As our 22-seater van pulled into the Kejetia lorry station, I asked the man sitting next to me if he knew Kumasi well.
“Yes, please, I am from Kumasi,” he said.
“Do you know how much a taxi from Kejetia station to the STC station should be?”
He pondered a few seconds and said it should cost me three cedis. I thanked him. He pulled my bag out from under the seat in front and brought it off the van for me. I thanked him again and scanned the scene for a taxi driver. I didn’t have to try hard – three men engulfed me as soon as I set foot on ground. “Where are you going?” “Need a taxi?” “White woman, need a ride?”
I took my bag from the man and walked away from the crowd to a taxi driver leaning against the hood of his car. I asked him to take me to the STC station.
“OK, let’s go,” he said, moving toward the driver’s seat.
“How much?” I pressed.
He rested his folded arms on the top of the ajar door and gazed across the Kejetia market, the largest open market in West Africa. “You give me 15 cedis.”
“Fifteen?!” I laughed. I turned to walk away and saw the man from the van standing close by, smiling and shaking his head.
The taxi driver followed me. “The traffic is too much at this time of day.”
“The traffic is always too much – this is Kumasi!” I retorted.
I shouldn’t have expected to get a fair price at the lorry station anyway. The lorry stations in Ghana’s bigger cities are known for overcharging drop taxi passengers – foreigners and Ghanaians alike. The Van Man and I walked away from the station along the main Kejetia road. The taxi driver did not follow.
“You will get a taxi for three cedis, don’t worry,” he promised me. I find it amusing that when Ghanaians want to help me they find it necessary to promise that everything will be alright and not to worry. Both men and women do this to foreigners, I’ve noticed. Very peculiar – more on that later though.
We spotted a taxi driver with no passengers inching along the road in traffic. Van Man lowered his head and spoke in Twi to the driver. I was perfectly capable of getting my own taxi but let him help anyway. He looked back up to me, smiled and proudly said, “Three cedis.” I chuckled and thanked him. Before I shut the car door, Van Man asked, “How can I reach you?” I laughed softly to myself – I had felt that one coming. “Next time I’m in Kumasi, maybe I will see you.” I shut the door and waved goodbye.
The lady at the STC bus station was not nearly as helpful. Extracting information from people is one of my duties as an INGO Project Coordinator – I didn’t want to work on my holiday. After a painful question-and-answer session, I finally found out that the STC bus from Kumasi to Tamale this day and the next were already full. I had some wildlife to see – I wasn’t about to lounge around Kumasi for two days before getting a bus, only to take another bus to my final destination. I opted for my next option, the Metro Mass bus, which was positioned inconveniently on the other side of the city. I walked outside to the drop taxi station and asked a driver if he could take me to the Metro Mass station.
This man was a hospitable driver, transportation system informant and tour guide. When we got to the Metro Mass station I asked him to wait for me while I checked to see if I could buy a ticket to Tamale. There wasn’t a line to the Tamale booth, so I walked up to the ticket lady and asked how much a ticket to Tamale would be. “Eight cedis,” she replied. She stood up and began fiddling with the money trays in the money box. I fished eight cedis out of my bag, dropping one bill on the ground. As a frequent dropper of items, I've learned that most Ghanaians will jump to help you clean a mess you've accidentally created but won't assist you in picking up your valuables. I'm wondering if not touching another's possessions stems back to the highly competitive and untrusting nature many Ghanaians associate with their working class.
I slid the money through the open window. The ticket lady clicked the money box shut, then looked at the money and back at me.
“O!” she exclaimed and picked up her purse from the ground and moved to the booth’s exit.
“O, madam. You are leaving?” I asked.
She turned around and said, “Yes.”
“So, no more tickets can be bought for the Tamale bus today?”
“Oh, please, no,” she responded.
My heart sank. “If-only thoughts” tried invading my mind (if only I hadn't gone to the STC station, if only the van from Cape Coast hadn't taken two hours to fill, etc.), but if I gave these thoughts a swift boot out. She turned to leave again. I called after her. “When will you start selling tickets to the next Tamale bus?”
“Four a.m. tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder.
I need to be back here earlier than 4 a.m., I thought. I asked a man nearby when lines form for the 4 a.m. buses. He told me 3:30 a.m. I thanked him and walked over to my waiting taxi, knowing I should be at the station before three.
I got back inside the taxi and sounded out to the driver my last two options. I could either pay another five (ish) cedis to have him drive me to the Tamale tro-tro station, get to Tamale by nightfall, spend the night in Tamale and board the Mole bus the next afternoon, or I could overnight in Kumasi near the Metro Mass station, get a Tamale bus in the morning and try to get to Mole in one day. It was a five-hour ride to Tamale via bus, so that meant it was maybe an eight- or nine-hour drive via tro, not including a potential breakdown along the way. I figured the safer and more relaxing option would be to stay a night in Kumasi.
I asked the driver if he knew any guesthouses nearby. He did but didn’t know the names of them or how much they cost. I took out my Bradt guidebook from my bag and flipped to the Kumasi guesthouse pages. I gave him the book and asked if he knew where each of the cheaper guesthouses were. One by one, he said told me which part of Kumasi the guesthouses were located and whether it was far from the station. They were all far away. “How about you drive me to the closest guesthouse you know?” I asked. “Yes, it isn’t in the guidebook," he said. "I will take you there.”
As he drove from the Metro Mass station, I felt a powerful wave of gratefulness for his willingness to help. And I didn't even know his name! Normally I ask taxi drivers their name as soon as I get in their car, but this time I had forgotten.
"Please, what is your name?" I asked.
"I am Isaac."
"Isaac, very nice to meet you. Thank you for going out of your way to help me."
He beamed and said it was his duty to help obronis like me. Then he explained that we were in Bantama, a suburb of Kumasi, and pointed out recognizable buildings in case I wanted to walk to the station. I wouldn’t, though, because it would be in the middle of the night, but the gesture was sweet anyway. We parked in front of a tall brick building with a white gated patio. The sign on the bricks said it was a café, but the sign on the wall read “Restaurant and Guesthouse.”
The cheapest room was double the price I was looking for (22 cedis per night for a double bed with a fan), but the location was ideal for my early morning, and I had already spent money to get there anyway – asking Isaac to drive me to another guesthouse to compare prices would cost more. I took the room.
After I made the decision to stay, Isaac turned from the front desk lady to me. He looked satisfied that he had properly seen me off.
“So. Your name is?” Isaac asked.
“Michaela.” I took his hand in mine and shook it the Ghanaian way.
"Michaela," he repeated. "It sounds Ghanaian."
"Thank you," I smiled.
“Safe journey tomorrow.” He bowed his head and raised his hand to indicate "goodbye." Spinning on his heels, he walked out the door.
“Medaase.”
It was intriguing that he didn’t try to give me his number and tell me that I should call him to pick me up in the morning. Usually when the conversation between taxi driver and passenger flows well, the drivers try to give you their number and suggest that you call them for a drop taxi ride. Isaac had mentioned that he lives on the other side of town - if he had come to pick me up in the morning, it would’ve cost me more because he would have to drive farther to get to me. It was either very thoughtful of him to not push that on me, or he just didn't want to get up in the middle of the night to drive me around.
I paid for the accommodation and followed the caretaker woman to my room up the stairs and around the corner. The building was open-air - opposite my door was the kitchen. Water running, women singing, pots clanging, but at least it smelled good. I followed the caretaker into my room, set my bags down and walked to the bathroom to turn on the faucet to make sure the water was running. It was. I thanked the woman and sat down on my bed as she left the room. The mattress was a lot softer than mine at home in Cape Coast. I leaned back across the bed and closed my eyes, thinking about how the next day was going to come early and end late. In like a lion and out like a lion.
Showing posts with label transportation system. Show all posts
Showing posts with label transportation system. Show all posts
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Blind Man's Music
Two more passengers was all we needed. As one of the first to board the tro-tro, I had waited two hours for it to fill. We were heading to Kumasi, four hours north of my home in Cape Coast. I was going on a long weekend trip to Mole National Park by myself. (See previous post for details.)
It was more of a van than a tro-tro, as it had almost double the number of seats (22). If you don’t like people touching you or don't do well in small spaces, public transportation in Ghana and probably in the rest of Africa is not for you.
The front had two seats next to the driver and the back looked like this:
An old man in a navy blue jumpsuit too big for his slight body stepped onto our van in the opening space where there was no seat. He faced us. He was blind in a rather painful-looking way. His left pupil was permanently positioned left, revealing a yellowed sclera. Near his right eye's iris was some sort of puncture wound the size of a dime. He lowered his lids halfway (I wondered whether he did this consciously) and began speaking to us in Fante, the main local language spoken in the Central and Western Regions of Ghana. I only know a handful of Fante phrases and words, but knew the gist of what he was saying.
When tro-tros are almost full, salesmen stand by the open door and duck their heads inside to give a minute-long sales pitch on energy drinks, pens with calendars inside them, body soap, religious books, how-to books – you name it. And sometimes on the vans, where there is more room to stand, eloquent gracious representatives of religious bodies (usually Christian churches) will recite a prayer and mention the importance of faith and knowing Jesus and the Lord. Then he wishes the passengers a safe and blessed journey, sings a soulful song and steps out of the van. I’ve witnessed these van prayers three times and each van reacted the same way. Whereas the passengers generally ignore the salesmen on the tros, they clap, exclaim and give money to these people of extraordinary faith.
