You know it's time to leave when...

Maybe it's like making the day's events fit your horoscope, but I feel like there have been some signs. First off, I opened my little butter packet the other morning and it was green and moldy. All the others were fine. Then, today, CLA opened a little jelly packet to find *it* crawling with mold. Again, it was the only one. Seriously, what are the odds? I know nothing about astrology (despite the number of times people asked me about their futures when I told them what I was studying in grad school), but even I can see the symbolism here.

On an even more obvious note, everything elastic in my possession has rotted...I'm talking right down to the "stretch" in my tee-shirts. I suppose it makes sense that the climate that produces rubber should also decompose it; I also recognize that my belongings have been put through the proverbial wringer this year, running laps between muggy Cotonou and nose-bleed-dry Niamey. Still, I'm down to my last hair tie, and even that was a gift from visiting friends 2 weeks ago.

On the practical side, work is done. It is officially the dry season, a local staff has been trained and put in place, and we just ate salad at the grand openings of the Kalalé solar gardens. I have to say, it was pretty neat to be 115km out on a dirt road eating vegetables grown by solar-powered drip irrigation. [Check out some photos of the installation and results here.] More incredible, however, was seeing the women's groups in the big market on their first day selling their goods. Even better than that was learning that they had sold everything...easily. And the cherry on top came the next day when the president of the women's group forced me to stay late into the afternoon so she could buy me pounded yams (the local specialty - think mashed potatoes and tomato-gravy). When I tried to politely excuse myself, she said, "All these times you come here, and I couldn't give you anything. Now I can finally buy you some pounded yam to thank you." I would have gotten teary, but she followed this up rather quickly with a "Sit down now, and EAT!" and then proceeded to haze us through our afternoon meal. My kind of lady.

So yes, there's the "moldy condiments" factor. There's the "belongings attrition" factor. And there's the "contract completion" factor. But more than those, there's also the "what-I-thought-was-concrete-right-and-wrong-is-feeling-less-so" factor. My existence here has felt, much of the time, like an incommensurability. So many of the things I take as premises -- unquestioned foundations -- for a rational system of ethics, are not true here. And for so long, I've felt the urge to fight these local premises themselves, fearing that any understanding on my part constituted moral relativism.

I think, however, that at least some of the point of an endeavor like a year away is to be able to see and understand the ethics in a different system...even one you think may be fundamentally flawed. This is tricky, because you have to let go a little bit...there are times when you have to be willing to allow for things you don't understand, or even detest, in order to make any sort of connection. To get over the incommensurability -- to be able to have a real conversation about values -- you have to temporarily assume the other person's premises. This is the only way to get at anything deeper, the only door to change.

This means that you have to allow for polygamy to be able to engage people without writing them off as either heinous patriarchal sexist bastards or foolishly unenlightened women. You have to allow that "tribe" -- something for which we have no analog -- frequently runs thicker than blood. You have to bite your tongue when someone hits a child because calling the person out only shames and confuses. You have to learn to draw different borders around corruption.

It's a terribly tricky line to walk because you *do* risk losing your footing entirely, if only out of fatigue from always doing the "affording" to everyone else's values. Grassroots work under a completely different set of ethical premises requires a flexibility that is exhausting. Neither of us has yet shown up late to a meeting, even when we know no one else will arrive until at least an hour after the stated starting time. And we have not yet willingly blown through a red light, even though everyone around us does. But both have gotten increasingly more tempting. It's one thing to bend in the name of understanding, connection, and cooperation. But before the elastic loses it's snap, it's time to go home.

...that and we've been dreaming about grocery stores and burritos.

Coup de Gueule

(My apologies to those hoping to read about camels, dissertation research, solar electrification, or moto-rides in the streets of Niamey... today, I am French, and I am pissed off.)

Ok - so I may have been in West Africa all year but that doesn't mean I've been out of the loop entirely. In fact, the house I currently stay in has a T.V. with all sorts of amazing channels, like CNN, which enable me to stay on top of current events. So I get to follow all the latest news about political instability in Pakistan, Burma, Georgia, Venezuela... and if I stay up late enough Thursday night, I can even catch the Democratic presidential candidate debate in Las Vegas! But this coup de gueule doesn't go out to Musharaff's totalitarian moves, the Burmese Junta's human rights violations, or Hillary's staged Q&A's.

This coup de gueule goes out to my country, this tiny little piece of proud land we call France. Today is Black Wednesday in France because all public transportation has stopped. Can you imagine Paris with no subways, no buses, and an all-British Eurostar staff? Well, I suppose it's not too hard to imagine since it's not the first time this happens. I watch shots of empty rails and defeated French workers waiting on platforms, and I feel shame.

