Walking to the Office

Because sometimes this is what gets left out:

As you walk along the road in Niamey at noon, which you try so hard not to do because you know part way between the hostel and the bureau you will think, “maybe if I turn around now it will be faster to get back inside and try this again after dark,” but you wanted a meat sandwich, or some cfa for your phone, or a solani to put in the freezer for later, or, well, to check your e-mail; so you trek on with the sun like some massive bright weight on you. The sand is hot and sticks to your calves as it flicks up behind your flip-flops. It is only now and again that the wind positions itself just right to carry the smell, sitting stagnant in the gutter of a sewer system you are walking beside, right up to your nose, and let it remain there gently, tangibly, until a second breeze comes to push it away.

If you’ve forgotten your sunglasses, as is so often the case, you may get lost in thought for a moment pondering the potential damage the sun may actually have on your eyeballs. How tight can you squeeze them and still see without getting dizzy? This must be how a camera feels during over exposure: all these bright white objects really have other colors too, but it hurts too much to look.

And somewhere along the way you will decide now is your time to cross the street. You will have readied yourself for this and subconsciously already crossed the sewer so you are walking along the strip of sand between the gutter and the road. Some street light will have changed up ahead, and there is magically a break in traffic and enough time between motorcycles. You wait for the one man to bike past and quickly walk out in front of the man pulling the cart of sugarcane and the camel with the dala mats slung across its back. With a jump in your step, one hand holding up your pagne and the other one shielding the sun from outright blinding you, you make it to the sand strip which runs down the middle of the road between lanes.

Another light has changed so now cars and poporos and bikes and camels are flying by on either side of you, two deep each way. You drink dust and exhaust and walk along the strip kicking more dirty sand to stick to your sweaty ankles. You are tempted to cross several times, but hesitate because that motorcycle is going too fast with not enough space behind him. But eventually a gap presents itself and you make it to the other side where you find yourself walking through the uncomfortably deep sand that will last all the way to the bureau. You think you’re safe and in an area with some sort of rules like a sidewalk until you hear the honk directly behind you of some impatient car who has chosen this sand as his road. You trudge over to the side to let him pass before he runs you over, and then walk along in his tire tracks where the sand is packed a little harder.

As you pass the meat sandwich cage you find it’s too hot to want to eat. Instead you take out 1,000 cfa and make eye-contact with one of the boys selling phone cartes. “Zangu hinka,” you tell him, “celtel.” And you pocket the $2.00 card before you get to the corner where you have to cross but one more time to enter the gates of the bureau. And has it really been only ten, fifteen minutes?

The cool air in the guards hut kicks you back to life as you sign in. Bi go no, irkoy bere. There is shade, god is huge. Maybe you will check a lot of e-mails to buy some time before you walk back.