All I could understand of the old man's prayer was “St. Francis.” He mentioned his name several times. I had no recollection of what St. Francis was known for and wondered why this man chose to speak about him rather than St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers.
He spoke softly, but his words still reached everyone in the van. His voice sounded as old as his weary eyes looked. Although his eyes didn’t seem to register anything, he moved his head slowly from one side of the van to another as he spoke. He used his hands at times, moving them with control and grace.
The man next to me leaned over my lap to pull his wallet from the back right pocket of his trousers. He took out a one cedi bill and asked the woman sitting in front of him to give it to the man. She took the cedi and placed it inside the man’s idle hand by his waist. His eyes still projected ahead, his fingers fumbled for the money, though not with desperation or greed. He stopped his speech to say, “May God bless you,” and tucked the cedi into his left breast pocket, his finger catching the rim of the pocket, jingling a few coins from the bottom.
He finished the prayer and took out two light wooden cylinder-shaped sticks and began building a rhythm. The sticks were about six inches in length and an inch in width. He hit the right one on the left, rotating the left stick in his hand each time after striking it with the right. The rhythm was simple – one, two, one, two, one, two. It was so genuine. As a devoted admirer of African music, I am convinced Africans are born with musical inclination. There were countless rhythms and combinations of rhythms he could have played with those two sticks, but he chose the simplest, purest beat there is.
In his blind eyes, in his quiet demeanor, I could not detect a trace of sadness or of desperation. He was calm and steady. It was as if his only intention was to bring us faith and hope. When he began to sing, it was too beautiful for me. Too unexpected. Too needed. I couldn’t handle it. My throat swelled and tears brimmed. I laughed quietly at myself and pulled out my wallet. Despite never giving money to those who beg due to its often pointlessness and even negative repercussions, giving money to this blind man seemed like the most natural thing to do. There was no question in my mind about it. From moments like these I've learned there is a difference between sustainable giving and kindness.
In fear of completely losing it, I didn't dare look at the old man again or anyone as I handed a one cedi bill to the man next to me. I asked if he could pass it up. He looked at me, then looked at the van’s open entrance, where girls and women stood by our door with boxes and bowls of food on their heads. “You want a meat pie?” he asked. He probably didn’t think I would give the man a cedi because there was no way I had understood his prayer. A meat pie seemed like a more obvious purchase for a foreigner.
“No, can you give it to that man?” I nodded in his direction.
The guy next to me looked from me to the singing man and then back at me. “That man?”
I nodded, feeling my throat swell again. I kept my gaze unfocused and downward; it would've been impossible to keep the tears in if I had locked eyes with another.
I could hear him smile. “God bless you!” he said, and passed my cedi forward.
I looked the other way out the window, wishing the old man would stop playing his music and stop singing. It was too beautiful.
It was more of a van than a tro-tro, as it had almost double the number of seats (22). If you don’t like people touching you or don't do well in small spaces, public transportation in Ghana and probably in the rest of Africa is not for you.
The front had two seats next to the driver and the back looked like this:
Don’t let the divided lines fool you – they are not separated individual seats. They are benches. The bench in front of you is usually about 12 inches away from your chin, and you are thigh to thigh, hip to hip and arm to arm with the person or people next to you. Although tro-tros and vans are not the most comfortable way to get around, the forced physical closeness makes for my most interesting moments in Ghana. This morning was no exception.
An old man in a navy blue jumpsuit too big for his slight body stepped onto our van in the opening space where there was no seat. He faced us. He was blind in a rather painful-looking way. His left pupil was permanently positioned left, revealing a yellowed sclera. Near his right eye's iris was some sort of puncture wound the size of a dime. He lowered his lids halfway (I wondered whether he did this consciously) and began speaking to us in Fante, the main local language spoken in the Central and Western Regions of Ghana. I only know a handful of Fante phrases and words, but knew the gist of what he was saying.
When tro-tros are almost full, salesmen stand by the open door and duck their heads inside to give a minute-long sales pitch on energy drinks, pens with calendars inside them, body soap, religious books, how-to books – you name it. And sometimes on the vans, where there is more room to stand, eloquent gracious representatives of religious bodies (usually Christian churches) will recite a prayer and mention the importance of faith and knowing Jesus and the Lord. Then he wishes the passengers a safe and blessed journey, sings a soulful song and steps out of the van. I’ve witnessed these van prayers three times and each van reacted the same way. Whereas the passengers generally ignore the salesmen on the tros, they clap, exclaim and give money to these people of extraordinary faith.
All I could understand of the old man's prayer was “St. Francis.” He mentioned his name several times. I had no recollection of what St. Francis was known for and wondered why this man chose to speak about him rather than St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers.
He spoke softly, but his words still reached everyone in the van. His voice sounded as old as his weary eyes looked. Although his eyes didn’t seem to register anything, he moved his head slowly from one side of the van to another as he spoke. He used his hands at times, moving them with control and grace.
The man next to me leaned over my lap to pull his wallet from the back right pocket of his trousers. He took out a one cedi bill and asked the woman sitting in front of him to give it to the man. She took the cedi and placed it inside the man’s idle hand by his waist. His eyes still projected ahead, his fingers fumbled for the money, though not with desperation or greed. He stopped his speech to say, “May God bless you,” and tucked the cedi into his left breast pocket, his finger catching the rim of the pocket, jingling a few coins from the bottom.
He finished the prayer and took out two light wooden cylinder-shaped sticks and began building a rhythm. The sticks were about six inches in length and an inch in width. He hit the right one on the left, rotating the left stick in his hand each time after striking it with the right. The rhythm was simple – one, two, one, two, one, two. It was so genuine. As a devoted admirer of African music, I am convinced Africans are born with musical inclination. There were countless rhythms and combinations of rhythms he could have played with those two sticks, but he chose the simplest, purest beat there is.
In his blind eyes, in his quiet demeanor, I could not detect a trace of sadness or of desperation. He was calm and steady. It was as if his only intention was to bring us faith and hope. When he began to sing, it was too beautiful for me. Too unexpected. Too needed. I couldn’t handle it. My throat swelled and tears brimmed. I laughed quietly at myself and pulled out my wallet. Despite never giving money to those who beg due to its often pointlessness and even negative repercussions, giving money to this blind man seemed like the most natural thing to do. There was no question in my mind about it. From moments like these I've learned there is a difference between sustainable giving and kindness.
In fear of completely losing it, I didn't dare look at the old man again or anyone as I handed a one cedi bill to the man next to me. I asked if he could pass it up. He looked at me, then looked at the van’s open entrance, where girls and women stood by our door with boxes and bowls of food on their heads. “You want a meat pie?” he asked. He probably didn’t think I would give the man a cedi because there was no way I had understood his prayer. A meat pie seemed like a more obvious purchase for a foreigner.
“No, can you give it to that man?” I nodded in his direction.
The guy next to me looked from me to the singing man and then back at me. “That man?”
I nodded, feeling my throat swell again. I kept my gaze unfocused and downward; it would've been impossible to keep the tears in if I had locked eyes with another.
I could hear him smile. “God bless you!” he said, and passed my cedi forward.
I looked the other way out the window, wishing the old man would stop playing his music and stop singing. It was too beautiful.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Traveling Alone in Ghana
I was the third passenger to pay for a seat on a tro-tro from Cape Coast to Kumasi, a four-hour trek north. Nineteen more seats filled after two hours of waiting. Waiting inside the tro, mind you, away from the unforgiving sun. I say “unforgiving” because one would assume the African Sun would give us a few hours in the mornings to collect our wits before penetrating our minds and bodies, but it does not. It’s like your boss calling you before work asking you for that thing you had to do for him. Not cool.
It was pointless to wonder how much quicker that wait would’ve been on a weekend, but I wondered it anyway. Besides updating my work expense log and walking across the station to buy a hardboiled egg with pepper sauce (my favorite street snack) and a loaf of bread to nibble on throughout the weekend, I haven’t a clue how I passed the rest of the time. Probably just people-watched. I’ve become frighteningly skilled at waiting by myself for transportation to show up or to take off. Without a car in Ghana, waiting has become my replacement "zone out time" for when I used to drive from Point A to Point B with no recollection.
I was on the brink of embarking on a four-day solo adventure in the Northern Region of Ghana. Waiting for the Kumasi tro to fill and leave was the shortest wait of the entire weekend – I had 12 more hours of waiting ahead. Traveling alone in Africa is doable if you have patience and a substantial way to unwind. All that waiting by myself made me realize how nice it would’ve been to have had another foreigner to chat with about the less than enjoyable transportation conditions. Being alone forced me to internalize a lot, but it will spew out in my writing in this post and the next couple.
Occasionally, others nearby expressed their disapproval of Ghana’s transportation system by saying in exasperation loud enough for just me to hear, “Oh, Africa!” and shake their heads and sometimes laugh. But that wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to wonder aloud and freely without offending anyone. I wanted to ask someone if the people in charge of selling bus tickets were just being lazy or if they are power-crazed and enjoy watching people breathe down each other’s necks for hours in a line that bulges five people wide all the way to the end.