What's the problem here? What are transportation workers' unions protesting? They are protesting Sarkozy's intended reforms of the "régimes speciaux de retraite", that special status 500,000 working and over 1 million retired (that's one hell of a gap) civil servants enjoy in France that enables them to call it quits after 37.5 years of paying their dues. The rest of the working force, meanwhile, labors on for 2.5 more years. These special arrangements, which the strikers like to call "social acquisitions", are vestiges of the past: they made sense decades ago when transportation work was physically dangerous and harmful, what with coal and steam and smoke and all. But they are absolutely moot today. Still, transportation workers see their "régimes speciaux" as a right they have acquired over time, and which no politician - let alone a right-wing president who likes to jog in the morning à la Bush - can take away. So as France's debt grows deeper and deeper, the transportation workers do what they do best: they strike.

What's particularly infuriating this time around (no, Sarko is not the first to try and change this institutionalized system of privilege), is that French public opinion does NOT support these strikers and that Sarko was elected with an absolute majority after months of campaigning on these reforms. Special interests are paralyzing my little country.

The French like to pride themselves on their ability to enjoy the good things in life. They distinguish themselves from the Americans they love to hate so much with their five weeks of paid vacation every year, their free healthcare, and - apparently - their right to strike indeterminately. But the reality is that the French government can no longer sponsor the French way of life, and we don't live in a world where a G-8 country can remain a G-8 country and live like a G-8 country when a chunk of its labor force gets to retire at age 50 or 55 and spend the remaining 30 years of its life (because yes, life expectancy in France is just over 80 years) living off its children and grand-children's money.

The "régimes speciaux" in France reflect a "mentalité spéciale" that's got to go. It pervades in large sections of French society, from civil servants to students (yes, students strike too. Apparently they don't want their public universities to implement some kind of admissions process that goes beyond just signing up). It is a misplaced sense of entitlement that guarantees only that the days of ze French way of life are numbered.

Show us your model

Last night, we watched attentively as some of Africa's most famous football (soccer) legends picked numbers and names out of a glass bowl and, with a transparency we all wish upon the next Nigerian elections, determined the four different groups for the 2008 Cup of African Nations. Niger didn't qualify, yet all of Niamey dragged TV sets out of shacks and into streets and dirt roads to watch the event communally. Starting next January, 16 African teams will come together and battle it out in Ghana's stadiums for one of the most important and reputable titles in the region. Some are obvious favorites: Ghana, Nigeria, Cote d'Ivoire, Senegal... Others inspire more giggles than awe: Sudan (how did they get it together to even have a team?), Namibia (where is this place again?), Benin (we're protective of them, but you have to admit nobody really knows how they made it this far...)

It's going to be an exciting tournament. And we're here to give you a reason to care.

We all know that soccer is more than just soccer. We've blogged about this but smarter people have already written serious books about it before us. Soccer matches and soccer tournaments have triggered wars and taken down military regimes. And more than any other sport - or diplomatic effort for that matter - soccer can bring together Israelis and Iranians, Ghanaians and Nigerians, French and Germans, and Salvadoreans and Hondurans in one same, enclosed space, for 90 minutes... where the only shots fired are soccer balls aimed at soccer nets.

Clearly, what happens on that field and the scores that ensue must have something to do with more than just the individual performance of each player. It's also about the quality of the teams. And that, my friends, can be endogenous (I couldn't help myself) to any number of things...

With this in mind, we present to you the 2008 African Cup of Nations It's-More-Than-Just-Soccer Pool. To participate, simply email us the following information:
1) A written $5 pledge (it ain't fun if there are no stakes);
2) Your prediction rule: this is the rule you will have to commit to for all predictions throughout the tournament. You can choose any factor you believe best predicts victory. This can range from strictly athletic factors (the team with the most players in the Premier League will win) to strictly political factors (the team from the most democratic country will win). Identify your rule and explain it (note: number of languages and female literacy are already taken by yours truly);
3) Make available any external data needed to verify your predictions;
4) Pretend like this is a really cool and witty idea;
5) Do this by December 31st, 2007.

Qualifying teams are Ghana, Guinea, Namibia, Morocco (Group A); Nigeria, Mali, Cote d'Ivoire, Benin (Group B); Egypt, Sudan, Zambia, Cameroon (Group C); Tunisia, Senegal, South Africa, Angola (Group D). Games start January 20, 2008.

Good luck - and may the best empirical model win.

Congratulations, Al Gore and the IPCC!

