Government by the people

While we say we have democracy and the free market in the West, we don't really employ it at anything other than a macro-governmental level. Even then it's more republican - government by representative - than direct governance by citizens. Heck, we don't even elect our president.. those enigmatic elector chaps do.

Shift a few time zones to the east, and you arrive on a continent notorious for the tendency of its governments to creatively reinterpret democratic institutions. Legislatures serve to approve the decisions of the rulers; judiciaries serve to legitimize them. Elections are regime birthday parties. National security and presidential security are blurred to the point of serving the same function. Welcome to Africa, home of some of the world's longest-ruling/ most-murdering/ best-manipulating rulers in the world... and several of my favorites among them. Speaking of which, may I dedicate this entire entry to the all-too-timely passing of one of the longest.. Rest In Conscience, Omar Bongo. Perhaps now Gabon finally has its own decades-late shot at free and fair elections, but from the critical vantage point of many of my jaded countrymen, democracy anywhere on the continent too often has an icicle's chance in hell.

But in the most interesting way, at the most basic level Africa has stripped away all the trash we pile on top of popular rule and the free market. Welcome to Africa, the world's last preserve of Micro-Democracy.

You see it in the haggling - in a world where the only real price is the price you're willing to pay, there is no such thing as vendor decree. Instead, the buyer (me) and the seller (her) settle on a balance, some number in the hopefully overlapping ranges of the highest price I'm willing to pay, and the lowest price at which she can still make a profit. There is a price below which the sale is no longer worth it to her, and a corresponding price above which the item isn't worth it to me. The haggle system is idyllic in that it favors the perfect result every time - a compromise in which the buyer walks away happy because they found an item they wanted/needed at an acceptable price, and the vendor goes home happy because she made the highest profit possible.

The system is attended by all the non-governmental controls theory predicts - with more time than money, consumers will check their wares over carefully before purchase, and vendors know that low-quality or spoiled wares either won't sell well, or won't sell at all. Even under most dictatorships, the micro-economy will still continue to function under democratic principles. It's as simple as that, it's Friedrich Hayek's dream - it's a free market.


You see it in the group compromise - when David warned me early on that I wouldn't always be able to open my window on a stuffy bus, I understood him to mean that the windows were often stuck shut. (Which they are.) I accepted that, but couldn't believe what he had actually meant - that other people in the bus not wanting my window open would mean I couldn't have it open.

"What do you mean, other people??" I demanded indignantly, fresh in my righteous American individualism. "It's my window, they can keep their own windows open or closed however they like."

He warned me that such an attitude might not get far, and he was right - in shock would I discover that the cross Ethiopian women sitting meters away from me in the bus could actually claim power over the window right next to my face. The force at work was one I came to appreciate (and, in time, also use) - crowd appeal. If the women could convince a few other people to ally with them against just me, they already had a clear majority to my minority, and even the window-apathetic factions in the bus would recognize their right to tell an outvoted minority what to do with her window. I wallowed in scandalized outrage each time this happened, each time I was consigned to gasping away the dusty hours in a 100°F bus only millimeters of glass away from the fresh air outside, just because some dumb #@$*% didn't want to mess up her hair. It's probably pretty obvious that a part of me still hasn't gotten over this. But I've learned to accept the fairness behind it - even small affairs I intend to control myself will be subject to a democratic system of approval or repeal.


You see it in the power of popular pressure - I perhaps did not truly appreciate the fairness of crowd appeal until a memorable pick-up ride in Zanzibar. We had paid the herder with a large bill for the trip, and asked the price from him; upon inquiring from other passengers in the truck bed what the real fare was, we asked him for our change. Seeking to squeeze a little extra profit out of the situation, he first feigned ignorance, then denied what the other passengers said, before finally decreeing that it didn't matter since we were foreigners anyway. The awkward discussion grew increasingly heated in the small benched space until he and David flew into equal and opposite rages.

Despite all David's fury, without the resource of crowd appeal, we would probably never have seen our ten bucks again. As it was, David and I enlisted the quiet sympathy of the other passengers, all of whom had witnessed the situation and all of whom knew the exact fare. Though the herder might have been able to convince just one other person to go along with him on grounds of racial solidarity, in the face of a local crowd he had no choice but eventual capitulation.

