as what permits are required. Because I’m doing research in Zanzibar (a semi-autonomous state in Tanzania) as well as in mainland Tanzania, I need two separate permits. I submitted my application for the first of these two permits in July 2009, and I received it two weeks ago.

So I’ve been preparing to collect data for a while. And, after the meeting, it seemed that despite all of my work, the possibility of collecting any useful data was slim to none. The switch was off.

As I went on through the rest of the day’s agenda and tried to rethink my research plan, rumors about the return of electricity were rampant (Zanzibar lost all public electrical power on Dec. 10). We’d heard rumors for months now and had been disappointed each time, so I was determined not to get my hopes up—not that there was any great danger of that after the meeting I’d just had.

But, in the way that things often do in Zanzibar, the current shifted.

This afternoon, in the middle of a parent-teacher conference at my childrens’ school, I got a call to go to a government office. We raced to the office and, lo and behold, the switch for research was on! I not only had permission, but I had a firm appointment to administer questionnaires to 15 people this week!!

Elated, I went to my office to charge up my laptop on the generator and work for a few hours. And then, on my walk home, I heard yelling in the streets—happy yelling. And I saw lights on! Hooray!

By the time I got home, though, the lights were off. There was an audible groan from all over town as they went off. Were technicians just testing the lines, or was there another serious problem that would be followed by more months of darkness, heat, and hauling water?

But, then, after dinner, the lights went back on. And they’ve stayed on!!! Sheer bliss! I’m hoping again—for a successful launch of my survey; for electric fans to cool me, the survey respondents, and everyone on the island; and for easy access to laptop power. Onward!

proud new car owner

My last entry, on dala-dalas, is something of a elegy. About a month ago, we bought a car—this lovely 2001-ish Toyota Cresta with only 35,000 km on it (the proverbial grandma car that was only driven to the mosque and the market). It was less a desire to have a car than a desire to stay healthy during this time of no electricity and no running water for most people. We didn’t like dala-dalas enough to want to risk riding on them if cholera or some other public health risk breaks out.

So we’re car owners, and the American part of me does love the freedom that comes with being in control of our own transportation and being able to zip over to a beach on a weekend.

But it does come at a price. Now, rather than being with everyone on the dala-dalas, we park our car in the public lot several blocks from our apartment, and we tip the guard there to watch our car, and we pay the car-washer there to keep our car looking spiffy clean. We’re contributing more to the local economy, but we’re also separated from it to a much greater degree than we were for the first five months we were here.

And although our new car has air bags and seat belts, I’m not sure that we’re safer from road hazards than we were in the dala-dalas—or vice versa. Dala-dala drivers have been on these roads since they were riding on their father’s bicycles. I’ve had a driver’s license since I was 16, but I never learned in driver’s ed what to do when the car behind me is nudging me to pass between a well-populated bicycle and dala-dala on our side of the road and there is an oncoming army truck, or what to do when the ox in front of me suddenly breaks free from its cart and driver. All things considered, driving on the left side of the road is the easiest part of driving in Tanzania!

So we’re now right there in the midst of the gritty, scary, Richard Scarry world, but it’s hard not to feel like there’s a loss, as well.

dala-dala at the station, waiting to get full

My favorite modes of transportation here are the ubiquitous dala-dalas, the public buses that transport the preponderance of the people and produce on the island. Dala-dalas are pickup trucks that have been converted into buses with wrought iron bars supporting a roof that has drop-down plastic sides for when it rains. Inside, there are benches on three sides, and on the back there’s a step and hand rails for the conductor (and sometimes a few extra people) to hang on. The buses are all numbered with the routes that they drive, and there are regular stops where people know to catch the bus—although it’s often difficult to find space on a dala-dala if you try to get on in mid-route. Each dala-dala is licensed through the state, but it’s operated by an independent owner who is licensed to drive on a particular route at particular times of day. Each dala-dala has a driver who sits up in the cab with two or three passengers, and a conductor, who rides on the back step, collects fares, and signals to the driver when passengers want to get off—usually by rapping loudly on a metal bar with a coin (handy, since the fare for most routes is 250 Tshillings, consisting of the large and noisy 200 Tshilling piece, plus the smaller septagonal 50 Tshilling piece).