Gore is a class act. He hardly even smiled at his press conference, and I have to believe it's because he knows that the work has only just begun; he's only just gotten people's attention. Violence and petroleum-use-based climate change are indelibly linked in a way that those of us who are wealthy-enough-to-choose-green fail to grasp, and I believe the Nobel committee was right - if not downright visionary - in giving Gore and the IPCC this year's Peace Prize. Explicitly making this link between climate change and peace, on all levels, is the critical next step in the process of fighting back.

If we are serious about building a peaceful world, we need to do more than raising awareness and changing the habits of the developed world: we need to find and encourage alternative development paths worldwide. Sure, we talk about the role of oil in Iraq and Darfur. But our consumption patterns are not just devastating on the state level, they have framed a pattern of development that is destroying individual lives and creating conflict on all levels, down to the tiny villages of West Africa.

Al Gore knows this.

After all, Gore, Thomas Freidman, and their colleagues are good guys: they never fail to address the relationship between climate change and poverty when they talk about our oil addiction and its environmental consequences. Thanks to them, we are all aware that climate change, wrought largely by developed nations, disproportionately affects the world's poor. Global agriculture and aquaculture have been altered in measurable ways, with devastating implications for those engaged in subsistence activities.

Unfortunately, until now, that's where their message has usually stopped--with this very *passive* notion of the developing world being harmed by the carbon evils of the developed world. Certainly this is true. And I don't fault the big voices on climate change for their message. They are rightfully focused on global stewardship and what we can do in the developed world to start fixing the situation; they also know that it would be both unfair and devastating to saddle developing communities with heavy petroleum taxes or the cost of greener technologies. But the message of “it’s the developing world’s responsibility,” while correct in what it asserts, silently endorses the standard “petroleum path” for developing communities.

This is unhealthy, unwise, uncreative, and – most important – unnecessary. The “petroleum path” is scary, and not just from the climate-change perspective. Sure, the Sahel is drying, and the farmers in the region will soon be facing adapt-or-perish pressures. But the most frightening manifestation of oil-addiction here is not the lengthening of the dry season; it’s what happens when an oil truck goes off the road.

You’ll know you’ve come across this scenario because for miles leading up to the truck, you’ll see people of all ages running towards the scene, carrying jugs, bowls, even thermoses. As you get closer, you’ll see people who look, well, wet…the smell will hit you just before you see the truck itself, and then it will all be clear—women, men, and small children are literally coated in gas as they climb over each other to pound holes in the tank and siphon off the contents.

Tom Friedman, gas here actually *is* $5 per gallon, forget any carbon tax. It’s all smuggled in from Nigeria and sold at roadside stands in old booze bottles, filtered (if you’re lucky) through an old tee-shirt. For people living on less than a dollar or two a day, it's the quickest money-maker around, so can you blame them for sending their 6-year old into the fray? Can we really expect people to restrain themselves and to think about last year, when a truck in the same situation went up in flames near Nattitingou, killing over 300? Of course not. On the way out of Cotonou a few months ago, I saw another gas truck that had gone off the road only minutes before. The driver and crew were staking out their turf around the tank, but it was only a matter of time until they'd be overrun, perhaps killed.

What’s the root of oil-addiction at the bottom of the pyramid? There are over a billion people (that's another China, my friends…) who don't have, but desperately want, access to the development opportunities afforded by electricity. What are the options for electricity in remote villages? Today, it's wait for the grid or buy a generator. The sad reality is that even if governments had the resources to expand grid infrastructure to many of these places, there's simply not enough power to go around. Most of electrified West Africa is well-accustomed to rolling blackouts. And so people are clawing past each other to find gas to feed their generators.

Do you blame them? Think about what it means to have a health clinic with lights and outlets (or imagine the converse). Think about what it means to be able to keep street shops and markets open at night thanks to streetlights. Think about what it means to have a pump on a well so women can engage in small commercial activities and girls can go to school instead of fetching water all day. Think about what it means to be able to do homework without hunching next to a tiny kerosene lamp (if you’re lucky enough to have one). Think about what it means to have phone service. Electricity provides a path out of poverty; and right now in the desperately poor villages of West Africa, this translates into oil greed of a variety never talked about in the climate change discussion. While the developed world is finally getting serious about changing our energy habits, the developing world is going down the same old path...only it has gotten even more dangerous.

So, as we environmentalists bask in the glow of the Nobel announcement, I submit that this is the moment for the response to climate change to expand, not settle. Yes, we need state-level change and top-level policy in the developed world, and that has now been acknowledged at the highest level. But we also need to intervene at the bottom, to innovate and create and start moving everyone away from the standard petroleum path. If in 20 years we just have another generation of war-ravaged nations to wean off of oil, this year's Nobel may be in vain.

