Trotro adventures parts I through V

I. The witness.
No I don't want to go to your prayer meeting. And yes, I think blood transfusions are a good thing (especially after seeing all of the lives saved because of transfusion in children's ward at Korle Bu). And no, I don't think Jesus's birthday was on 25 December, but yes I do believe he had a birthday. Just because we don't know exactly when that was it doesn't mean that I can't celebrate my birthday. And frankly, I think it's weird that you won't eat any food that doesn't have a soup.

II. Potholes the depth of a blackhole.
Every morning at 5:45 am I take a trotro to from Tema to Korle Bu. Well, actually, our car to the 18 junction, a trotro to circle and a peugeot from circle to Korle Bu. I don't take the regular circ trotro that uses paved roads because of the traffic: it would take three hours to travel the 25km to work. Instead I take the "circ, bush road" trotro. It has to be at least twice the distance of the paved road but it takes half the time. Basically, the trotro goes into an abyss of barely passable dirt roads that cause the minibus to lurch and heave like the day after eating a bad potato salad at a neighbourhood picnic. On this fine morning, the only morning I needed to be at work on time for a presentation, the driver decided that we should ford the newly formed lake superior that had appeared after last night's monsoon. Half way across, the seafloor parted, the trotro swan-dived into the quagmire with just enough energy to bring it's nose out gasping and chugging for air but leave the derriere a good two feet under. My feet felt strangely wet and my skirt began turning red at the hem as muddy water gushed up through the lacerated underbelly of the beast. That's when we jumped ship, marooned on a patch of grass surrounded by thigh-deep red mud. Wheels spinning, mud flying, onlookers spewing useless advice without a hand to help get us out. Forty minutes later, with some drift wood, a few stones, brute force and a Coca-cola 18 wheeler, we were freed and on our way as though nothing had happened.

III. Stolen cell phones.
Have you ever had that moment where you know you are being robbed? I could feel my bag being tugged as I rushed to get into a trotro at Tema station in downtown Accra. In fact, I turned and looked the thief in the eye as he had one hand in the side pocket of my bag. But what could I do? Yell thief and declare my foreigness garnering no sympathy but instead scorn or worse the slice of a knife? The phone was no gem, a six year old, beat-up, barely functional, two colour screen model. Its the inconvenience of it all. The rub of it all is that my cousin called the pick-pocket who had the audacity to ask for the phone charger because the battery was about to die.

IV. The evangelist.
Sixteen strangers packed like sweaty sardines in a rusty tin can of a minibus with one Patois preacher from Sierra Leone, a driver, and a mate hanging out the window. In this situation, if I asked what do you want me to pray for, I would expect the generic . . . world peace perhaps, no more poverty maybe, a brief encounter with a semi-famous person. I would not expect . . . to find a husband fast, to get my cousin out of the slammer. And then to be probed by the said pastor as to the fatal flaws that have made one middle-aged woman unmarriable, and the grimy details of the alleged crime that landed one female cousin in custody. It begs the question: Is this in the name of god or a tawdry excuse to publicly shame desperate people.

V. Ghana vs Brazil rematch.
Obviously the cell phone incident was not enough of a deterrent to keep me away from Tema station. I decided to return on the day of the Black Stars friendly with Brazil, the first rematch since the world cup. A HUGE event in Ghana where football is an obsession, and the Black Stars are the darling of the nation. Naturally, there was not a trotro in sight. For hours. While all the nation was huddled around TVs dotting the street corners, all hell was breaking loose at the trotro station. For the Spintex road alone, there were three queues each 50 to 100 m long, and the station serves in total around 50 to 60 destinations. At the rare arrival of a trotro in the station, there was a stampede towards the door, fist flying, bodies being plucked from seats and tossed onto the pavement, all manner of cursing and profanity. The trotro, beaten and burdened by the extra bodies desperate to get home, limped feebly out of the station. And I waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . it seemed like an eternity but, in fact, it was exactly the length of time for the pregame commentary plus the match.

Quote of the month

My Auntie to the taxi driver who cut us off . . .
"You are pompous and notorious!"

I loooooove it!

Afen hyia paa!

That is Happy Birthday in Twi! The birthday girl/boy’s reply is “ Afe nko mmeto yen bio!” Translation “The year sees you well!” and the reply “May the year come to greet us again!”

Afen hyia paa! To all my friends with birthdays in February and March. I haven’t forgotten you! Proper birthday wishes will follow.

Three days in the blazing sun

My mum has returned to Ghana for the first time since we left in the early 80’s. The country has changed significantly as she so frequently points out. She also has changed significantly as I so frequently point out. There are temper tantrums when there is no running water (longest stretch 4 days, she has only experienced a one day water outage) and when there is no power (every second day). For god’s sake this is Africa! I’m excusing it as jet lag and heat. She has settled down quite a bit and we actually had a nice day today shopping and going to the beach.

We went to visit our old house in Burma Camp, a military base with an affliated hospital where my father used to work. This was the first time that she had been back to the house. The orange tree was still standing in the side garden and the back garden was lined with our mango tree, banana trees and plantain trees. Her old chicken coop was also there too. Even still, the house was much changed and the neighbourhood too. My mum showed me my friend’s house and our escape route during the coup. So many memories. . .

Four wives and a funeral

My whole family, and by that I mean a few dozen people, went to my father’s village in Eastern Region of Ghana for his funeral. It’s a three day affair with many many rules to be followed, numerous clothing changes and a lot of hand shaking, music and dancing. The whole thing was overwhelming and my grief was lost in duty to the family. I just want a chance to mourn, quietly, without adornment.

Reviving the pesawa . . . and my luggage

Well, I’m here. Ghana, that is. Sans baggage. As those of you who know me can attest, I travel light. The airlines obviously think that my anorexic bags are more than they can handle because they always leave them behind. This time for five days. Normally I wouldn’t be miffed. It happens everytime I fly. But this time, I was carrying contraband; medicine for a rural clinic some of which needed to be refridgerated. Nor could I slip through customs undetected. Everything was searched by the hypervigilant, exceptionally bored customs agent sitting in the lost bag centre. I mean everything down to my choice of toiletries. One conversation went like this:

“What’s this?”

(He can’t be serious! I cast a glance at the female customs agent to the side.) “A tampon”

Turning to the female customs agent, he asks for confirmation in Twi. He still doesn’t seem to understand.

(Has this man never been with a woman!)

I explain the nitty gritty in detail. He practically launches the tampon across the room. A smidgen of my explosive laughter escapes before I contain myself because I don’t want to be thrown in jail for smuggling. They let me through after doing an ear, nose and throat exam on one of the customs agents and providing ample entertainment with feminine hygiene products.