The only reasons I didn't mind that our line at the Metro Mass station in Kumasi was more resemblant of a concert crowd was because we were standing like that from 3 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. and I was too sleepy to care and it wasn’t hot and humid yet. In one of the lines I stood in at Tamale’s Metro Mass station – imagine being in a mosh pit for an hour at the hottest time of the day – the people at the front were waving money at the closed ticket windows but no one even acknowledged them or had the courtesy to explain why they weren’t accepting payment. Why didn’t they accept our money and give us tickets so we could sit down in the shade and wait for the bus to come? Why did the ticket sellers have to wait until the bus arrived before opening the ticket windows? If that’s “just the way it is,” why? Has anyone in a position of authority in the Metro Mass ticket sales department ever questioned the system? I can’t help but wonder if this principle circles back to Ghana’s education system, in which students are forbidden to ask questions to their teachers and professors out of the cultural expectation that they must respect their elders. Can you imagine living in a country in which you couldn’t challenge the way things are? I cannot. I am grateful, but also sad for this.
Traveling alone in Ghana made me realize I only feel comfortable questioning the way things are in Ghana with other foreigners, and I could not do that last weekend. Although many Ghanaians who engaged me in small talk voiced frustrations about the lateness aspect, I couldn’t share my previous rant with just any Ghanaian. Who knows, it could've been considered offensive. I swallowed many questions and exclamations, as I realized they would only add to the stations’ sporadic negative vibes or reinstigate them. There is nothing I can do to change the situation; I am powerless. So I remained silent. I got a taste of what it's like to not be able to challenge the system. Haven't been given much of that taste in my life. Maybe as one could predict, the most memorable occasions were when I was volunteering and working abroad in "developing nations" - Peru and Ghana.
Ranting about these issues to another foreigner wouldn't have solved anything either, so what is the point of ranting or discussing anything at all if there are no real intentions of doing anything to solve the problems? Is ranting like gossiping...people do it for something to talk about? And foreigners detecting another country's "problems" - is that acceptable? Perhaps. Depends on their sources.
My original plans were to travel alone via bus straight to Bolgatanga (the northernmost city in Ghana) which would take all day. After Couchsurfing in Bolga for a couple nights, I was going to take a bus south to Tamale and another from Tamale to Mole. I wanted the alone time to clear my mind before my work's busy season - May to August, when our NGO swells with volunteers and our staff barely has time to eat and sleep. Then some friends in Cape Coast decided they wanted to go to Mole National Park as well, and they have a van. (You could imagine my excitement.) However, the night before we were supposed to leave, one of the drivers had a family emergency and the plans crumbled. The following morning I tried getting a spot on the next Bolga or Tamale bus but by then both were full, as they only leave Cape Coast once a week and tickets are bought days in advance. I ended up going from Cape Coast to Kumasi, overnighted in Kumasi, Kumasi to Tamale, Tamale to Mole, and the same route back home except all in one day. Yeah, I know. You'll read about it later.
Although I daydreamed about my friends' van throughout the trip, and it would’ve been even more fun to have gone with them, I am grateful I had the alone time. I got to exercise my good humor and growing patience, that’s for sure. I also was able to notice more than when I travel with others, which made for an entire notebook of intriguing writing material.
In due time, readers, in due time.
It was pointless to wonder how much quicker that wait would’ve been on a weekend, but I wondered it anyway. Besides updating my work expense log and walking across the station to buy a hardboiled egg with pepper sauce (my favorite street snack) and a loaf of bread to nibble on throughout the weekend, I haven’t a clue how I passed the rest of the time. Probably just people-watched. I’ve become frighteningly skilled at waiting by myself for transportation to show up or to take off. Without a car in Ghana, waiting has become my replacement "zone out time" for when I used to drive from Point A to Point B with no recollection.
I was on the brink of embarking on a four-day solo adventure in the Northern Region of Ghana. Waiting for the Kumasi tro to fill and leave was the shortest wait of the entire weekend – I had 12 more hours of waiting ahead. Traveling alone in Africa is doable if you have patience and a substantial way to unwind. All that waiting by myself made me realize how nice it would’ve been to have had another foreigner to chat with about the less than enjoyable transportation conditions. Being alone forced me to internalize a lot, but it will spew out in my writing in this post and the next couple.
Occasionally, others nearby expressed their disapproval of Ghana’s transportation system by saying in exasperation loud enough for just me to hear, “Oh, Africa!” and shake their heads and sometimes laugh. But that wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to wonder aloud and freely without offending anyone. I wanted to ask someone if the people in charge of selling bus tickets were just being lazy or if they are power-crazed and enjoy watching people breathe down each other’s necks for hours in a line that bulges five people wide all the way to the end.
The only reasons I didn't mind that our line at the Metro Mass station in Kumasi was more resemblant of a concert crowd was because we were standing like that from 3 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. and I was too sleepy to care and it wasn’t hot and humid yet. In one of the lines I stood in at Tamale’s Metro Mass station – imagine being in a mosh pit for an hour at the hottest time of the day – the people at the front were waving money at the closed ticket windows but no one even acknowledged them or had the courtesy to explain why they weren’t accepting payment. Why didn’t they accept our money and give us tickets so we could sit down in the shade and wait for the bus to come? Why did the ticket sellers have to wait until the bus arrived before opening the ticket windows? If that’s “just the way it is,” why? Has anyone in a position of authority in the Metro Mass ticket sales department ever questioned the system? I can’t help but wonder if this principle circles back to Ghana’s education system, in which students are forbidden to ask questions to their teachers and professors out of the cultural expectation that they must respect their elders. Can you imagine living in a country in which you couldn’t challenge the way things are? I cannot. I am grateful, but also sad for this.
Traveling alone in Ghana made me realize I only feel comfortable questioning the way things are in Ghana with other foreigners, and I could not do that last weekend. Although many Ghanaians who engaged me in small talk voiced frustrations about the lateness aspect, I couldn’t share my previous rant with just any Ghanaian. Who knows, it could've been considered offensive. I swallowed many questions and exclamations, as I realized they would only add to the stations’ sporadic negative vibes or reinstigate them. There is nothing I can do to change the situation; I am powerless. So I remained silent. I got a taste of what it's like to not be able to challenge the system. Haven't been given much of that taste in my life. Maybe as one could predict, the most memorable occasions were when I was volunteering and working abroad in "developing nations" - Peru and Ghana.
Ranting about these issues to another foreigner wouldn't have solved anything either, so what is the point of ranting or discussing anything at all if there are no real intentions of doing anything to solve the problems? Is ranting like gossiping...people do it for something to talk about? And foreigners detecting another country's "problems" - is that acceptable? Perhaps. Depends on their sources.
My original plans were to travel alone via bus straight to Bolgatanga (the northernmost city in Ghana) which would take all day. After Couchsurfing in Bolga for a couple nights, I was going to take a bus south to Tamale and another from Tamale to Mole. I wanted the alone time to clear my mind before my work's busy season - May to August, when our NGO swells with volunteers and our staff barely has time to eat and sleep. Then some friends in Cape Coast decided they wanted to go to Mole National Park as well, and they have a van. (You could imagine my excitement.) However, the night before we were supposed to leave, one of the drivers had a family emergency and the plans crumbled. The following morning I tried getting a spot on the next Bolga or Tamale bus but by then both were full, as they only leave Cape Coast once a week and tickets are bought days in advance. I ended up going from Cape Coast to Kumasi, overnighted in Kumasi, Kumasi to Tamale, Tamale to Mole, and the same route back home except all in one day. Yeah, I know. You'll read about it later.
Although I daydreamed about my friends' van throughout the trip, and it would’ve been even more fun to have gone with them, I am grateful I had the alone time. I got to exercise my good humor and growing patience, that’s for sure. I also was able to notice more than when I travel with others, which made for an entire notebook of intriguing writing material.
In due time, readers, in due time.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Case of the Mondays
Besides a failed attempt to go to the medical lab last Saturday to get tested for malaria and typhoid (see previous post for details), the rest of the weekend was alright. Then Monday graced me, and everyone else in the world except a few continents, with her presence and gave me an entirely different perception of the glorious line from Office Space, "Uht-oh, sounds like somebody's got a case of the Mondays."
Monday morning before work I made my second attempt to go to the lab to get tested. I walked down the hill in my neighborhood and continued along the road past the drop-taxi-only station to the gated entrance of University of Cape Coast. I stood across from the gate, where I normally go to get picked up by shared taxis because of the high traffic from UCC. I pointed forward in the direction of Abura each time I saw "taxi" signs erected from the top of cars with mustard yellow side boards. Mondays are busy days for the roads in Cape Coast for whatever reason and most of the taxis driving by were full or heading toward town, as shown by the taxi drivers' left hand out the window pointing to their right, the opposite direction of Abura. A taxi driver pulling out of the UCC gate flipped his left hand out the window to expose his palm to the sky, indicating, "Where are you going?" I made my intention more visible by jabbing my index finger forward a couple times. His left hand changed into hand signal most Westerners understand as "stop" or "stay there." I noticed he had a passenger in his backseat, which proved he was a shared taxi. I got inside and said "good morning" to the driver and passenger, two men who looked to be in their 20s.
