Historians would readily agree that among the most important sources for Asante history are the written accounts of foreign visitors who traveled to Kumase during the nineteenth century. A work such as Ivor Wilks's Asante in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, 1975), for example, is almost unthinkable without T. E. Bowdich's Mission from Cape Castle to Ashantee (London, 1819) and Joseph Dupuis' Journal of a Residence in Ashantee (London, 1824). These two published and reprinted primary sources are justly famous for their rich evocations of encounters with Asantehene Osei Tutu Kwame (reigned 1804-23) and members of his court. But there are a number of unpublished accounts—and those published in relatively obscure places—which also contain important historical data but which are lesser known and less often cited by scholars. In English one thinks of, among others, British Governor William Winniett's journal of his visit to Kumase in 1848; in French the extensive notebooks of Marie-Joseph Bonnat; and in German, the report of the missionary A. Riis.

A number of Dutch-speaking visitors also traveled to Kumase during the nineteenth century and left valuable written accounts, though few have ever been published. Language barriers have often prevented full use of the rich data they contain. Among the more important are those of Willem Huydecoper in 1816-17, Jacob Simons in 1831-32, Jacobus de Bruijn in 1836-37, H. S. Pel in 1842, and David Mill Graves in 1857, extracts from whose journal I have translated below.

Graves served as secretary on a Dutch diplomatic and trade mission which was dispatched by Governor J. van den Bossche to the Asantehene, Kwaku Dua Panin (reigned 1834-67) in July 1857.

The extent of secure knowledge of the past of the groups of people known in scholarly literature as Baga is inconsiderable. This is in part because of the limited European interest in past times in the Baga homeland (on the coast of the post-colonial state of Guinée), and also in part because of limited scholarly investigations in recent times (the post-colonial state did not help by for long exiling or barring from access non-Marxist scholars).

Ethnographic and linguistic investigations have been undertaken only since the mid-nineteenth century and still amount to very little, with even less in print. Archeological investigations have yet to begin, apart from the brave attempt of Fred Lamp to date certain artefacts stylistically. As a result, in the 1990s the connotation and exact range of application of the term “Baga” remain unclear and the precise linguistic relationship of “the Baga language” with those neighboring languages that appear to form a language group is known only in outline. What this means that it is impossible to sum up the earlier history of the Baga briefly. The reader who continues and bravely tackles the listing and discussion of sources that follows will, however, be able to assess how much of the history can be securely reconstructed.

It is understandable that the desire to construct a history for the Baga has latterly turned on the interpretation of oral traditions. Such traditions now preferred by the Baga—or at least by certain sections, strata, or individuals—are patently of great interest to the anthropologist inasmuch as they depict what the present-day Baga, or some of them, wish to see as their past history and thus throw light on contemporary ideology and popular mindsets.

From time to time one encounters a situation where a wisp of a source yields evidence of momentous consequence for the understanding of a whole society in the past. Such a situation raises the question of how much evidentiary weight a slender source can credibly bear, for when the evidence is so slender or tenuous, the slightest misunderstanding or misinterpretation can lead to hugely magnified errors in historical reconstruction. At the same time, the more slender the evidence, the more tempted researchers will be to interpret it according to their own a priori vision of the past in question. This is a genuine problem which can only be overcome by finding more relevant evidence.

Such situations naturally crop up wherever sources (written or otherwise) are very rare, so that every scrap of evidence must be scrutinized and exploited with the greatest care and to its fullest extent, a common circumstance in African history in relation to written documents before ca. A.D. 1450 and documents at all times about topics such as, for instance, women's history or specific techniques of agriculture that were normally not recorded. The situation then, while unusual, is frequent enough to warrant a more detailed discussion of one such instance to illustrate what the problem is and how it can be tackled. This illustration will be the case of oratoi, a single word in the Periplus Maris Erythraei.

The Periplus is justly famous in African historiography. Known from a single manuscript now in Heidelberg and held to date from the early tenth century and a much later copy from that now in the British Museum, written in a mixture of classical and vulgar Greek by either a Greek living in Egypt or an Egyptian, and firmly dated to between AD 40-55, the Periplus contains the first, albeit succinct, information about the inhabitants of the East African coast, more than half a millennium before other comparable written mentions occur.

When I wrote two prominent European historians of western Africa that I was planning a trip to São Tomé and would check out the national archives, one replied: “Are there really local archives? The Cape Verdes seem to have lost theirs.” The other remarked that “[i]t would certainly be worth finding out whether any of the old archives are still on the island.” Even the person who would be my host there, a resident American official, had the impression that the Portuguese had carted off all the colonial records when São Tomé and Príncipe became independent in 1975.