dala-dala fully loaded

Because the driver/conductors keep the money they get on the routes, it’s in their best interest to have a full load at all times. So the dala-dalas don’t move until they’re full, and they generally will take as many passengers as are willing to get on—and that’s a lot. The legal limit for most dala-dalas is 20, but I’ve been on ones with as many as 30, if there are kids and babies on laps. And that’s not counting chickens and 5-gallon drums of smelt or anchovies on the floor or bicycles and bundles of sugar cane on the roof. Early on, I was surprised when a bunch of people got off a crowded dala-dala seemingly in the middle of nowhere, but it made sense in a minute when we got to the police checkpoint where the people were counted. Then, a few hundred feet down the road, the same passengers (a little winded this time) got back on the dala-dala and we continued on.

Prince Charming with exhaust trouble

The dala-dalas are sweaty and dirty, and they sometimes break down on hills or have smoky exhaust, but I’ve found them to be among the most comfortable places here. Unlike in taxis, where the price is however much the taxi driver thinks you can pay, the price on a dala-dala is fixed. And even though we wazungu (foreigners) sometimes get odd looks on dala-dalas, the people who regularly ride our route to the boys’ school know us and accept us and have even stopped laughing at our inexpert Kiswahili. It’s sustainable transportation.

mother, infant, and father on a bicycle

For those of you who haven’t been or encountered children in the past forty years years, the title of this post pays homage to one of the great works of children’s literature, Richard Scarry’s Cars and Trucks and Things that Go. I read the book hundreds of times with my brother when I was growing up, and I have read the book at least as many times with my own children. The frenetic action of the book, along with the pleasure of finding where the character Gold Bug is hidden on each page, never wanes. So much is happening! There are so many different ways to get around! Bicycles! Double-decker buses! Pickle cars! Hammer trucks! And the hazards in the road are equally prominent. Watch out for the oranges spilled all over the road! Watch out for the nails!

Much as I love this book, it had never occurred to me that the world of Cars and Trucks and Things that Go might offer a representational view of any real-world setting. . .until Zanzibar.

man carrying a load of fish in a banana-leaf basket

The modes of transportation here are among the first things that struck me—literally—in the first week that we arrived, when I was bumped into by a car on the road (a not-so-subtle reminder to mind my status as a pedestrian and to keep my feet on the dust rather than on the pavement). There is a distinctly Darwinian philosophy of traffic safety here, and we learned quickly to be survivors, pedestrians though we are. On the narrow streets of Stone Town, the adept pedestrian knows to listen for pikipiki (moped) motors in the near vicinity, as well as for the bicycle bells and the kissing sound that is the equivalent of saying “beep beep.” Watch out!

See if you can count the number of modes of transportation!

Beyond Stone Town, out in the wider roads of Zanzibar, there are not only pedestrians, bicycles, and pikipikis, but also hand carts, donkey and ox carts, cars, trucks, presidential motorcades, trucks with AK-47-toting soliders, and dala-dalas. A gritty version of Richard Scarry’s world.

The vast majority of travelers on the road here make very efficient use of resources—out of necessity. Most wheeled vehicles have at least two passengers—including bicycles. During commute time, especially, it’s common to see a dad and three kids on a bicycle (two on the cross bar and one on the wheel guard) on their way to school. Or, later in the day, a dad and a mom and an infant on a motor scooter.

