Light(s) Out
Ghana's rainy season has been markedly dry this year and the Akosombo dam, which provides power to Ghana and two other West African countries, has dipped to its lowest level in nearly 20 years. This is not good news: it is only the tail-end of the rainy season (okay, really, it's the start of the dry season -- hotter and hotter each day -- but everyone seems to refer to it as "the tail-end" because it's still raining) and already they're rationing power.
It needs to rain in Burkina and northern Ghana in order for the dam to fill properly and since Burkina is terminally dusty and dry, I'm not sure there's much hope for improvement. When I was in Tamale, it pissed rain in an utterly surprising way. Two days of the 10 I was there, it poured, poured, poured rain, and there was nothing to do but sit by the window and marvel.
When it rains at home, it’s timid and meek, sometimes unpredictable, often sustained over long periods of time and usually given to showers that fall neatly down in drops that are easily shielded by an umbrella. Here when it rains, it just goes for broke, turns on all the taps and lets the floods go. It has a noise and a rhythm and is usually unpredictable. In Liberia, where it rains every day, it comes without warning and goes just as quickly, sometimes before the sun has gotten out of the way. Because almost every building in Accra – and most cities in Africa, for that matter – are domed with corrugated steel, the rain takes on a kind of echo, falling heavily and banging out a rhythm.
The rain in Tamale, which came loud and fast and long, lasting more than four hours at a go, first started with splotches the size of quarters and quickly fell so heavily it was no longer possible to distinguish one drop from another. Then it began blowing in from every direction and just when you thought it was at its heaviest and the streets had been cleared and the sewers were raging and the rain was sluicing off the roofs in rivers, it found more holes in the heavens and came down even harder, moving in visible sheets that blurred neighbourhoods and completely obscured the tiny bit of landscape I could see from my room at the guesthouse.
Regardless of the rain, we're already doing something called "load shedding." That means that every two days, it's "lights out." It's also, as far as I'm concerned, the way of the future. Pretty soon there's not going to be any country that doesn't do "load shedding" to stave off "brown outs" and whatever other fantastic euphemistic language they come to mean "too many consumers, not enough power."
When I was in Uganda, the power rationing was actually more severe. One day you got 12 hours in the day, the next you got 12 hours at night. We planned our lives around it, had dinner at Rohini's when the power was on and when it wasn't, we went to the spot or out to a restaurant around Bugolobi Flats. (Such a great name; right up there with Ouagadougou.) It's nearly the same here, except that I have no money right now and am not making it to the drinking spot. Instead, for the past two "lights out" nights, I've sat in the dark, reading by candlelight, cursing the power outtages and my serious lack of friends in my adopted home. It's been, shall we say, depressing.
I find the rotation much better than the old way -- "dammit the power's out!" and having no idea when it might flicker back on -- but still, it's not ideal. The spots are probably doing booming business and no one is seriously crabby yet because the ngihts are still cool enough that you can sleep without a fan or AC. But come December, look out. Oh, look out. The traffic is sometimes terrible, because even though everyone knows when the power is going to go out in a certain area, the cops are not keeping up with replacing the lights with traffic cops, so it's always a bit of a snarl around some of the major intersections. (A typical picture is to see every car nose to nose and drivers frantically waving and screaming bloody murder at one another. Again, may I just say: it's called a queue and sometimes it makes life easier.)
The day time power outtages are actually somehow more obnoxious, mostly because I find it impossible to get anything done while I'm counting down the minutes of battery I have left. Plus, the Internet doesn't work from home when the power's out. And lately the phone has been blinking on and off, costing me at least one assignment.
Sigh...
It needs to rain in Burkina and northern Ghana in order for the dam to fill properly and since Burkina is terminally dusty and dry, I'm not sure there's much hope for improvement. When I was in Tamale, it pissed rain in an utterly surprising way. Two days of the 10 I was there, it poured, poured, poured rain, and there was nothing to do but sit by the window and marvel.
When it rains at home, it’s timid and meek, sometimes unpredictable, often sustained over long periods of time and usually given to showers that fall neatly down in drops that are easily shielded by an umbrella. Here when it rains, it just goes for broke, turns on all the taps and lets the floods go. It has a noise and a rhythm and is usually unpredictable. In Liberia, where it rains every day, it comes without warning and goes just as quickly, sometimes before the sun has gotten out of the way. Because almost every building in Accra – and most cities in Africa, for that matter – are domed with corrugated steel, the rain takes on a kind of echo, falling heavily and banging out a rhythm.