I am happy to report that the Arquivo Histórico of the new nation is alive and surprisingly well. On my visit in March of 1996 I met two dedicated and cultivated young women who were doing their utmost against long odds to organize and preserve all that is left of their country's written records. They are Maria Nazaré Ceita, a trained historian who is Director General of Culture of São Tomé e Principe, and, under her, Anabela Barroso, Director of the Arquivo Histórico.

Since December of 1995 they and a tiny staff have been moving the archives into spacious, if spartan, new quarters in the heart of São Tomé city. The modernistic one-story building used to be the offices of the Prime Minister. When I visited the place, much had already been done. Long neat rows of boxed and dated dossiers were up on shelves, though jumbles of papers remained to be sorted. The archives also contains a small library for researchers and space for a large, as yet unfurnished, reading room.

When I first arrived at the National Archives of Zimbabwe in July of 1984, I was flattered and even a little embarrassed by the cosseting I got just for being a visiting researcher. The Archives' staff took a personal interest in me that extended beyond research and into the realm of creature comfort. The daily routine had more in common with a spa than a work place: tea was put on for researchers every morning and afternoon in the Archives' back garden, and the reading room closed early enough in the afternoon to make the first round of gin and tonics at the sun-downer. In other words, doing research at the National Archives was living a privileged existence.

That sort of privilege was replaced by a growing sense of professionalism and mainstreaming between 1985 and 1993. Morning and afternoon tea no longer played such an important role in the daily routine, and everything seemed busier. This was a change in tone, not a change in the physical or professional excellence of the institution: the grounds were still beautiful, the facilities were still clean and comfortable, and the staff were still friendly and helpful. But in 1989, and even more so in 1993, a feeling of intensity had replaced the sense of luxury and ease I had felt in 1984 and 1985. The National Archives had been transformed from a spa to a work place. And, in the process, researchers had also been transformed from guests to workers.

De Heeren Thienen, executives of the college of directors of the West-Indische Compagnie (W.I.C.) in Amsterdam, demanded that their directors-general in Elmina keep accurate journals or day books, copies of which had to be sent to Holland regularly and at short intervals (one to three months), to each of the five “Kamers” or Chambers: Amsterdam, Zeeland, Maas, Stad, and Lande en Noorderquartier. These journals were produced during most of the period of two and a half centuries that the Dutch resided at the Gold Coast. All of the still-existing journals are now stored at the Algemeen Rijksarchief (ARA) in The Hague in Holland.

Unfortunately, many of the manuscripts dating from before 1700 have gone, lost either by deliberate destruction, by thoughtless bureaucrats, or by accidental fires. Of the manuscripts now in the ARA many are in poor condition and are not available for consultation; others are being microfilmed, which makes studying these valuable documents somewhat tiresome. Fortunately, when I transcribed the day book of 1721 on my laptop computer, I was lucky enough to be able to use the original manuscript; a few weeks after I had finished this job the manuscript was microfilmed and is now available only in that format. The only other existing transcription of a journal of Elmina was published in 1953 by Karel Ratelband, whose Vijf dagregisters van het kasteel Sao Jorge Da Mina, covers the years 1645 to 1647.

The journals of Elmina written or dictated by the directors-general were used by the Heeren Thienen in Amsterdam primarily as a tool to control their staff on the Gold Coast.

The Malagasy proverb “You can't catch a locust if your armpit is not close to the ground” (Ny valala tsy azo raha tsy andrian'elika) perhaps characterizes archival research in Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar. There are at least eight research facilities with archival materials in town: the National Archives (Foiben'ny Arisivam-Pirenena Malagasy); the Academie Malgache; CIDST (Centre d'Information et de Documentation Scientifique et Technique); the National Library (Tranomboky-Pirenena); the University Library; and three church archives (American Lutheran, Norwegian Lutheran, and Catholic). In this paper I give some background information on the collections in the National Archives, outline how to use the facilities, provide an annotated bibliography of the finding aids there, and give some tips for one's stay in Antananarivo.

Madagascar's National Archives inherited many documents from the monarchical period. At the beginning of the colonial administration, the French deposited royal documents at the Queen's Palace (Rova) in Antananarivo. During their occupation they added documents from the territorial and central administrations. The whole collection was transferred to French headquarters before the Malagasy direction of Civil Affairs was created. On 1 March 1958 the Service des Archives de Madagascar was instituted. From then on, the archives have been under the jurisdiction of the head of government.

