Seriously?

I have tried and failed to find an internet connection fast enough to upload photos from my moto-trip north. So you're just going to have to believe me, for now, when I tell you I made it - on a little 110CC scooter made in China. I braved the rains of northern Benin and the heat of the Sahel, I dodged the goats and the camels crossing the road without a care in the world, I zigzagged around and sometimes through the potholes of the more desolate areas on the map, I raced against truckdrivers who didn't like the idea of a yovo girl passing them on a scooter. And, ironically enough, it was at the Nigerien border that I had to pay my first bribe. With my moto papers in order and all, the authorities naturally asked for the next thing on the list, proof of insurance. I chuckled. Proof of insurance falls under the same category as driver's license and respect for traffic laws in Benin: optional. But the Nigerien border officials were not laughing. In fact they were "very serious": Niger, they said, was very serious about this sort of thing. And they shook a menacing index finger in my face. Strange, then, that when I finally payed and stroked their egos, they issued me a ticket for my inability to produce my moto ownership records, not my proof of insurance. When I informed them of their mistake, they explained that they were doing me a favor, that failure to provide proof of insurance could lead to prison. Yeah, right. Or maybe proof of insurance is not a fine-able offense, except if you're a white girl with a new moto in West Africa.

If that wasn't enough to sour my arrival in Niger, my friend and I arrived in Niamey triumphantly on a Saturday evening only to get stopped by the Nigerien police, again. Apparently, when we finally stopped to check our map and figure out where we were spending the night, we had parked right in front of the National Headquarters for the Nigerien Police Force (seriously?). And that's as bad as taking pictures of the American Embassy. Take note: in Niger, do not park in front of official buildings, ever. You might be mistaken for a Touareg planning an insurgency. Seriously. The police took our passports and considered keeping them over the weekend (apparently Sunday is a day of rest for the police, too). They smirked when I told them they'd have to take me along with them because there was no way I would separate from my passport for that long, especially since the Nigerien authorities seem to enjoy asking for my papers on a daily basis. Good thing my Beninois friend was with me. Not only is he "African", he also happens to be a man, a quality that can take you a long way in this part of the world. According to him, there is always a solution... it may include a CFA2,000 dash or ridiculously hypocritical banter with your friends the cops, but there is always a solution. So I let him do the talking while I tried to put on my best don't-hurt-me-I-am-so-sweet-and-exhausted face (since the don't-mess-with-me face I tried at the beginning didn't work all that well).

In the end, Officer Kassoum, the ranking officer in the pack of cops who had descended upon us, accepted to keep with him a mere photocopy of our passports, "for the record." He quickly became a close friend, warning me about the dangers of pick-pockets in the city's open markets, refusing to take the CFA2,000 olive branch I offered as thanks, and even giving me his personal cell phone number just in case I had any more problems in Niamey. We chit chat on the phone on a regular basis now. I even brought him dates the other day to help him break the Ramaddan fast. I think I'm getting the hang of this.

So I made it to Niamey in one piece and I didn't have to cram into a bush taxi for 15 hours to get there. I'm still enjoying the look on people's face when I tell them what I did. They stare at me, their mouth half-open in disbelief, they look at my little moto scooter, and back at me. And then they laugh and ask me how many kamikaze bugs I caught on my face and in my teeth on the way. Yeah, that was definitely my biggest concern.

Niamey is hot. Seriously hot. Every day I devise new ways of making my nights slightly less unpleasant. My latest solution is to keep the mattress on the floor, the window open, the curtains drawn, and the fan blowing all day, and to put the mattress aside, open the curtains, and set up the sheets on the cool spot on the floor where the mattress used to be at night. Now you might wonder, why not just get yourself a place with air-conditioning, you silly girl? And this is where the developing world makes life very difficult for people with lower middle-class budgets. In countries like Niger and Benin, you're either ridiculously rich or desperately poor. People with A/C also have pools and SUVs and maids and tend to work for industries I'd prefer never to frequent in my life, like NGOs and oil and private military training services. I don't have the pool, I don't have the SUV, I certainly don't hire maids... so no A/C for me. Instead, I shower, I air-dry (very quickly) and I set up camp on the tiled floor. I am not losing hope though - October marks the end of the hot and muggy rains and the beginning of a cooler, windier season, my very own, all-natural, air-conditioning system. Hey, I take my luxuries wherever I can find them, or whenever they are offered to me. Call me a cheap grad student, but I prefer to save my stipend money for things like enumerator salaries and moto-scooters and dried dates.