I am almost all caught up. This post is actually from last week (Jun 30 – July 4).

Co-workers return from their vacations and my fears of a rut are temporarily avoided (but may be multiplied, depending on the outcome of the next sentence). Two large problems present themselves and promise to make the rest of the summer more interesting. I discover Lebanese food and play volleyball in a pool. I also see a bazooka for the first time in my life. Sacre bleu

First problem. Most of the movement in the last two years in this country has come with a lot of prodding and advocating from the building I’m working in, but this week we learn that our boss will be departing for Sudan. There is no small amount of bad-ness in this news, because it means that a great deal of energy and experience will leave with him. There is a real possibility that the momentum built up will probably dissipate, leaving the international NGOs here in a lurch.

Second problem. The power issues I also mentioned before worsened considerably during the week. Normally, the power will cut at night for several hours and everyone is used to that. Different grids around the city receive different levels of service: the presidential palace, for example, never has any worries. Other lower-income areas may have no or little power. Other areas, reputedly home to assorted favored friends and aquaintances of the leadership, may not suffer as many power cuts. Interruptions during the day are unusual, but easily dealt with by turning on a loud, snarling generator that drinks something like 26 liters of fuel an hour.

During week #3 we noticed that the generator was turning on more often, and for longer. We began to hear rumors that there was something wrong with the turbines in Boali, the place with the waterfall (singular). Something had been caught in the turbine? Then we heard that in trying to fix the turbine, the authorities discovered that the necessary spare parts had been stolen. One could discern a rationing pattern by the middle of the week: the power would be out all day, but would be on for one or two hours at night, around dinner time. By the end of the week (#3) it was clear that there was no power, at all, available for our building or for the surrounding blocks. Even at night.

What had been hazy rumors and well-that’s-just-Bangui-for-you talk now acquired a more urgent tone. By the start of my week #4 information was more readily available. Now the story was that the turbine had been hit by lightning, but the copper grounding wires had been stolen for sale in the current lucrative market for copper. The damaged turbine, before capable of 24 megawatts, now could put out only eight. Or four, no one is really sure. The government made an emergency announcement that we should all prepare for six months of intermittent power. Another story had the French government offering a 22 million bailout package, on the condition that they managed how the repair money was spent. In this story, the president refused, demanding that the local government be given sole jurisdiction over this new pot of gold.

Whatever the truth of the background story, Bangui’s burgeoning progress has crashed to a halt. Bodies in morgues are being buried because there is no power to keep them cold. Hospitals are using emergency generators and there are worries (among the expat community) about the cleanliness of water, the availability of health care, and other essential services that rely on electricity. So now the darkness is upon Bangui, a very real reminder of just how far the country has to go, and just how basic some of the issues are. Water, power, organization, coordination. Perhaps not simple, but important for sure.

With the generator limping along at work, the darkness only affects me at night, where I head home to cook in the dark after working until the power goes out (maybe 7 or 8pm). By the end of the week, the office operations manager has worked out a rationing scheme to keep us working for some hours a week, while preserving the generator. I’m not sure what plan B is. On July 2nd, the US ambassador hosted a soiree at his house in honor of the 232nd birthday of the US. I arrived late with a fellow American, after the CAR president had arrived. This meant that his personal security detail, some of the largest stony-est-faced people I’ve met. Our taxi was stopped a block short of the residence by several men with machine guns. One approached the cab holding a large bazooka, poked his head in, and suggested that we proceed ahead on foot. We agreed. Most the the invitees were other diplomats, Central African politicians, and a smattering of Americans (mostly missionaries). I met some other NGO kids and had some nice samosas, but was disappointed by the obvious lack of hot dogs and Budweiser. Fourth of July party, my derriere.

One of the four embassy staff invited this group of NGOers over for an afternoon at his pool, so Saturday afternoon passed by in a nice haze of local beverages and volleyball in the pool. Another retreat to the bubble, but a welcome one after a week of on-again off-again power cuts and frustrations at work.

The darkness makes every little thing an adventure. Walking home, for instance. I should stress again that this city, or more accurately large village, is perfectly safe. I haven’t encountered any problems, nor have I heard of anyone having issues beyond the occasional dispute with a vendor or taxi driver over inflated foreigner prices. But all the same, the one block walk home is interesting. Expats tend to cluster around the well-lit restaurants and domiciles like moths in the night, which makes every evening a social one. Unless you go home and cook in the dark, then read in your headlamp’s pool of light.  Not so fun, after several nights in a row.

But:  that’s how almost everyone in the CAR lives.  So the silver lining is that I’m more in tune with local life than I was before.  I’ve never appreciated electrons more.