The man next to me paid his fare and indicated he wanted to get out. The driver pulled over to the shoulder of the road and slowed to a stop. It was a barren area about 50 meters from the gas station with no shops or people or side roads. The man moved to his side of the backseat to the door but the driver insisted he exited from the right door instead for safety. I was in the middle of fishing out 40 pesewas from my money purse for my fare when I realized I needed to get out of my side of the car for the man. The door handle was jammed, as many are here, so I reached outside the window and opened it. As I got out, the driver asked me where I was going. “Abura,” I said, confused why the driver hadn’t pick up on that earlier from my hand signal. The driver shook his head, “No, I’m going to town.” “Then why did you pick me when I was pointing to Abura?” The driver shook his head and looked forward again, indicating he was done with the conversation. The man in the backseat hadn’t gotten out on my side but was listening to our conversation. Then he shut the door and they drove away. That was strange, did he change his mind about getting out of the taxi there?
I was annoyed and confused why the driver misread my hand signal, the foolproof language used by taxi drivers in Cape Coast and the language I’d made a point to learn when I first arrived to Ghana. Misinterpretation of the hand signals has happened to me before too – taxi drivers pull off the road to where I’m standing and ask where I’m going. “Look at my hand,” I want to tell them, “I learned these hand signals for you!” I have a vague feeling some of the drivers pull over for me regardless because they think, "There's an obroni, she must be lost."
I flagged down another shared taxi and made sure the driver knew I wanted to go to Abura. When I got to the medical lab I told the front desk clerk I wanted to get tested for malaria and typhoid. She slid a torn piece of computer paper across the desk to me. “Write your name, age and where you’re from on this.” I did and slid it back to her. “Seven cedis,” she said. I couldn’t find my wallet in my bag – I had my ProWorld money purse, but not my own. I got out of line and sat down on the lobby sofa to search some more and concluded it was nowhere to be found.
The last time I had my wallet out was in the first taxi when I was getting 40 pesewas, which I kept in my hand during the taxi switch and used to pay the second driver. That's where it was! My wallet was in that damn taxi that shouldn’t have picked me up in the first place! I must have gotten distracted while opening the car door for the homeboy next to me and then forgot to replace my wallet in my bag, and even more distracted when the driver asked me where I was going.
I felt sick to my stomach – I had 55 cedis in that money purse, enough to get me through 2-3 weeks in Cape Coast. Unless I’m traveling I never carry that much money on me, but today was an exception because I didn’t know how much the two lab tests would cost and after the lab I was making a detour at the pharmacy for two packets of dewormer pills for Kirsty and me (we were due for a deworming), which I also didn’t know the cost of.
While I was reaching outside the window of the taxi for the door handle, it could’ve fallen off my lap or the guy next to me could have taken it. I knew it didn’t fall out of the car because I would have seen it and heard the coins jingle as it hit the ground. I bet that guy next to me was about to get out of the taxi, saw my unattended money purse and took it. Then when he realized I wasn’t getting back in the car, he didn’t want to get out with me in case I would realize I was missing my wallet and would suspect he had taken it. If he was on foot, I could track him down. But he was a smart thief; he stayed in the car. Or what if the driver and the passenger knew each other and the whole thing was a conspiracy, a trick they play on obronis? Or maybe they were both just bad people, strangers who read each other's minds and conspired to split the winnings of an obroni’s wallet.
Still sitting dumbfounded on the couch, I realized I hadn’t paid for my malaria and typhoid tests yet. Not wanting to waste my taxi rides from the morning by retreating to the office without testing at the lab, considering the trouble I went through more than the expense of the cab fare, I resorted to using my work money which I would pay back when I got home at the end of the day. I got up from the couch in a daze a handed a 10 cedi bill to the front desk clerk. Noticing she looked busy and figuring she would call me over when she found change for my bill, I returned to my seat to sulk. Only a few minutes later my name was being called from somewhere far away. After the third call, I discovered the voice was coming from the nook on the right through the lab doorway. I pushed aside a ceiling-to-floor curtain and found behind it a Ghanaian man in a white coat with needles. He greeted me. He was sitting at a table facing a white wall – the area of the compartment was about the size of a photo booth. I sank into my chair facing him and surrendered my left arm. As he stuck a needle into my vein I couldn’t think of a single worse thing to be doing after getting my wallet stolen. (Side note: Ghanaians don't use gloves when dealing with patients, but if you make a fuss about it they will find some and put them on. I can't remember if he was wearing gloves while drawing my blood - my mind was elsewhere. Another side note: They don’t give you Band-aids after injecting you, which is a bummer because the only thing that could've cheered me up at that point was a kids' Band-Aid.)
“All done,” he said. “It should take one hour to get the results.”
I examined my puncture wound. I've never had abnormal reactions to shots - nurses always tell me I have great veins - but this man bruised me and there was a dime-sized bump emerging around the puncture. I needed to get out of there.
Remembering one of our volunteers mentioning he had gotten his lab test results by phone the same day he was tested, I asked, “Can you call me with the results?”
The man smiled as he stored my blood tube in a kit. “What if I don’t have any phone credit?”
I was not in the mood to play games or flirt. “I can call you then,” I took out my phone. “What is your number?”
He recited it and I stored him as “Lab” as he told me his name.
“You should flash me,” he said. (Yes, “flashing” has a different connotation in Ghana than in America.) "Flashing" is when you dial a number and hang up, so it shows the person your number. Sometimes people flash each other as a way of saying, "If you have phone credit, call me, because I don't have any and I want to talk to you."
“So, this is your number," he said as I flashed him. "I can call it any time I want?”
“Actually I only use this phone number for work. So if you call me after today I won’t answer.”
“Oh, okay.”
Yeah right, I thought, like I have enough money or the organization skills to have two phones. From the look on his face it seemed he’s heard the same line from an obroni before. Whatever, this white lie has saved me more times than I can count.
“The results will come in one hour so you can call me in one hour.”
After not finding the brand of deworming pills recommended by an expat friend at a pharmacy down the way, I took a taxi to work. I was riding out my “high” from scoring a cheap taxi ride to the office (if a Ghanaian has left a bad taste in your mouth about Ghana and other Ghanaians hear about it or witness it, most will feel guilty or responsible for the bad deed and some will bend over backwards to make it up to you, so if you've been stolen from, tell your plight to those you know are trying to rip you off) when I was brought down to my third or fourth low of the day by discovering the electricity wasn’t working. No air conditioning in Africa is no problem when you’ve got windows/open doors and a working fan. No fan? Especially in the middle of the day? See ya later, good mood.
Things started looking up after chatting with our nextdoor neighbors and coworkers Abusua Foundation, talking on the phone with a good friend from home who has a knack for comforting me by saying the right things, and then the electricity was reborn an hour later. The work day was a joke though – my attention span was shot from the morning. At least I tested negative for both malaria and typhoid, as I found out from my phone call to "Lab."
Mid-afternoon I had a meeting in town. When it finished I walked to another pharmacy to check if they had Wormplex 400 in stock; they did. I bought one for Kirsty and one for me, apparently all we needed. Must be a powerful little pill. Gross. I couldn’t believe they were each 1 cedi 30 pesewas – turns out I didn’t need to be carrying all that extra money this morning after all.
Then I remembered I didn’t go back to the front desk of the lab to get my change from the 10 cedi bill. There went another 3 cedis – just put it on my tab. (Dan in Real Life, anyone?)
The worst part about being stolen from isn’t the void of the item taken, it’s the fact that someone took something from me. Thus far in Ghana I had been "untouchable" when it came to bad luck. Except for when I killed my MacBook Pro in a freak accident after month numero uno. Don't want to talk about that. Back to my stolen wallet. I am determined to not let myself play the role of the victim by thinking, What have I done to deserve this? That’s a dangerous thought. Instead I’m looking at the situation like it was bound to happen at some point – unfortunately, having something stolen from you is a risk that accompanies traveling, especially in the poorer pockets of the world. I will focus on the idea that it was not a personal attack, and hopefully whoever stole/found my money needed it more than me.
Already in town, I decided to go to the market to look for avocados. Volunteers have been telling me they’re everywhere - you can't miss them, but I've been on a sporadic five-month-hunt for avocados and have yet to find any. Ghanaians call them "pears," which is confusing because vendors also sell pears. Why "pears," anyway? The avocados here look more like papayas. After 15 minutes of wandering through the dark and narrow walkway/maze/market searching high and low for avocados called pears that look like papayas, I gave up and asked a woman to give me three papayas. I handed her 3 cedis and she grabbed a fourth papaya and said, "I am giving you one from me," and put it in my bag with the rest. I think I could have kissed her on the cheek right then and there! How sweet, how kind, how wonderful this woman is - the world is! There is hope for this day yet! I thanked her repeatedly and gushed that she had made my entire day because I lost my wallet – I wanted to carry on and tell her more (as my friends know I tend to do, even with strangers) but figured she probably wasn’t registering my babbling anyway and most likely didn’t care, but smiled nonetheless. This purity of heart, this kind deed made me more emotional than I could handle - I could've cried with gratitude on the spot. I thanked her again, exited the tented market and shifted my attention to finding a taxi back to the office.
