notes on electricity.

This post differs from others in that it is not written in prose form, but rather as short snippets taken over time from my own journal.
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I've never heard more gun blasts, explosions, machine guns, bomb detonations and screams of bloody terror as I have since living in Madagascar. It's not because I live in a war zone, far from it, in fact. The Malagasy people are overall peaceful pacifists; the slow, gentle pace of African life in a tropical climate prevails here. The sounds of war come to me daily via my noisy neighbor's television set. It is hard to hear gun blasts and violence day in and day out. Still, I try to take comfort in the fact that at least it is just the soundtrack of a movie and not a real war zone, as countless others around the world must face everyday. I can't help but wonder though what sort of impact these movies- and all that comes with modern entertainment- will have on the culture and the people here.
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When the wind stops blowing in my village, the electricity goes out. Then I do a secret dance of joy. Finally, no more synthesized accordian 90's-style club jams blasting at high decibals from 4:45 AM to 11 at night. Finally, time to hear the songbirds. Finally, some peace & quiet... or not. When the wind picks up again, the noise commences simultaneously.
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I thought when I moved to a rural village in Africa, my life would be an extension of the one I spent during my years in wilderness (and admittedly, there are parts that are... rising with the sun, awareness of the moon and night sky cycles, living harmoniously with dirt, trees and the seasons). I just never expected it to be so loud. I am one of the few (lucky?) environment volunteers who lives in a village where there is electricity, thanks to a couple of windmills that were installed about a year ago. Having electricity has certain implications- for myself, as I can easily charge my cell phone and ipod, but more importantly, for the villagers who are experiencing living with it for the first time in their lives. They pay for electricity based on how many lightbulbs are in their houses, not by their usage. They are just figuring out now what payment system is fair, and what is not... in their own slow, passive way.
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If it's not some war movie, then it's Malagasy music; I honestly cannot say which is worse.
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Overnight, the air was still; this morning there was no electricity and the ocean was as smooth as glass- the first time I'd ever seen it that way. I asked one of the old women at the coffee shack if she liked the town quiet like this, with no music. "Ehee!," she implored, "zaho tia tanana mareseka be!" (Which, of course means she prefers the town "mareseka," a difficult word to translate as there are many definitions depending on the context: fun, lively, much talked about, full, people moving about, like a party, etc.) Since villagers are now only quiet when someone dies, she said it was like the whole town was sad. The whole town, that is, except for me, who enjoyed waking to the sound of songbirds this morning for the first time in seven months.
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If a town lost electricity in America, it would be a great inconvenience, maybe even newsworthy, complete with reporters and technicians working around the clock to remedy the problem. When it happened here the other night, my neigbor moved a woven mat into her yard and watched the almost-full moon rise above the coconut trees, talking to her husband and daughter in hushed, wonderous voices.