Given that my own children are still (at ages 8 and 10) skinny enough that they’re required in the United States to sit strapped into booster seats, it took some getting used to to see wee babes here on motor scooters—the lucky ones strapped into 1980s-era Baby Bjorns. And I’ve yet to see anyone wearing a bicycle helmet. The traffic police here are, like Richard Scarry’s Officer Flossie, unarmed and out in the open rather than in their own cars. I’ve not seen any speed limit signs anywhere, which is just as well, as the police could never catch up with a speed violator.

people on ox cart with load of logs

But, despite the extreme contrast with the American sense of transportation safety, people here know the system and it mostly works, even if the traffic lights don’t.

the Paje Tourist information office

Now that the power blackout makes Internet, television, and radio hard to access, it’s helpful to be able to read the writing on the wall—literally.  And all over Stone Town, there is writing on the wall—in Kiswahili, English, and Arabic, and sometimes in all three.  Plastic lighted store signs here are very rare, and wooden signs are only at posh tourist places.  But many corner stores have intricately painted signs, sometimes with pictures representing what the business does or the soccer team that the owner supports.

There are also painted signs with religious messages in a few places—some very stylized, like this one outside Hamani Baths, one of the many ruined relics of the 19^th century and better economic times in Stone Town.

Outside the Hamani Baths, writing in English, Arabic, and Kiswahili

What I find most fascinating, though, is the chalkboard-style writing on walls.  There is a black paint here that’s marketed as chalkboard paint, and there are large and small black squares around town that serve as newsboards, usually with soccer scores from the British Premier League.  Our favorite of these is the one by “Tulia” and “Poa,” a large chalkboard space that is meticulously updated with soccer match times and, later, scores.  Recently there’s also been a witty update on how many more days of “trial in error” there is predicted to be until the electricity is to be restored.

My absolute favorite public blackboard

Until then, the writing on the wall will be updated constantly, while there will remain the static banana leaf picture posted over this public outdoor television.

Picture made from intricately cut banana leaves--someone evidently figured the outdoor public television was good advertising space since no one is watching the TV these days

Obama kangas for sale

Today, in honor of the first anniversary of President Obama’s inauguration, I’m posting about Obamamania.  Probably half of the time when I say I’m from America, people here respond with one word: “Obama!” There are Obama kangas (colorful traditional fabric), there are Obama wallets, there are Obama bumper stickers, there is even a line of Obama clothing.  I’ve missed tons of pictures of Obama ephemera when I haven’t had my camera handy and/or haven’t been able to photograph discreetly, but here’s one.

Although Americans are not universally loved here and although I have heard concerns voiced about the corrupting influence of American culture on young Muslims, Obama is loved—because he’s black, because his father was African, because he is familiar with Muslim culture.  To many Africans, Obama is the home town boy who made it big, and regardless of what he does during the remainder of his presidency, the very fact of who he is has endeared him and America to many Africans.

on the girls' side of the classroom

For me, one of the most exciting events of our stay in Zanzibar has been the visit on Saturday to a little school in the countryside, where a colleague of mine will be running a family literacy project, funded by his successful grant proposal to the International Reading Association.

The project is designed to give kids a solid start toward lifelong literacy by encouraging them and their families to read for fun. That’s challenge enough in the United States, where there are plenty of books and most adults can read well. Here, where there are so few books and where fewer parents can read, it’s a daunting task, indeed.

notice the beautiful handwritten checklist for materials available in the USAID-funded resource room

But the project is terrific. It will provide books to kids and it will help teachers and parents to develop low- and no-cost learning opportunities (things like making books out of cardboard and writing down stories—the kinds of things my own children have been playing with since we’ve been in Zanzibar). And low-cost is definitely important; the kids who showed up to school for the information meeting (on a Saturday, no less) were interested and excited, but neither they nor the school had writing utensils for them to fill out paperwork. So we scraped together pens from purses and bags and managed to get the job done.

I had a fantastic time on Saturday—not least of which because I was able to talk and listen successfully in Kiswahili for almost 5 hours. I’m so excited about participating in this project, in whatever way I can, and I hope to write more soon about my work there and about my own developing research on adult basic literacy.

My husband cooking on our new stove

I’d hoped to write about the electricity situation when it was all just a bad memory.  Unfortunately, the entire island of Unguja (the biggest island in the Zanzibar archipelago) has been without power since December 10, and it looks like we’ll be without electricity for some time now (the latest word on the street is until mid- to late-March).

