It should come as no surprise that there is precisely no sign of Thanksgiving in the air. The air is still full to opacity with the fuel of moto taxis, which are hands down my favorite form of urban third world travel. Solidly ninety percent of the staggering number of motorcycles that constitute Kano's bloodstream are unmarked taxis. Less than thirty seconds gesturing by the trashpiles or gutters on the roadside will yield as many of these chauffers as necessary. For approximately a quarter they shuttle you to far corners of the city through narrow moving spaces, over the sidewalks and as fast as possible. It feels like the Jetsons. At the few intersections where policemen actually impose order on road traffic, nearly fifty motos are likely to accumulate, giving passengers an opportunity to exchange greetings, purchase bags of water, cell phone cards or windshield wipers. While passing your friends you can slap them on the back of the head; if stubborn you can pack several people on the back. It is an unparalleled exercise in control release. The first few times that I took advantage of these taxis, which are sometimes especially eager to impress a foreign passenger with driving prowess, I was gripping the rack behind my seat in blank terror. Now I summon up all of my bovinity, shove it into the forefront of my mind and achieve a blankness that is not based in terror.

Sean and I have replaced our lost and broken glasses. We all fixed the car windows, received the trust and assistance of a saintly travel agent who cashed our personal check for $1,000 (solving our money problems) and tracked down fuel with the assistance of a worker from Kano's chapter of Women in Africa against AIDS.

I would stay much longer in Nigeria. I can't believe how many people tried to scare us away from this country.

(Brett; can you send me your email address to douglasncalhoun@yahoo.com)
* posted by Nathaniel at 8:56 AM