After attempting some admin work for a couple hours, it was time to head home. Since we've moved our office location about a month ago, some mornings and evenings I’ve been using our relative proximity from the apartment to the office as a means of exercise and to avoid taxi expenses. The walk is pleasant and scenic until the mother of a hill leading up to our apartment and the grueling climb at the end. A house is being built at the top of the hill, and its recent progress has made the climb very dangerous. I don't know why I keep climbing it day after day, I think I keep hoping the construction crew will even out the land one day. It's not too dangerous, though - when climbing the loose red dirt at the top, I've learned to dig my fingers into the loose dirt and lean toward the ground to keep from falling backward to my death.
So, here I was with my laptop in my backpack and two groceries bags in hand...doing well, truckin' along...and suddenly I lost my footing and slipped into a three-foot deep depression in the red dirt hill. As I fell I noticed my bag of papayas broke. I looked down the hill in just enough time to see one of the papayas rolling away and into the brush. I soaked up the silence of the fall for a few seconds and then laughed. My right leg still submerged in the steep depression, I hoisted myself up. My ankle was bleeding. I laughed again and looked down the hill where the papaya had rolled away. With every fiber of my being I was certain it was the one the lady had given me for free! So much for the kind deed... ha! I couldn't be sad about my runaway papaya or frustrated about the fall or how shitty my Monday had been because the irony of this final catastrophe was just too perfect.
Monday morning before work I made my second attempt to go to the lab to get tested. I walked down the hill in my neighborhood and continued along the road past the drop-taxi-only station to the gated entrance of University of Cape Coast. I stood across from the gate, where I normally go to get picked up by shared taxis because of the high traffic from UCC. I pointed forward in the direction of Abura each time I saw "taxi" signs erected from the top of cars with mustard yellow side boards. Mondays are busy days for the roads in Cape Coast for whatever reason and most of the taxis driving by were full or heading toward town, as shown by the taxi drivers' left hand out the window pointing to their right, the opposite direction of Abura. A taxi driver pulling out of the UCC gate flipped his left hand out the window to expose his palm to the sky, indicating, "Where are you going?" I made my intention more visible by jabbing my index finger forward a couple times. His left hand changed into hand signal most Westerners understand as "stop" or "stay there." I noticed he had a passenger in his backseat, which proved he was a shared taxi. I got inside and said "good morning" to the driver and passenger, two men who looked to be in their 20s.
The man next to me paid his fare and indicated he wanted to get out. The driver pulled over to the shoulder of the road and slowed to a stop. It was a barren area about 50 meters from the gas station with no shops or people or side roads. The man moved to his side of the backseat to the door but the driver insisted he exited from the right door instead for safety. I was in the middle of fishing out 40 pesewas from my money purse for my fare when I realized I needed to get out of my side of the car for the man. The door handle was jammed, as many are here, so I reached outside the window and opened it. As I got out, the driver asked me where I was going. “Abura,” I said, confused why the driver hadn’t pick up on that earlier from my hand signal. The driver shook his head, “No, I’m going to town.” “Then why did you pick me when I was pointing to Abura?” The driver shook his head and looked forward again, indicating he was done with the conversation. The man in the backseat hadn’t gotten out on my side but was listening to our conversation. Then he shut the door and they drove away. That was strange, did he change his mind about getting out of the taxi there?
I was annoyed and confused why the driver misread my hand signal, the foolproof language used by taxi drivers in Cape Coast and the language I’d made a point to learn when I first arrived to Ghana. Misinterpretation of the hand signals has happened to me before too – taxi drivers pull off the road to where I’m standing and ask where I’m going. “Look at my hand,” I want to tell them, “I learned these hand signals for you!” I have a vague feeling some of the drivers pull over for me regardless because they think, "There's an obroni, she must be lost."
I flagged down another shared taxi and made sure the driver knew I wanted to go to Abura. When I got to the medical lab I told the front desk clerk I wanted to get tested for malaria and typhoid. She slid a torn piece of computer paper across the desk to me. “Write your name, age and where you’re from on this.” I did and slid it back to her. “Seven cedis,” she said. I couldn’t find my wallet in my bag – I had my ProWorld money purse, but not my own. I got out of line and sat down on the lobby sofa to search some more and concluded it was nowhere to be found.
The last time I had my wallet out was in the first taxi when I was getting 40 pesewas, which I kept in my hand during the taxi switch and used to pay the second driver. That's where it was! My wallet was in that damn taxi that shouldn’t have picked me up in the first place! I must have gotten distracted while opening the car door for the homeboy next to me and then forgot to replace my wallet in my bag, and even more distracted when the driver asked me where I was going.
I felt sick to my stomach – I had 55 cedis in that money purse, enough to get me through 2-3 weeks in Cape Coast. Unless I’m traveling I never carry that much money on me, but today was an exception because I didn’t know how much the two lab tests would cost and after the lab I was making a detour at the pharmacy for two packets of dewormer pills for Kirsty and me (we were due for a deworming), which I also didn’t know the cost of.
While I was reaching outside the window of the taxi for the door handle, it could’ve fallen off my lap or the guy next to me could have taken it. I knew it didn’t fall out of the car because I would have seen it and heard the coins jingle as it hit the ground. I bet that guy next to me was about to get out of the taxi, saw my unattended money purse and took it. Then when he realized I wasn’t getting back in the car, he didn’t want to get out with me in case I would realize I was missing my wallet and would suspect he had taken it. If he was on foot, I could track him down. But he was a smart thief; he stayed in the car. Or what if the driver and the passenger knew each other and the whole thing was a conspiracy, a trick they play on obronis? Or maybe they were both just bad people, strangers who read each other's minds and conspired to split the winnings of an obroni’s wallet.
Still sitting dumbfounded on the couch, I realized I hadn’t paid for my malaria and typhoid tests yet. Not wanting to waste my taxi rides from the morning by retreating to the office without testing at the lab, considering the trouble I went through more than the expense of the cab fare, I resorted to using my work money which I would pay back when I got home at the end of the day. I got up from the couch in a daze a handed a 10 cedi bill to the front desk clerk. Noticing she looked busy and figuring she would call me over when she found change for my bill, I returned to my seat to sulk. Only a few minutes later my name was being called from somewhere far away. After the third call, I discovered the voice was coming from the nook on the right through the lab doorway. I pushed aside a ceiling-to-floor curtain and found behind it a Ghanaian man in a white coat with needles. He greeted me. He was sitting at a table facing a white wall – the area of the compartment was about the size of a photo booth. I sank into my chair facing him and surrendered my left arm. As he stuck a needle into my vein I couldn’t think of a single worse thing to be doing after getting my wallet stolen. (Side note: Ghanaians don't use gloves when dealing with patients, but if you make a fuss about it they will find some and put them on. I can't remember if he was wearing gloves while drawing my blood - my mind was elsewhere. Another side note: They don’t give you Band-aids after injecting you, which is a bummer because the only thing that could've cheered me up at that point was a kids' Band-Aid.)
“All done,” he said. “It should take one hour to get the results.”
I examined my puncture wound. I've never had abnormal reactions to shots - nurses always tell me I have great veins - but this man bruised me and there was a dime-sized bump emerging around the puncture. I needed to get out of there.
Remembering one of our volunteers mentioning he had gotten his lab test results by phone the same day he was tested, I asked, “Can you call me with the results?”
The man smiled as he stored my blood tube in a kit. “What if I don’t have any phone credit?”
I was not in the mood to play games or flirt. “I can call you then,” I took out my phone. “What is your number?”
He recited it and I stored him as “Lab” as he told me his name.
“You should flash me,” he said. (Yes, “flashing” has a different connotation in Ghana than in America.) "Flashing" is when you dial a number and hang up, so it shows the person your number. Sometimes people flash each other as a way of saying, "If you have phone credit, call me, because I don't have any and I want to talk to you."
“So, this is your number," he said as I flashed him. "I can call it any time I want?”
“Actually I only use this phone number for work. So if you call me after today I won’t answer.”
“Oh, okay.”
Yeah right, I thought, like I have enough money or the organization skills to have two phones. From the look on his face it seemed he’s heard the same line from an obroni before. Whatever, this white lie has saved me more times than I can count.
“The results will come in one hour so you can call me in one hour.”
After not finding the brand of deworming pills recommended by an expat friend at a pharmacy down the way, I took a taxi to work. I was riding out my “high” from scoring a cheap taxi ride to the office (if a Ghanaian has left a bad taste in your mouth about Ghana and other Ghanaians hear about it or witness it, most will feel guilty or responsible for the bad deed and some will bend over backwards to make it up to you, so if you've been stolen from, tell your plight to those you know are trying to rip you off) when I was brought down to my third or fourth low of the day by discovering the electricity wasn’t working. No air conditioning in Africa is no problem when you’ve got windows/open doors and a working fan. No fan? Especially in the middle of the day? See ya later, good mood.