The ultimate returning of change was judiciously, impartially, and professionally brokered by the two men across from David, a senior Muslim and a middle-aged businessman who emerged by their status and age as Arbiters. (This, by the way, is just as important a personality as any I've ever talked about before - even more interesting than the Shopper - and has become by far my favorite.) Their calm counsel was understood to represent the local opinion, and they were thus able to exert far more pressure on the herder to relinquish our money than any threat we could have made. Popular pressure demanded that he back down, and popular pressure alone upheld the standards of fairness.


And when members of society break that trust, you see it in the instant (and all too excessive) public justice. While in areas of tension this goes dangerously overboard, in daily life it serves to settle disputes fairly - as in Zanzibar - or punish unacceptable behavior. A guilty party may present to those present their excuses or mitigating factors - think of it as an instant trial, with a jury of witnesses. A judge (the Arbiter) emerges naturally among the bystanders as a local authority, perhaps a senior member of the community, or just someone who can command a presence of calm impartiality and reason. Redress is decided upon and carried out, and in irreparable cases the transgressors of acceptable conduct are punished with shaming.

I'm not sure if this would work in the private, individual culture of the United States, where scorned refractory citizens are all too happy to retreat from the public eye to the sacred territory of their own home (or the internet). Here in Africa, however, to be shamed is worse than a slap. The power of public shame is immense, the mere threat of which serves to hold together the delicate trust fibers of one of Africa's best inventions - Window Shopping.

I was blown away the first time I ever witnessed the window shopping. Though I wouldn't have imagined it, it was impossibly simple - as vehicles slow for police roadblocks or speed-bumps, locals from neighboring villages run up to the car or bus windows bearing goods for sale in their hands or on their heads. Passengers roll down their windows or lean down from high seats to peruse the wares, which most often are local produce, but occasionally other food or crafts.

In creating thus the potential for direct producer--consumer exchange at minimum prices and maximum profit, the window market makes perfect sense.. until you remember that it's taking place on one side from the interior of a barely paused vehicle, and sometimes at a vertical distances so great participants have to throw things at each other. All too often transactions are completed as the vendor begins to jog alongside the bus, hand outstretched to catch that last coin as it drops from the window, or holding the purchased sack of freshly fried dough-balls towards receding fingertips. Yet I have almost never seen a failed sale. Each time the buyer manages to catch all his purchases, and the vendor (often a kid), all his coins.

As an American I never understood this - what's to make sure I really do toss down my coins after my wares are thrown up? I'd only have to hold out a moment before the bus began to move, and then I'd be scot-free. Or alternatively, what's to stop them from grabbing the coins and scampering off if I throw down first, or if I don't have exact change? One of us has to go first, and neither of us is in a position to protest if the other doesn't follow through.

David and I discussed this through several countries before deciding that in the case of a cheating vendor, the passenger must ask the driver to stop; likewise, against a cheating customer, the locals must flag the driver down. This didn't really provide a satisfying explanation, however, because what's to say the bus-driver cooperates? or even hears over the oft-blaring radio? We still wondered.

Our Congolese train trip killed this fledgling theory beyond any resuscitation, for despite the conductor being insulated from any appeal dozens of cars away, the window market was as strong as ever. Yet it also ultimately revealed the true explanation behind why the window market works in

As we delayed for a 'croisement', women and kids from the neighboring villages swarmed below the train windows with platters on their heads. Aside from the varied produce were bottled drinks, plastic sacks, clothes, grilled meat, and tupperware, but I wasn't paying much attention to the market. When we finally started rolling again, a clamor taking place outside the bus drew even my sleepy, jaded attention; women and kids were screaming and began to run alongside the train, now gathering speed. Other locals noticed and began to yell also, smacking on the side of the car below the high windows and attracting the notice of the other passengers, who instantly got involved. A female Arbiter emerged from the seat behind me - she was a really cool, friendly lady with natural presence - and pushed her way up the crowded aisle to sort out the situation. As it was all conducted in a local language, I couldn't follow the details, but it was pretty obvious that a man on the train had somehow cheated the woman still sprinting alongside the train, yelling with energy but falling behind. The Arbiter was pissed at such a clear breach of the window-market trust, and the entire train car fell silent as things got ugly. Though it was kind of too late for payment, it was our impression that under popular pressure, he did throw the last few coins out the window for the woman to hopefully find later; excuses were muttered but not accepted, and as the Arbiter made her way back to her seat, her stony face signalled the response of the entire train car, quietly united in their disapproval of this one man.