Le Monde est Petit

Certain things are universal. I wouldn't go so far as to call them "truths," but there is an order to the cosmos on a scale somewhere between electromagnetism and gravity...let's say, oh, at the length of about a meter. That's right; the human scale. People are neither electrons nor rocks, but there are some incredible patterns to humanoid behavior in need of some explanation. To wit:

(1) Celine Dion. The woman is everywhere. Urban African restaurants, rural African radio, New York, the Mall of America (oh yes, I did), dentists' offices, airplanes, the Burney family backyard fireworks displays...she is loved by all, even those who claim otherwise. And she apparently mediates all human interaction, bringing the world closer together. Physicists have long been trying to reconcile forces at the atomic scale with forces at the cosmic scale. Perhaps we have found a missing piece?!? The gluon, the photon, the Dion, the graviton...

(2) Gendered Toilet Behavior. I thought it was a suburban American joke, those silly men who won't put the seat back down. Maybe they're macho; maybe they're just forgetful...but they certainly aren't the norm, right? Wrong. Even in the land of pit latrines, men are men, and women are left to clean up the mess. Recently in Kalale, we had an incredible opportunity...a BRAND NEW LATRINE uninfested by roaches. Yes, it was just a hole in the ground, but a *nice* one. The universal truth about roaches is that it's quite easy to keep them out, but almost impossible to get rid of them once they invade. The trick with a latrine? All you have to do is COVER THE HOLE. Now, is that really so difficult? Apparently it is. One month, and our nice new latrine is just as disgusting as any other, even though I lectured and begged and took to stalking in after the boys in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable. I'm trying to see this as a sign of higher order, but it hurts. Especially at night.

(3) Suicidal Insects. In the small slice of West Africa that we've seen, I routinely marvel at the speed with which an insect will die in whatever liquid you have recently left uncovered, be it a beer, a laundry basin, a bowl of soup. I thought this must be the Africa dummy at work, but, being a meticulous scientist, I realized that this merited an experiment in the States in September. So I took the paper and a glass of juice outside. BAM! Dead fly. Several iterations of this revealed that the average time of suicidal invasion is longer in the US than in Ghana, Benin, or Niger, but I believe this can be explained alone by the relative density of insects in these places. Perhaps you are thinking, "Hey wait, she was talking about human-scale behavior. What's with the bug business?" To this I have two answers: (a) I am a physicist and this is good enough for government work (especially in this administration); and (b) I AM talking about human behavior...why are we all idiots that keep leaving things uncovered??

(4) Enginerds. Future geeks/dorks/nerds (I am told they're different, but as I am all three, I cannot discern...) of the world are identifiable from a mile away. The air-sucking laughter (with perhaps a snort or two thrown in); the slightly awkward discomfort with looking people in the eye (even when it's not explainable by cultural norms); the outcast status...Oh yes, and of course, the inexplicable and impelling need to build things that roll, even if it is out of old bamboo stalks and melons.



Isn't the world a beautiful place?

It’s Not Just That My French Sucks

The first time I saw the word, it was on a sign over a toilet in Parakou: S’il vous plait, tirez-moi doucement. “Okay,” I thought, “I’ll flush gently; no problem.” The first time I heard anyone say the word, my reaction was, “Aw, now that’s kind of cute.” I had tripped getting off the back of a zemidjan (taxi moto), and the driver and every male within earshot earnestly muttered it together, creating a little chorus of “Doucement”s. It made enough sense, but diligent student that I am, I looked it up to be sure and then contented myself with a revised understanding that the word meant something more like “Careful!” The next time I heard it, I’d just broken my clothesline, so when a neighbor-of-whom-I-am-not-so-fond-and-vice-versa called out to me, I thought she was rubbing it in. I wanted to yell back, “Doucement yourself, you big jerk…And stop stealing my clothespins and send your daughter to school!” Fortunately, I held back…because the next time was after a young boy, looking the other way as he chased a flat soccer ball, had run smack into me. “Doucement, eh?” he said, looking up at me with big guilty eyes and waiting for my response. Part of me thought, “Were you raised in a barn?!? You don’t hit people and then lecture them about being careful!” The other part of me, though, had a sneaking suspicion that he was trying to apologize and that this word was more versatile than I had imagined.