Things started looking up after chatting with our nextdoor neighbors and coworkers Abusua Foundation, talking on the phone with a good friend from home who has a knack for comforting me by saying the right things, and then the electricity was reborn an hour later. The work day was a joke though – my attention span was shot from the morning. At least I tested negative for both malaria and typhoid, as I found out from my phone call to "Lab."
Mid-afternoon I had a meeting in town. When it finished I walked to another pharmacy to check if they had Wormplex 400 in stock; they did. I bought one for Kirsty and one for me, apparently all we needed. Must be a powerful little pill. Gross. I couldn’t believe they were each 1 cedi 30 pesewas – turns out I didn’t need to be carrying all that extra money this morning after all.
Then I remembered I didn’t go back to the front desk of the lab to get my change from the 10 cedi bill. There went another 3 cedis – just put it on my tab. (Dan in Real Life, anyone?)
The worst part about being stolen from isn’t the void of the item taken, it’s the fact that someone took something from me. Thus far in Ghana I had been "untouchable" when it came to bad luck. Except for when I killed my MacBook Pro in a freak accident after month numero uno. Don't want to talk about that. Back to my stolen wallet. I am determined to not let myself play the role of the victim by thinking, What have I done to deserve this? That’s a dangerous thought. Instead I’m looking at the situation like it was bound to happen at some point – unfortunately, having something stolen from you is a risk that accompanies traveling, especially in the poorer pockets of the world. I will focus on the idea that it was not a personal attack, and hopefully whoever stole/found my money needed it more than me.
Already in town, I decided to go to the market to look for avocados. Volunteers have been telling me they’re everywhere - you can't miss them, but I've been on a sporadic five-month-hunt for avocados and have yet to find any. Ghanaians call them "pears," which is confusing because vendors also sell pears. Why "pears," anyway? The avocados here look more like papayas. After 15 minutes of wandering through the dark and narrow walkway/maze/market searching high and low for avocados called pears that look like papayas, I gave up and asked a woman to give me three papayas. I handed her 3 cedis and she grabbed a fourth papaya and said, "I am giving you one from me," and put it in my bag with the rest. I think I could have kissed her on the cheek right then and there! How sweet, how kind, how wonderful this woman is - the world is! There is hope for this day yet! I thanked her repeatedly and gushed that she had made my entire day because I lost my wallet – I wanted to carry on and tell her more (as my friends know I tend to do, even with strangers) but figured she probably wasn’t registering my babbling anyway and most likely didn’t care, but smiled nonetheless. This purity of heart, this kind deed made me more emotional than I could handle - I could've cried with gratitude on the spot. I thanked her again, exited the tented market and shifted my attention to finding a taxi back to the office.
After attempting some admin work for a couple hours, it was time to head home. Since we've moved our office location about a month ago, some mornings and evenings I’ve been using our relative proximity from the apartment to the office as a means of exercise and to avoid taxi expenses. The walk is pleasant and scenic until the mother of a hill leading up to our apartment and the grueling climb at the end. A house is being built at the top of the hill, and its recent progress has made the climb very dangerous. I don't know why I keep climbing it day after day, I think I keep hoping the construction crew will even out the land one day. It's not too dangerous, though - when climbing the loose red dirt at the top, I've learned to dig my fingers into the loose dirt and lean toward the ground to keep from falling backward to my death.
So, here I was with my laptop in my backpack and two groceries bags in hand...doing well, truckin' along...and suddenly I lost my footing and slipped into a three-foot deep depression in the red dirt hill. As I fell I noticed my bag of papayas broke. I looked down the hill in just enough time to see one of the papayas rolling away and into the brush. I soaked up the silence of the fall for a few seconds and then laughed. My right leg still submerged in the steep depression, I hoisted myself up. My ankle was bleeding. I laughed again and looked down the hill where the papaya had rolled away. With every fiber of my being I was certain it was the one the lady had given me for free! So much for the kind deed... ha! I couldn't be sad about my runaway papaya or frustrated about the fall or how shitty my Monday had been because the irony of this final catastrophe was just too perfect.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Women Aren't Taxi Drivers Because They Can't Keep Secrets
Once a week our volunteers come to our office at 4 p.m. for either a Fante language lesson given by Lawrence, our Volunteer Coordinator, or for a Global Citizens Initiative (GCI) seminar given by me. GCI is a program my employer initiated this summer to give its volunteers and interns a more comprehensive understanding of their experiences working abroad. The program covers the following topics: cultural awareness, service-learning, international volunteerism, sustainable development, social enterprise and the role of non-profit organizations. The GCI topics are taught on a rolling basis. After the Fante or GCI lesson we go out to dinner in Cape Coast or one of the volunteers cooks for everyone. Our organization pays for 7 cedis (a little more than the average meal cost in Cape Coast) [EDIT: now 10 cedis, as prices have gone up] and a couple liters of bottled water for each volunteer and our staff. The volunteers rotate turns for cooking; it's predetermined on the calendar Kirsty distributes at the beginning of each month. The volunteer can cook the rest of us whatever she or he pleases. Our organization reimburses the volunteer cook for 5 cedis per volunteer and staff in attendance.
Last Tuesday was a Fante Tuesday. Lawrence never joins us at our weekly dinner, even though we invite him each time. He says he doesn’t come because he loves his wife’s cooking and doesn’t want to offend her by having someone else prepare his dinner. I’ve shared meals with Lawrence only a few occasions since I arrived in July: two lunches and one dinner. The two lunches were both at Castle Restaurant at the beginnings of August and September. Our NGO's marketing department asks that accepted volunteers book their flights at the beginning of a month to make it easier for on-site staff members to do airport pickups and so we don’t have to give several orientations throughout a month for each new volunteer we receive. It’s best to make sure everyone is on the same page, a phrase my dad used on family road trips whenever we stopped at a gas station – each of us had to use the restroom even if we didn’t have to go.
Our NGO's orientation program occurs on the first Sunday of each month we receive new volunteers. The new volunteers meet Kirsty and me at our office on the Sunday morning and we begin the orientation. First Kirsty explains our organization's mission, the volunteers’ expectations as volunteers in Ghana, their homestay living arrangements, our program schedule of events, and what to expect from the Ghanaian culture – the food, the transportation system, the people, precautions, health and safety issues, etc. Then I inform them of their expectations as professional volunteers and interns, the purpose of their project funds (to enable sustainable development), ways to spend their project money budget during their program that would facilitate sustainable development. The discussion lasts about two hours.
Then Lawrence and Kofi, our full-time and part-time Ghanaian staff members respectively, give the volunteers a tour of the town of Cape Coast and conclude the program with a refreshing seaside lunch at the Castle Restaurant, the restaurant next to the Cape Coast slave castle with an extensive menu and the most “enlightened” restaurant staff I’ve come across in Ghana, a label used by my Ghanaian-Russian neighbor Susan to identify (and date) Ghanaians who are intelligent and well-traveled.
Then Lawrence and Kofi, our full-time and part-time Ghanaian staff members respectively, give the volunteers a tour of the town of Cape Coast and conclude the program with a refreshing seaside lunch at the Castle Restaurant, the restaurant next to the Cape Coast slave castle with an extensive menu and the most “enlightened” restaurant staff I’ve come across in Ghana, a label used by my Ghanaian-Russian neighbor Susan to identify (and date) Ghanaians who are intelligent and well-traveled.
I don’t accompany Lawrence and Kofi and the new volunteers on the town tour, but I joined them for lunch during the August and September orientations because I had to bring the NGO's money to pay the bills. Both August and September Kirsty had forgotten to give Lawrence the money to pay the lunch bill and Lawrence had forgotten to ask Kirsty for it before the weekend, so I brought the money because Kirsty and I have access to the safe during the weekends because we lived in our office until mid-October. (The recent move has made me so excited for these new levels of professionalism and sanity!) Oh, and the one occasion I had dinner with Lawrence was when Kirsty’s parents were in town staying at a resort owned by a Scottish woman – Kirsty made Lawrence promise her he would try a common Scottish dish if she asked the Scottish owner to prepare it. Part of the fun in this challenge is that whenever Lawrence eats in a restaurant, he orders the same meal every time: chicken and fried rice. When I asked him why he doesn’t branch out and try something new, he told me he orders the same thing at restaurants because his wife can make chicken and fried rice. (Wait for it…) He doesn’t want to try something new and really like it and then have his wife not know how to prepare it as well. I love Ghanaians’ sense of logic. So simple and pure.
But back to the story... it wouldn't be a story told by me if I didn't go off on a few tangents before getting to the main point.
Last Tuesday we tried this new place for dinner called Zizibi’s, the sort of restaurant I’m betting Ghanaian men frequent with their mistresses. It has a sort of displaced feeling, as if it belongs to a secluded road rather than a village. The structure of Zizibi’s is as grand as a two-story home from America: the seating is where the front porch would be but extended back about 20 more yards. There were no cars or people there besides the beyond-bored looking waitresses sitting against the wall.
I ordered the vegetable jollof and it was the spiciest I've had yet. As long as I have enough water, I'm okay with ample spice. When we had exhausted the subjects of what we’d done that day and how the volunteers’ projects are going and how the food tasted and what we thought of the restaurant and our server, we finally talked about something unrelated to Ghana. It feels like it's been ages since my conversations haven't been based on Ghana or my work. I had asked one of our volunteers to explain why she doesn’t believe in the idea that everything happens for a reason. I can’t decide if I was more interested in her response because she and I view that topic so differently, or if I was just relieved to be talking about something besides being in Ghana. I know the purpose of those weekly dinners is to give our volunteers an outlet to talk about their experiences, but I prefer to exist within a culture rather than observing it verbally.