Official and unofficial reports of when electricity will return have changed from day to day, and there are rampant rumors about what caused the power outage in the first place and who is to blame. Sometimes we hear power will return in two weeks, sometimes we hear that the U.S. government is building a new electrical line to the island, and sometimes we hear that one European government or other has sent huge generators to power the island (this last one is my favorite—I imagine huge, benevolent Godzilla-sized generators coming in to the port of Stone Town to save the day). It helps to be amused by the reports because finding accurate news is difficult.  There are no English newspapers on Zanzibar—the only place where this is a big news story—and even people who are fluent in both English and Kiswahili seem in the dark about what’s really going on.  As best I can tell, though, we have no power because there are not redundant electrical systems here; if one thing goes wrong with the island’s power supply, chances are the whole island will lose power—much as the old-style Christmas lights would short out entirely if one bulb was out.

So we wait.  In the mean time, the blackout is taking its toll on the island, where the use of electrical appliances is relatively recent but has become pretty widespread within the past 30 years:

• air pollution and continued deforestation from the increased use of traditional charcoal for cooking
  

  my students' phones charging on the generator during class

• noise and air pollution from the gasoline generators that the lucky few have (our apartment building has a small generator for charging batteries and for a couple of hours’ worth of lights/fans, and almost no one has power 24-hours/day)
• fuel shortages
• higher gas prices (at about $4/gallon and rising)
• higher consumer good costs (because of the higher cost of transportation and production)
• business distress (if you’re eking out a living sewing piecework on a sewing machine, then there’s no money for a generator, which means you can’t work, which means you have even less money)
• water shortages (people who don’t have generators no longer have power to pump  running water in their homes)
• higher prices for water, both bottled and at public spigots
• setbacks in education (schools are considering closing because there is no water—luckily, our sons’ school has a generator and won’t close, the university where I teach currently has a generator running 9-5, and my husband’s evening tutoring program will likely stay open if we can find money for a generator for lights)
• higher risk of sanitation problems with the water shortages
• higher malaria rates (it’s hard to keep sleeping under mosquito nets and using screens on windows when those layers of protection mean less fresh air to make sleeping conditions in the tropical summer more comfortable)
• higher risk for heat exhaustion

My family and I have six more months planned here: Can we make it if we are able to keep powering up computers to work, if we can manage to sleep in the heat, and if we have an escape plan if the public health situation worsens?  Or do we give up? Alternatives we’ve considered are to try to go to mainland Tanzania (where there is power) or to go home and forego our plans for research, more traveling, and the World Cup (we have tickets!).

In thinking through options, we realized that we’re not going to get a chance to be in East Africa again for a long time, and we have a lot invested here—in Zanzibar, specifically.  We like our neighbors, the boys like their school, we have fulfilling jobs and research to do here, and Zanzibar is a pretty safe place to be by East African standards. And cheesy though the Fulbright goal of achieving “mutual understanding” is, the attempted airline bombing last month reminds us of the importance of Americans living and getting along with people in Muslim societies. So, we’re sticking it out.  But if you have a spare Godzilla-sized generator (or better yet, a Mothra-sized solar generator), I know a place that could use it.

our new kitchen cabinet

probably the closest I'll ever be to a giraffe

In Kiswahili, “safari” just means “trip” or “journey,” but to “watali” (tourists), safari means the specific trip of exploring a national park or parks and looking at animals, especially the Big 5 (elephant, cape buffalo, rhinoceros, leopard, lion).  And safari with the other tourists we did!

Tanzania has one of the highest proportions of protected land in the world: Around 39% of the land mass in the country is protected in some way, either as national park or wildlife reserve. Although the land and animals in these areas are protected pretty rigorously, poachers still kill animals—to sell parts such as tusks, or to sell as bush meat for hungry people or tourists in search of an exotic treat—and they sometimes burn land in the process, to flush out the animals for an easy kill.