The rain in Tamale, which came loud and fast and long, lasting more than four hours at a go, first started with splotches the size of quarters and quickly fell so heavily it was no longer possible to distinguish one drop from another. Then it began blowing in from every direction and just when you thought it was at its heaviest and the streets had been cleared and the sewers were raging and the rain was sluicing off the roofs in rivers, it found more holes in the heavens and came down even harder, moving in visible sheets that blurred neighbourhoods and completely obscured the tiny bit of landscape I could see from my room at the guesthouse.
Regardless of the rain, we're already doing something called "load shedding." That means that every two days, it's "lights out." It's also, as far as I'm concerned, the way of the future. Pretty soon there's not going to be any country that doesn't do "load shedding" to stave off "brown outs" and whatever other fantastic euphemistic language they come to mean "too many consumers, not enough power."
When I was in Uganda, the power rationing was actually more severe. One day you got 12 hours in the day, the next you got 12 hours at night. We planned our lives around it, had dinner at Rohini's when the power was on and when it wasn't, we went to the spot or out to a restaurant around Bugolobi Flats. (Such a great name; right up there with Ouagadougou.) It's nearly the same here, except that I have no money right now and am not making it to the drinking spot. Instead, for the past two "lights out" nights, I've sat in the dark, reading by candlelight, cursing the power outtages and my serious lack of friends in my adopted home. It's been, shall we say, depressing.
I find the rotation much better than the old way -- "dammit the power's out!" and having no idea when it might flicker back on -- but still, it's not ideal. The spots are probably doing booming business and no one is seriously crabby yet because the ngihts are still cool enough that you can sleep without a fan or AC. But come December, look out. Oh, look out. The traffic is sometimes terrible, because even though everyone knows when the power is going to go out in a certain area, the cops are not keeping up with replacing the lights with traffic cops, so it's always a bit of a snarl around some of the major intersections. (A typical picture is to see every car nose to nose and drivers frantically waving and screaming bloody murder at one another. Again, may I just say: it's called a queue and sometimes it makes life easier.)
The day time power outtages are actually somehow more obnoxious, mostly because I find it impossible to get anything done while I'm counting down the minutes of battery I have left. Plus, the Internet doesn't work from home when the power's out. And lately the phone has been blinking on and off, costing me at least one assignment.
Sigh...
posted by Palmer in Africa at 1:29 PM
2 Comments:
Hey dude
I like the sound of knowing when the power's going to be on, and when off. If, for example, I knew the power was going to be off during the day on a Tuesday, I would go to see my favourite band on Monday night until 5am, then sleep during the day on Tuesday, then start work on Tuesday night.
As it is, we have no power most of the time, but we have no warning. So if a story is due on Wednesday morning, and I want to go out on Tuesday night while we have power, I don't know if I should stay in and do the story because we might have no power on Wednesday, or to go out and file it in the morning. As it stands now, I can neither go out, nor stay in, with my mind at ease. Still, I would just rather have power.
It is amazing the simple things we take for granted. I should clarify: when I say 'we' -- I mean the 'first world' citizens. People who flick on their coffee pots, microwaves, radios, tvs and hairdryers ALL in the name of morning ritual. What would we do IF we were suddenly told that on Tuesday, Thursay, Friday and Sunday mornings we would not be afforded this luxury. That in an effort to ration power (and share the wealth) we would have to go without. OH! The outrage.
And yet, your existence right now is a reality in so many parts of the world. I remember rationing in India. One day power. Next day none. And yes, there was the migration of people -- from no-power areas to areas with power. It was remarkable (and chaotic). And it was reality.
I also remember the self-imposed isolation. THAT I remember far too clearly. If it's any consulation...the isolation creates a deeper, richer inner you. That's my theory anyway -- and the fruition of which is never seen while IN the moment.
It was good to read your words, thoughts and deeds. I envy you and yet revel in my own comforts. Shameful, isn't it. As we get older we give up more of our ideals; we yearn for more comforts. I have to admit that for the first time, I was fed up with driving the beater car. For the first time I wanted to live a month without worrying about hand-to-mouth budgeting. Maybe it's a phase. Maybe not.
Thanks for sharing. I will talk to you soon.
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