I ordered the vegetable jollof and it was the spiciest I've had yet. As long as I have enough water, I'm okay with ample spice. When we had exhausted the subjects of what we’d done that day and how the volunteers’ projects are going and how the food tasted and what we thought of the restaurant and our server, we finally talked about something unrelated to Ghana. It feels like it's been ages since my conversations haven't been based on Ghana or my work. I had asked one of our volunteers to explain why she doesn’t believe in the idea that everything happens for a reason. I can’t decide if I was more interested in her response because she and I view that topic so differently, or if I was just relieved to be talking about something besides being in Ghana. I know the purpose of those weekly dinners is to give our volunteers an outlet to talk about their experiences, but I prefer to exist within a culture rather than observing it verbally.
One of our volunteers Danielle caught a taxi roadside and went home as we were calling for a drop taxi because she was going in a different direction than the rest of us. Kirsty called Kwame, her favorite driver she calls for drops. He is notorious for being a lively and informative conversationalist and acts more as a friend than a driver – one time he split his lunch with me when he took me to Accra to pick up a new volunteer from the airport. But he also tends to overcharge for his drop rides and is usually either really early or really late to pick us up. He was an hour late getting us from Zizibi’s, which for some reason I cared more about tonight than usual.
I was the first one down the stairs. “Kwame! If I find out I have malaria tomorrow I’m blaming you for keeping us waiting outside so long.” I said, only half-joking.
He met me at the bottom of the stairs with a big hug and a smile, no rebuttal. He held the embrace and swayed me left to right a few times.
“I’m telling you.” I continued, mimicking the inflection of the common Ghanaian phrase by emphasizing “telling” and dropping an octave on “you.” Still smiling, he moved with open arms to Liz, then McKell and finally Kirsty. Maybe “hugging it out” really can solve all the world's problems.
“Do you know how late you are, Kwame?” Kirsty asked, breaking his embrace.
“I am really very sorry,” he took both her hands in his. “I am late.”
“One hour,” she said. “You will only take 5 cedis to take all of us home because you were so late, understand?”
“Okay,” he nodded. He ended up calling Kirsty later asking if 5 cedis was all he was getting – if she had forgotten to give the volunteers more money to give to him. (If Ghanaians don’t understand something obronis say, they just nod and say “yes” and “no problem” to keep peace.)
“And you’re taking us to the Goil to get ice cream before taking us home. Still only for 5 cedis.”
McKell and Kirsty wanted to get FanIce from the local gas station because when they tried ordering ice cream at Zizibi’s the waitress said they didn’t have any. I bet about half the items on any menu in Ghana is false advertisement because “we don’t have that.” You’re lucky when the servers even say that much – usually it goes like this:
“Can I have orange juice?”
“No.”
“Oh. Can I have pineapple juice?”
“No.”
“Hmm.. what about mango juice?
“No.”
“Apple juice?”
“No.”
“Right, what do you have?”
“We only have banana juice.”
When ordering food in Ghana you will save a lot of time by asking your server what they have that day – especially when it comes to beverages and desserts.
The four of us piled into Kwame’s car and drove toward some village I don’t know the name of. Earlier that day my friend had told me he moved into a new house in the village past Kakumdo and I didn’t catch the name of it but knew it starts with S. I asked Kwame the name of it as we drove through but I’ve forgotten it already. Then we reached Kakumdo, passed through Abura, and then we arrived at the Goil. We went inside while Kwame wiped his car with a torn bed sheet. He always does that when he’s waiting for people. Dusts the interior, shines the exterior. In fact, most taxi drivers clean their cars while they wait - it seems a bit compulsive to me but it's part of their status-conscious culture. I didn’t get anything because I wanted a cone or dish with real live ice cream and didn’t want to settle for a popsicle like the other girls had. I don’t like sloppy seconds especially when I know they are sloppy seconds.
I saw a obroni woman driver pull into the Goil as we left, a very rare sighting indeed. I pointed out my finding to the rest of the car and asked Kwame if it is difficult for females to become taxi drivers. He didn’t understand how I worded it at first so I took a different approach.
“If a woman wants to become a taxi driver what does she have to do?”
“They go to the office in town and take a test and pay a fee and den dey a driva!”
“And men who are taxi drivers are okay with women working as taxi drivers? It’s not bad?”
“Oh no! No problem, no problem. But you see it’s very difficult for women to be taxi drivers because they are very timid. Very shy at driving. And den one day, one day they drive like me!”
I laughed. “So is it difficult for women taxi drivers to make much money?”
“Yes because taxi drivers see many things, they hear many things, and they must keep secrets.”
I saw a disconnect from my question to his answer and hoped he would clarify naturally.
“Like affairs?” I offered.
“Very good. Yes,” Kwame said. He turned left off the junction and started up the winding red dirt road up to my and Kirsty’s apartment. “Because they see many things and must keep many secrets to protect the clients. And then you get many many clients. I think two years ago I had something like 35 clients I picked regularly. Even helped with their errands. They give a list of things they need in town and I get them all.”
I had stopped listening. My mind was off wondering what the juiciest thing the average taxi driver has seen or heard. And then I thought about whether I had shared any “secrets” with taxi drivers unknowingly, what they had seen and heard and had pretended not to.
Back to the disconnect. Was Kwame saying women don’t become taxi drivers and have a hard time getting paid as taxi drivers because people don’t trust women with their secrets? Is he saying people’s secrets are safer kept with men than women? Kwame!
Monday, September 13, 2010
Taxi Drivers Remind Me I Am a Minority
I figured it’s about time to talk about my love-hate relationship with the transportation system in Ghana. It took a couple weeks to get acclimated to the Ghanaian way of driving, which is offensive rather than defensive, but it's a comforting sort of recklessness. When I was in Peru, the driving was more suicidal than reckless. Ghanaian driving is like coloring outside the lines of a picture, and the picture turning out better because you dismissed the limitations of suggested guidelines; whereas Peruvian driving is coloring outside the lines, off the page and onto the desk, with horrific colors. At least the majestic Peruvian mountains and lush trees were satisfying distractions.
But I digress. The source of my sporadic frustration is not Ghanaian driving, but the transportation system as a whole; specifically, the unfair prices I sometimes face as a foreigner.
I get around Cape Coast by shared and drop taxis. Shared taxis are cheaper than drop taxis. Shared taxis pick up everyone on the side of the road who is pointing toward the direction the driver is going. Occasionally it can take as long as 15-20 minutes to find a shared taxi going your way. The function of a shared taxi is comparable to the purpose of a metro bus. The best part about taking shared taxis is hearing and telling the passengers “good morning” and “good afternoon,” and the drivers know they can't try to rip you off because a shared taxi is always a set price. Sometimes our volunteers are uncomfortable taking shared taxis and tro-tros the first couple weeks because they’re packed with Ghanaians. I don’t understand why, but I’m trying to. It's smart to avoid dodgy crowded areas in foreign countries, but it's pretty unavoidable in developed countries if you want cheap transportation.
Drop taxis take you from wherever you are to wherever you need to be. I use drop taxis when I don’t know where I’m going, when I’m really late and when it’s dark. Drop taxis are also used when you want to go from one town to another, as shared taxis only operate within town, but it’s a lot more expensive than using a tro-tro or a Ford van.
When I go from Cape Coast to another town, I use a tro-tro, which are boxy vans with three sitting benches in the middle. Tro-tros are the same price as shared taxis and are much cheaper than using drop taxis to get from one town to another. They’re similar to the combis I rode in while volunteering in Peru but much less crowded. Ford vans are more spacious than tro-tros and have air-conditioning. They’re most suitable when you have a long journey ahead. If you have a lot of bags, it’s best to use a drop taxi.
I’ve only come across taxis with air-conditioning in Accra. AC is a luxury in Cape Coast. Driving with the windows down is more fun anyway. I rely on my morning taxi rides to dry my wet hair from my shower and the afternoon rides to dry my sweat and cool me down. Seat belts are available, but they’re either stuffed into the seats or have a clip in them that you have to remove before fastening. I’ve been meaning to ask one of my taxi drivers the purpose of the clip. Kirsty told me it’s smart to build an army of taxi drivers by taking phone numbers from the ones I like. I call my drivers when I need someone to “pick me” (they don’t say “pick me up”). I only take phone numbers from taxi drivers who are calm, respectful, friendly but don’t talk the whole time, don’t ask me for my number and give me a good price the first time I ask. Ha, man, I’m a toughie. But really, I savor the quiet time the drop taxis provide me. They are my refuge after a chaotic bout in the market. Kirsty judges drivers based on conversation and how good of shape their car is in. Cape Coast taxis are all manual cars, which you don’t notice until you want to roll down the window and the lever is broken. But taxi drivers share cars, so I never recruit them into my army based on their car.