One of the protections in the so-called “Northern Circuit” of the Serengeti, Ngorongoro Crater, Lake Manyara, and Tarangire is that visitors need to remain within the well-conscribed area of a safari vehicle or the grounds of a lodge or official campground.  The restriction against walking around took some getting used to, but you sure can see a lot of large animals if you’re driving around in a 4-wheel drive vehicle! We had 7 of us (our driver, my nuclear family, and my brother-in-law and his girlfriend) for most of the trip in a Land Cruiser with a pop-up top, and we traded turns sitting in the front, back and middle, each of which has different strengths and weaknesses.

We were not alone in wanting to see the lions.

On our first day, we started out from Arusha (whose cool, lush environment was heavenly after the heat of equatorial Zanzibar’s current, ongoing electricity blackout), and went on our first day up into Ngorongoro Crater, where we drove down into the crater and saw a mind-boggling number of animals we’d only seen before in zoos, and we later stayed at a lodge up on the crater rim.  On our second day (my son’s birthday), we drove to Lake Ndutu and stayed at the incomparable Ndutu Lodge, where they made birthday cake (not on their usual menu, so the frosting was colored with whatever was around—namely coffee powder and turmeric). On the third day, we drove out of Ngorongoro and into the Serengeti, over an endless plain of wildebeest and zebras, and we stayed in tents for our third and fourth nights at Seronera Campground, in the Serengeti (the sound of hyenas outside our nylon tent was a little unnerving, but it was nice to be camping on a new continent). On our fifth day, we had a long drive back, stopping at Olduvai to pay homage to the awe-inspiring birthplace of humankind, then through Ngorongoro and down to Lake Manyara, where we camped again, this time at a KOA-style campground before we headed back to Arusha.

As much as seeing the animals, we enjoyed seeing the subtle changes in landscape, from the lush coffee farms around Arusha, to the wild brambles of Ngorongoro Rim, to the dry riverbed of Ndutu, to the grassy plains of Serengeti, to the awesome eroded rock walls of Oldupai. So many different kinds of places are Africa.

my husband and me in a Maasai home

A part of the trip that we hadn’t anticipated was visiting a Maasai boma, or village, in Ngorongoro Crater.  We were all somewhat ambivalent about visiting real people displaying themselves and their homes to us (much wealthier) outsiders.  Having talked with some Maasai people in Stone Town, we also knew that Maasai are divided about inviting outsiders into villages because the performance of Maasai identity changes villagers’ relationship both with their heritage and with other people in their village.  But at the same time, when else would we get to see a Maasai village?

The experience was both hokey and moving. When our safari vehicle drove up (and after we paid), we were greeted by a Maasai men’s jumping competition, accompanied by women’s singing.  I was unable to learn what the words of the song were about (our guide told us it was “just a traditional song”), but I was happy to see one of the women goofing around after the official ceremony and showing off her jumping skills to the other women.  It’s been a while since I’ve seen a woman showing off her athleticism.

after the men's jumping was over

The highlight and least varnished aspect of the trip was unexpected.  My husband was looking at a Maasai club, and he asked how much it cost.  The chief answered, “I like your watch.”  I think both of them were surprised when my husband said, “Okay: Trade?” Then there was a whole complicated set of maneuvers that ended with my husband trading his newish watch and a bit of cash for a different and much fancier beaded club as a birthday present for our son, whose birthday was the next day.  It was oddly satisfying; my husband really did like his watch but enjoyed showing the chief its indiglo and other features, the chief really likes his new watch, and my son really does like his club.

The central piece of safari, though, is the animals. Our mission every day on our “game drives” was to go spot some particular kind of animal known to be in a general area at that time in the small rainy season.  My husband added over 100 birds to his lifetime bird list, and we all saw more animals than it is interesting to list.  We by no means were able to watch any animals long enough to really observe their behavioral patterns, but between glimpsing them for a while plus a lifetime of watching animal shows, visiting zoos, and reading, it was a pretty satisfying education.  Here are a few animal photos from our safari.