The National Archives are remarkable for their materials on the following topics: the history of the Malagasy people; their customs and practices; and their way of thinking that distinguishes them from the majority of other people. Moreover, the National Archives have collections that do not exist in other libraries, such as the Academie Malagasy and CIDST.

The White Fathers' (Missionary Society of Africa) Regional House outside Mwanza, Tanzania is the home of a small, but important archival collection for scholars researching those areas in Western Tanzania where the White Fathers lived and worked. The collection is relatively unknown, but for my research (social history with a focus on children) it was a gold mine of information. It also turned out to be the most pleasant archives to work in of all of the ones I consulted during my fieldwork experience.

The archives in Mwanza contain some of the same information that can be found in Rome at the White Fathers' headquarters, but provide a cheaper and closer alternative for those already in Tanzania. In the Regional House library are the Rapports Annuels of the mission society from the 1880s to the late 1950s and a full set of Chronique Trimestrielle (which later became Petit Echo). The Reports Annuels contain compilations of statistics (including the number of missionaries, sisters, catechists, neophytes, catechumens, baptisms of various categories, marriages, confessions, confirmations, boys and girls attending school for each mission station), as well as general reports about the nature and progress of the missionaries' work. Having already read the particular mission diaries in Rome, these reports were particularly helpful as they conveniently summarized trends and problems that priests saw in their work. As its name implies, the Chronique Trimestrielle was published four times a year and contained a variety of information about the missions and their work, but a primary focus was education. In addition, the library contains works on the mission society, its founder, Charles Lavigerie, and some important works on the Sukuma people and language.

The Scheut Archive is housed in a remote Roman suburb. Intriguingly enough, it was not mentioned in Lajos Pàsztor's repertory of church archives in Italy, vol. 7 of the UNESCO series, Guide to the Sources of the History of Africa, published in 1983. One explanation for this neglect might be that the archive was not fully operational by then. These circumstances no doubt partly explain why, despite exemplary conservation and classification, this collection has up to now been insufficiently tapped by scholars. Contributing factors may have been the discredit unfortunately thrown on traditional written sources by a number of modern “Africanists,” as well as widespread ignorance among English-speaking scholars of the intricacies of Roman Catholic bureaucracies. In fact, whatever their cultural background, historians wanting to burrow their way into the massive collection of Scheut papers should brace themselves for a period of initiation in the intricacies of two overlapping multinational Church organizations.

On the one hand, the Scheut congregation, as a separate institution, was established in 1862. It had its headquarters at Scheut, on the outskirts of Brussels, with a superior general in charge. It also had representation in Rome, but its main activities were carried out in its territorial branches (“provinces”) established first in the Far East and later in the Congo, each under the authority of a provincial. This organization maintained a dense internal and external network of communication within the hierarchy itself, as well as with government administrations, other religious bodies, etc. Like any organization, it knew rules and procedures, but also conflicts among various power blocs.

“[D]as Wirkungsvolle wird gepflegt, die Gewissenhaftigkeit schwindet; an Stelle der Fähigkeit zu bergründen, der Kraft zu überzeugen, tritt die Sicherheìt im Behaupten.”

[T]hat what impresses is cultivated, conscientiousness dwindles; the capability to explain, the power to convince are replaced by self-confidence in asserting.

There is nothing more absurd—yet also nothing more common—than a scholarly lifetime of publishing based on materials to which no one else has access.

The series “Afrika Archiv” (“Africa Archives”) was founded recently with the aim of publishing source material referring to the history and anthropology of Africa. In this connection the term “source material” shall be considered in a very broad sense. Thus, beside the usual library and other written sources, as well as written records of oral traditions, for instance, even editions of ethnographic collections or photographic documentation will be taken into consideration. African scholars will be able to publish material from their own countries to which we Europeans and Americans have only difficult access. Western scholars, on the other hand, could publish sources from public and private European or American archives, museums, or even widely dispersed articles in periodicals and newspapers on African history of the nineteenth century which are available only with great difficulty and expenditure of time. As a reviewer once commented, such source editions will still continue to be valued when contemporary interpretations have already long fallen into oblivion.

Endeavors to record systematically varied sources on the history of the continent, the cultural and scientific history of Africa, and to make the essentials generally available to the scientific public still appear inadequate.