I imagine that the remaining 6 hours in the crowded car were not very pleasant for him. Maybe it was worth the 80 cents for him. Maybe in American eyes, he still got away with it. But here in Africa, where 80 cents can mean a lot of money, the honor is still worth more.


So Africa may not be a champion of democracy as we know it, but it definitely employs government by the people. Democracy can be a bit thin at the national level, and it isn't always assured that your government will watch your back.. but at least you know that the people will.

Introducing...

This morning I woke up to David bouncing around in his pajamas, clapping his hands and singing with great energy his most hated song, known to us only as.. the Jambo Song.

This is an idiotic and highly repetitive tune created chiefly for the delight of simple-minded tourists and played, to David’s eternal chagrin, continually on loop along certain parts of the Swahili coast. As near as we can tell, the lyrics consist entirely of the words “Jambo”, “Karibu”, and “Hakuna matata”.


Of course, I have to take his word for all this, as I have – infuriatingly, to him – only heard the Jambo Song once, at Fort Jesus in Mombasa, and its catchy childish spirit did not for whatever reason lodge in my memory at all.

It is perhaps because of David’s extremely well-respected reputation as an incisive, talented and controversial scholar among both the peers of his field and his legitimately worshipful students that I have chosen to introduce him with this particular image, clapping and singing, to those of my own acquaintance – that is, those readers deprived enough to know this man only through my writings. Their loss, truly, for half the adventure on this marvelous trip comes from David himself.


The first thing to know about David is that he is fascinating. He’s got stories to shock and delight from five continents, as well as a mind like a sponge for information. So many times on this trip, trapped in a dusty bus for half a day, I have said something along the lines of “So tell the entire history of Iran for the past hundred years” and he can actually do it. And will, too, without complaints! I’ve learned more in the past three months than I did my entire freshman year. The best part is, he’s completely unpretentious about it, hedging immediately if he isn’t absolutely sure on some remote fact, and he makes it interesting by adding personal details along the way.

The second thing I would have to say about the prof, and this has probably saved my life a dozen times, is that he is quintessentially capable. David knows how to recognize and avoid tinderbox situations long before they ignite, he’s flexible and open-minded enough to roll with traveling in all its unpredictable glory, and he has a sixth sense for sniffing out scams. And even when we do get into a sticky pickle, he can talk his way out of anything in three different languages.

Most of the time, it’s all I can do to watch and learn.

Even if the above traits have played a much more critical role in the success of this trip, my favorite thing about David is, frankly, that he’s fun. I’m usually pretty needy for alone time and social diversity, but was amazed to realize somewhere in Ethiopia how long it had been since I’d hung out with anyone else, and how much I hadn’t noticed. David’s like that – you can spend two hours or two months talking with him and not get bored. He has a quick sense of humor, a good listening ear, and a lot of buoyant optimism that can get you through the most frustrating bureaucratic red tape. He’s also not above bouncing around our hotel room at 6:30 a.m. singing because we’ve been having a spectacular trip for three months, and are (insha’allah) going to continue having a spectacular trip for four.


Unfortunately, the aforementioned playful side means that David is not above inflicting certain petty cruelties on me, his hassled and long-suffering traveling companion. Living together for this long, we’ve become more than familiar with each other’s little vulnerabilities, and David knows well that the threat of going to the same restaurant twice, putting his feet on my pillow (keep in mind they look like mine), or, god forbid, giving me a sweat-hug - gah! - will make me capitulate pretty quickly.

Thus the need for MAT, Mutually Assured Torture, so I am doing my best to pick up the Jambo Song from him. Despite not knowing it at all, now that it’s been stuck in his head for ten days I’ve had ample opportunity to listen to it (or his rendition of it), and think I could reproduce it at will. I intend to bust it out at just the moment when it finally fades from his uppermost consciousness to lie dormant below the surface, waiting only for a well-timed “JAMBO!!” from me to revive it in force. I’m really looking forward to that moment, though it will probably earn me a faceful of his vile sweat towel.