It’s been a problem for me this entire year, in both languages. It’s not just that I’m like David Sedaris trying to explain the Easter Bunny to Eastern Europeans with a 100-word French vocabulary. And it’s not just the “Garbage v. Rubbish” business of non-American English (though Ghanaians do have a funny way of asking if you’d like to “alight” from the tro-tro here so you can “go-come-back-that-place”). It’s that I am accustomed to life expressed through a colorful, if at times inappropriate, vocabulary—one where there’s a one-to-one correspondence between word used and sentiment expressed. My very ability to function on this planet depends on “I’m so sorry”, “Bummer”, “Easy does it”, and “Hey, be careful!” being very clearly distinguished from one another.

But here, so much goes unsaid. Ask for clarification, and you’ll get a verbatim repetition, shrugged shoulders, or folded hands. You’re just supposed to get it, nuances and all. I, normally on the oblivious side even when confronting the blindingly obvious, am completely left behind. The gendarmes don't ever demand money; you're just supposed to know when smoothly bust out your 500CFA handshake. I'm reduced to following the cues of everyone else in the taxi-brousse..."cues" of course being stiff elbows to the ribs and big eyes that seem to be screaming, "get with it, already, stupid anasara!" Trips to customs sound to me like: “Your Excellence, Mr. Junior Rubber-Stamping Secretary of the Application of Tariffs, we are honored to be here to present to Your Most High Benevolence our Association.” Okay, fine, grammatically-speaking, it’s a sentence. But I thought we were here to ask for an exemption?! Where was the question? Did someone ask it while I blinked? On top of it, I know that the letter handed over to Mr. JRSSAT isn’t any clearer than whatever was just said. Somehow, though, at the end of the day, everyone else understands, and the exemption is granted.

I’ve more than once made people uncomfortable because I don’t understand that they are asking me for money or presents: “Do you know about my farm? We grow soy, and right now is when we do the planting and fertilizing.” “That’s great! I love tofu and soy milk! Soy is so nutritious.” Shifting in seat. “Yes, well, harvest time isn’t for a while. Now is when we are finishing preparing the ground.” “Ah yes, I see. How long does it take to grow?” “Well, you see, that’s the thing. I am here to talk to you about fertilizer.” “Oh, well, I don’t know much about the condition of your soil, so I am not sure I am the best person to help you.” “No, I mean, I want to ask you about fertilizer.” “Yes?” Nervous shifting. “That’s to say…” More silence, as I wait. Then the light bulb springs on. I take the lead: “Have you bought the fertilizer?” “No.” “Are you able to buy the fertilizer?” “No.” “How much does the fertilizer cost?” “40.000CFA.” “Do you want me to buy the fertilizer for you?” “No.” What?!? Okay, now I am REALLY confused. In the end, the woman just wants money - for other things - but talking about the cost of fertilizer is supposed to be my cue. Doh!

What's a girl supposed to do? I trust that people here know I am earnest and sincere, if stupid. So I do my best, smile a lot, and try to roll with it. But life has a way of always laughing at you. Just when you think you've gotten the hang of some of this stuff, you buy a 5000CFA ($10) phone card and accidentally scratch the numbers off. As you're kicking yourself for wasting an amount of money that is horrible even at home, nevermind horrifying here, you see the tiny text next the remains of the card number: Grattez doucement.

Merci, I think. Merci beaucoup.

1000 words * 30 fps * 4ish minutes = ...

Hello friends.

Omowe has gone multi-media. Here's a video my incredible sister edited together (but credit where credit is due, I picked the Afro-pop soundtrack) showing the installation of solar-powered pumps in two villages back in August. You'll notice that the system in the first village draws water from a small river. They are fortunate enough to have surface water year-round, and our goal here is to help them use that water for irrigation (they now transport and spread water by hand, attempting to avoid crocodiles in the process). The second village has a severe overall water shortage, so we drilled a borehole with the hope that we can use the water for both drinking and agriculture.

Two-thirds of the agricultural part of this pilot project are shown in the video - the pumps and panels were in and working and we were able to fill the big water reservoirs. I've just returned from another trip to finish the preparation of fields, the planting of seedlings, and the installation of drip irrigation lines. Solar powered drip irrigation is now officially happening, just in time for the dry season. Pictures to come soon. In the meantime, hip hip hooray for veggies.

Thanks for reading and watching.

[Big Important PS: This video was actually put together for in-family viewing, hence the heavy footage of yours truly...it was also never meant to be shown widely, and it's too large to embed directly here, so take care with our little private YouTube link. Unfortunately, the mastermind behind much of the action shown in this video, Mr. Walt Ratterman, also happened to be the mastermind behind the camera. Jokes about soundtrack aside, if anyone deserves credit, it's him!]

Yes! I love movies!

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.