Wilson Pickett: "In the Midnight Hour"
I was assigned to Nsanje, Malawi (in Central Africa), in the Peace Corps, 1966 to 1968. Nsanje is at the southern tip of Malawi, almost a hundred miles from the nearest paved road, and probably the least developed and poorest district of the country. Hot, dry, almost desert in the dry season; hot, less dry, green, with occasional deluges from the sky during the rainy season. Living in the capital of the district (called a "boma"), we had the luxury of electricity, from noon to midnight. My partner and I were in a tuberculosis control program and worked in the local hospital; if we needed to take x-rays before noon, we would send a messenger to the generator station to start the electricity earlier. In our home, we had our kerosene lamps and our kerosene refrigerator.
Very few people spoke English. With good language training and "total immersion" in the language (Nyanja), my partner and I soon became very comfortable with it, enjoying its rhythm, and reaching the point of overhearing others' conversations without even being conscious of doing so. I was even speaking in Nyanja in my sleep, and did so for about six months after returning to the US. Sometimes, listening to our portable radio, English and the Romance languages sounded so familiar, and so different from Nyanja that we had to pause and consciously listen, to identify the language and determine whether it was English.
Nights were dark, though not as dark as we would expect, without cars or trucks around, without streetlights, other outdoor lights, or clusters of stores, and the power off at midnight. The most light came from the stars and the moon, benefiting from the lack of air and light pollution, and dry air; the stars blanketed the sky and the moon, when full, was bright enough for reading outside without any other light. The boma was surrounded by villages, and because of a variety of dangerous animals and concerns about spirits, few people ventured out after dark, except for village ceremonial dances illuminated by fires. We frequently heard drumming in the surrounding villages, late into the nights; unlike characters in movies who complained of the constant drumming, we loved it and would occasionally follow the sounds and park ourselves near the musicians. Nights were often magical.
And on our portable, short wave radio we found “Midnight Soul,” broadcast every Saturday night starting at midnight, just as the power was shut off, from Lourenço Marques, Mozambique's capital city. Each broadcast began with their signature tune, Wilson Pickett belting out, "In the Midnight Hour." How perfect was that: the feeling of being comfortable in a very different culture, almost magical nights, only starlight and moonlight, outside, and a fountain of soul coming out of the night sky like a blessing? Over a half-century later, that song still does things to me.