And just as he’s getting over his first fits of rage at the unexpected comeback of this Swahili tormentor, I plan to remind him that really, it’s only thanks to him that I know the song at all.

An Evening Guest

Having become more than familiar with the nightly pest of mosquitos, I've become something of a conoisseur of mosquito netting. My discerning eye goes beyond simply checking for holes or tears, but judges whether the set-up actually provides an impenitrable barrier from all flying guests from the top to the bottom.
A key part of this impenitrability is that the net is hung properly, not draped over a space that may already contain mosquitos, and walking into my Stone Town hotel room on Zanzibar Island, I instantly saw a problem. The lovely four-poster bed had a cube-shaped mosquito net drapped around it reaching down to the floor, but left (for how long???) completely open on one side.

Huh, I thought, looking at the wide-open-and-likely-already-contaminated space inside my bed, it really wouldn't be that big a trick for something - say, a malarial mosquito - to fly in there.

Prophetic words.


10:00 p.m.: I am currently sitting on my four-poster bed, protectively enclosed inside my cavernous mosquito netting. There are at least three mosquitos and one bird in here with me.

Admittedly, the bird currently has the lion's share of my attention.

He's a small brown sparrow, he's very frightened, and I've spent the greater part of an hour this evening trying to catch him or otherwise get him out of any one of the three large wide-open windows in our room, without success.

I actually believed, until about five minutes ago, that I had finally succeeded in this endeavor through a clever plan involving my bed, the curtain, and most of my mosquito net.
I settled down to enjoy my mosquitoy bed for the night.

Then we heard a sudden frantic flapping of wings, and realized he was actually under my bed, inside the floor-length netting. In a twinkling he was flapping and clawing his way up the inside of the netting in a desperate bid for freedom, only to end up in the main [enclosed] part of my bed. He landed finally on part of the bedpost. I've taken his picture but don't really know what else to do. If I leave the netting open for him the mosquitos will come in. It's kind of late, and I'd like to go to bed. I don't really mind him in here, and in fact it's kind of a relief because at least in here he's safe from the whirring ceiling fan above us that has threatened to slice his high-flying feathery body to bits all evening.


10:30 p.m.: After spending the last half hour in calm acceptance that I would be bedding down with a bird, it occurred to me that birds have to eat a lot. And frequently. And that my bird-bedmate might be hungry. If I kept him trapped overnight, how hungry would he be in the morning?

Then I wondered how long he had already been trapped inside our wide-open-window prison of a room.

Then I began to worry whether there was a nest of baby sparrows somewhere, waiting hungrily for him or her, potentially at the brink of starvation (how often do baby birds need to eat??).

I renewed with horrified zeal my trapping efforts.

Armed with a wastebasket, I chased the terrified bird in slow pursuit around the inside of my four-poster-bed-tent. I relied heavily on the same tactics I would use for a spider, though the bird's three-dimensional flight plan definitely increased the challenge involved. Small bird, small flying space, big trash can... it was only a matter of time.

Once safely netted inside the wastebasket with a mosquito-netting lid, I maneuvered the whole thing around the edge of my bed until it was next to the window. The next bit was tricky. Pushing the whole thing physically beyond the windowsill, I gave a quick tug at the netting - swish, and voila- the bird was free to fly.

Which it didn't.
The wastebasket actually seemed to be quite comfortable.
I was not a very accomodating host, however, and rapped the trash can a couple times until it finally flew out the window. SUCCESS!!! I congratulated myself. I AM A CHAMPION OF BIRDERS!!

I then settled back down (a third time) for a good night's sleep.


11:00 p.m.: Not ten minutes after the Great Liberation, I heard a familiar flapping of wings outside. Perhaps offended by the graceless manner in which I booted him outside, my bird has come back. He is currently perched on the windowsill. I think he wants back in here. I kind of want to bang my head against the wall, but frankly.. I'm just going go to sleep. Bonne nuit, birdbrain..