Views from a tro-tro

The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round

From our taxi on the way to Kaneshi Station, a known rough spot northwest of the city, we passed by a thief being beaten by a vigilante group, with lots of onlookers. Some moments later, a taxi cruised by carrying the thief and some other young men shouting. To the hospital or just away from the scene of the crime, I’m not sure.

Arriving, we avoided being eaten by the vultures and picked out one that looked like he was trying to help us, not himself. We maneuvered the crowds, bags held close to us and kept a watchful eye out for pickpockets. Looking for the bus was like looking for buried treasure without a map. Those people told us to come here, but these people are telling us to go there. Along the way, Scott somehow managed not to knock any people out with his surfboard.

We get tickets and are happy to learn there are only 2 more left to be sold, so we will not have to wait a long time to hit the road. The surfboard just barely fits in the boot (a much better word for ‘trunk’). The last seats are the ones in the middle that flip down into the aisle and that’s where we end up, in the center of the Ghanaians. I am thankful for the symmetry.

As the bus heads out of town, sellers stand in the middle of the traffic near the stoplights, goods perched atop their heads. A man in the back leans out the window to pay for biscuits, but the bus takes off before he gets the food. He starts yelling, then someone up front to the right responds. They banter for awhile, with additional backup coming from throughout the bus, voicing various support and reprimands. Then the man next to me is in it and I’m afraid his flailing arm is going to hit me. It sounds like he’s threatening the biscuit-less man. People are shouting, angry, but there seem to be smiles at the corner of their mouths. Others, not yet involved, laugh. Some shake their heads. The toothless old woman behind me is disappointed and she speaks to Jane as if she can understand her words. A middle-aged woman with peppered hair hands the man next to me the newspaper, to distract him, I believe.

Four or five stoplights later, the girl with the biscuits appears and the man gets what he is due. How did she make it so far so quickly on foot? And why not just keep the money and not deliver the biscuits? An hour later, when a woman is buying a sachet of pure water from the window and the bus starts to move, she chucks the coins at the girl, who struggles to find them in the dust.

The whole incident seems distinctly Ghanaian. I couldn’t understand the majority of the words, but the faces, the tones, the mood are not dependent on knowledge of language. Everyone is quick to get fired up, offer their opinions. Someone is angry, another person tells him to chill out or shut up, then another offers support and on and on it goes. From the back of the bus, to the front, left, back, right, around and around, leaving only a few untouched. I jokingly suggest to Jane that we stand up and do a little dance to offer a diversion. Fortunately, the air, already heavy with humidity, could not handle too much tension. As quickly as it begins, it seems to end.

People sit shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s impossible not to be touching the people beside you (sticking to them, more like). In that limited space, maybe it’s not so hard to think that someone’s business is your own. For those few hours, the passengers talk and do not talk, alternatively. A conversation between two is heard by many others, who might join in. Not the same kind of conversation you have with the person sitting next to you on a plane. More intense, more opinioned, less about who you are and where you’re going.

The doors on the bus go open and shut, open and shut

Because our organization was having a church service for International Women’s Day (March 8^th) on Sunday, I had to come back earlier than Jane and Scott, who found waves right after I left. Jane and Scott were worried about me traveling by myself, though I wasn’t. I was allowed to once I promised to send text messages periodically letting them know I was okay. A young boy selling sweets stared at me for the 30 minutes we waited for the tro-tro to fill up. I couldn’t help but think that I’m really not that interesting to watch and felt some sympathy toward zoo animals.

As we bumped along the dirt road to the highway, I smiled to myself and felt happy. I’m in Africa. This is the way people in Africa travel: crowded together, hot, dusty, bumpy, uncomfortable. In the same instance, I knew it was a novelty for me but that it was the daily life for my fellow passengers. Not something to be viewed as quaint or charming. It is hardship and I was smiling.

Traffic was bad due to road construction and more cars for the holiday weekend (March 6^th is Ghanaian Independence Day, so Monday was a holiday). We were barely moving for a large portion of the journey. There was a bus two spots ahead of us and I watched as men got down, peed not ten steps away and re-boarded. I even saw a woman relieve herself, using a sarong/cloth as a curtain to shield herself.

A 20-something woman in a dress got off the bus and began to walk forward. I imagine she wanted to stretch her legs and get some exercise. Just then, traffic picked up. The woman started to jog, but the bus went ahead. When it slowed again, the man next to me was looking out the window to see how far back she was: very. Traffic was crawling again, but then would pick up. Crawl, pick up. I wanted to get home, but I also felt bad for this woman and wanted her to catch her bus, which meant I had to hope for a standstill. I don’t know if she had money or a phone on her when she got down from the bus, but after more than 2 miles (roughly, I’m bad with measurement and weight estimations!), I have little hope that she got the same transportation back…

Tro-tros, buses and taxis were all trying to get ahead of each other in this one-lane snail’s race. Some were trying to edge each other out by going along the shoulder of the road. Two tro-tros went down a slight incline and I worried about them tipping. Then a full-sized bus did it and I knew by the gasps of my fellow passengers that I was not the only one would thought it not only possible, but likely. This bus then tried to cut us off, nearly running into us to force its way into the line. This elicited yells from our tro-tro to the bus and we somehow managed to stay ahead of that crazy driver. I know sitting in our bus that I was annoyed at the others ‘cheating,’ but that if I’d been in those vehicles, I’d be thankful to be getting home faster…

Traffic in the opposite direction was also very slow. We passed by a black 4WD with tinted windows stopped with the driver’s door open. The driver was reaching into the window of a tro-tro trying to punch the driver, while the rest of the passengers were shouting. I imagine the tro-tro had cut him off. Our lane opened up and on we went, every craning their necks to see what was happening. But like the bus-less woman, we’ll never know.