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.