From my apartment to the main road at the bottom of the hill, it’s about a 10-minute walk. If I want to go toward Elmina, which is a 15-minute drive west of Cape Coast, I cross the road and try to get a taxi from that side. But most days I stay on the side of the road by the bottom of the hill to head to town or to Abura (a busy suburb where most of our volunteers’ homestay families live and where many of our NGO partners’ offices reside). When I see a taxi coming from the left, I use my right hand to point forward in the direction of Abura, or point behind me if I’m going to town. It’s disrespectful to use your left hand for anything in Ghana because historically the left hand was thought of as the dirty hand.
If I want a drop taxi I look for the taxis with no passengers. It’s 3 or 4 cedis to take to town. When a taxi pulls over for me, I bend down until I’m level with the driver (no need to lean in on the door – your money gets you a lot farther than your cleavage, unfortunately.. or fortunately?) and ask through their unrolled window, “Kingsway?” They nod. “How much?” I learned the hard way that no matter how long you’ve waited for a taxi, how hot it is, or how late you are, you must never forget to ask how much the fare is before getting in.
Whenever I forget to ask, I realize I’ve forgotten as soon as I get inside his car and we start driving. My stomach plummets because, out of sheer absentmindedness, I’ve subjected myself to a possible asshole. I’ve come up with the embarrassingly pessimistic discovery that every time an obroni approaches a taxi driver here, there’s a 50 percent chance he’s an asshole. I hate arguing with taxi drivers. It’s exhausting to constantly have to prove that I’m more than my white skin; I’m more than a money sign, and it’s even more exhausting to listen to their relentless bantering, all the while knowing that I wouldn’t even being having the conversation if my skin was black.
I only argue with taxi drivers when I have to. The majority of the arguments took place in July and August when Cape Coast was busting at the seams with obronis on their summer break from school, and the taxi drivers thought every obroni was only here for a few weeks. So of course, when they asked how long I’ve been in Cape Coast, the first question on rotation of all taxi drivers’ small-talk talking points, they were all delighted to hear that I’d been in town for a while and I’m staying for two years. The thing that really gets under my skin is when the driver and I agree on a price of a drop taxi and then when he gets to my apartment he tells me he didn’t realize how far away I live (bull shit) and tries to charge me more. Or when the driver picks up me and one or two of my obroni volunteers as an agreed shared ride – 30-60 pesewas each, depending on the route we give him – and then a few minutes later the driver says, “Where am I dropping you?” But at least if this happens you can get out, not pay anything and look for another ride.
During my first week in Ghana while trying out the taxi system without help, I forgot to ask the fare amount until I got to my front doorstep and the driver charged me double the expected price. I didn’t have any one cedis either, so I couldn’t give him the amount he should’ve charged me and then made an exit. It’s not very advisable to do that when you’re with a particularly hostile driver, but you can get away with it if you disagree over the price early and make pleasant small talk with them during the drive. It feels like a passive-aggressive cop-out but whatever.
I forget I am a minority in Ghana until I do anything that involves spending money. It's frustrating to be discriminated against, but I got used to it quickly. You have to. And I realize I have nothing to complain about if this is the most blatant form of discrimination I've faced in my life. To Africans, simply not being from Africa automatically means we have more money than they do. In Ghana you are considered wealthy if you can provide yourself your needs and most of your wants. If we used this principle as a measuring stick of wealth in America, I would be considered rich. Most people would be considered rich.
But we must not compare apples to oranges.
But I digress. The source of my sporadic frustration is not Ghanaian driving, but the transportation system as a whole; specifically, the unfair prices I sometimes face as a foreigner.
I get around Cape Coast by shared and drop taxis. Shared taxis are cheaper than drop taxis. Shared taxis pick up everyone on the side of the road who is pointing toward the direction the driver is going. Occasionally it can take as long as 15-20 minutes to find a shared taxi going your way. The function of a shared taxi is comparable to the purpose of a metro bus. The best part about taking shared taxis is hearing and telling the passengers “good morning” and “good afternoon,” and the drivers know they can't try to rip you off because a shared taxi is always a set price. Sometimes our volunteers are uncomfortable taking shared taxis and tro-tros the first couple weeks because they’re packed with Ghanaians. I don’t understand why, but I’m trying to. It's smart to avoid dodgy crowded areas in foreign countries, but it's pretty unavoidable in developed countries if you want cheap transportation.
Drop taxis take you from wherever you are to wherever you need to be. I use drop taxis when I don’t know where I’m going, when I’m really late and when it’s dark. Drop taxis are also used when you want to go from one town to another, as shared taxis only operate within town, but it’s a lot more expensive than using a tro-tro or a Ford van.
When I go from Cape Coast to another town, I use a tro-tro, which are boxy vans with three sitting benches in the middle. Tro-tros are the same price as shared taxis and are much cheaper than using drop taxis to get from one town to another. They’re similar to the combis I rode in while volunteering in Peru but much less crowded. Ford vans are more spacious than tro-tros and have air-conditioning. They’re most suitable when you have a long journey ahead. If you have a lot of bags, it’s best to use a drop taxi.
I’ve only come across taxis with air-conditioning in Accra. AC is a luxury in Cape Coast. Driving with the windows down is more fun anyway. I rely on my morning taxi rides to dry my wet hair from my shower and the afternoon rides to dry my sweat and cool me down. Seat belts are available, but they’re either stuffed into the seats or have a clip in them that you have to remove before fastening. I’ve been meaning to ask one of my taxi drivers the purpose of the clip. Kirsty told me it’s smart to build an army of taxi drivers by taking phone numbers from the ones I like. I call my drivers when I need someone to “pick me” (they don’t say “pick me up”). I only take phone numbers from taxi drivers who are calm, respectful, friendly but don’t talk the whole time, don’t ask me for my number and give me a good price the first time I ask. Ha, man, I’m a toughie. But really, I savor the quiet time the drop taxis provide me. They are my refuge after a chaotic bout in the market. Kirsty judges drivers based on conversation and how good of shape their car is in. Cape Coast taxis are all manual cars, which you don’t notice until you want to roll down the window and the lever is broken. But taxi drivers share cars, so I never recruit them into my army based on their car.
From my apartment to the main road at the bottom of the hill, it’s about a 10-minute walk. If I want to go toward Elmina, which is a 15-minute drive west of Cape Coast, I cross the road and try to get a taxi from that side. But most days I stay on the side of the road by the bottom of the hill to head to town or to Abura (a busy suburb where most of our volunteers’ homestay families live and where many of our NGO partners’ offices reside). When I see a taxi coming from the left, I use my right hand to point forward in the direction of Abura, or point behind me if I’m going to town. It’s disrespectful to use your left hand for anything in Ghana because historically the left hand was thought of as the dirty hand.
If I want a drop taxi I look for the taxis with no passengers. It’s 3 or 4 cedis to take to town. When a taxi pulls over for me, I bend down until I’m level with the driver (no need to lean in on the door – your money gets you a lot farther than your cleavage, unfortunately.. or fortunately?) and ask through their unrolled window, “Kingsway?” They nod. “How much?” I learned the hard way that no matter how long you’ve waited for a taxi, how hot it is, or how late you are, you must never forget to ask how much the fare is before getting in.
Whenever I forget to ask, I realize I’ve forgotten as soon as I get inside his car and we start driving. My stomach plummets because, out of sheer absentmindedness, I’ve subjected myself to a possible asshole. I’ve come up with the embarrassingly pessimistic discovery that every time an obroni approaches a taxi driver here, there’s a 50 percent chance he’s an asshole. I hate arguing with taxi drivers. It’s exhausting to constantly have to prove that I’m more than my white skin; I’m more than a money sign, and it’s even more exhausting to listen to their relentless bantering, all the while knowing that I wouldn’t even being having the conversation if my skin was black.
I only argue with taxi drivers when I have to. The majority of the arguments took place in July and August when Cape Coast was busting at the seams with obronis on their summer break from school, and the taxi drivers thought every obroni was only here for a few weeks. So of course, when they asked how long I’ve been in Cape Coast, the first question on rotation of all taxi drivers’ small-talk talking points, they were all delighted to hear that I’d been in town for a while and I’m staying for two years. The thing that really gets under my skin is when the driver and I agree on a price of a drop taxi and then when he gets to my apartment he tells me he didn’t realize how far away I live (bull shit) and tries to charge me more. Or when the driver picks up me and one or two of my obroni volunteers as an agreed shared ride – 30-60 pesewas each, depending on the route we give him – and then a few minutes later the driver says, “Where am I dropping you?” But at least if this happens you can get out, not pay anything and look for another ride.
During my first week in Ghana while trying out the taxi system without help, I forgot to ask the fare amount until I got to my front doorstep and the driver charged me double the expected price. I didn’t have any one cedis either, so I couldn’t give him the amount he should’ve charged me and then made an exit. It’s not very advisable to do that when you’re with a particularly hostile driver, but you can get away with it if you disagree over the price early and make pleasant small talk with them during the drive. It feels like a passive-aggressive cop-out but whatever.
I forget I am a minority in Ghana until I do anything that involves spending money. It's frustrating to be discriminated against, but I got used to it quickly. You have to. And I realize I have nothing to complain about if this is the most blatant form of discrimination I've faced in my life. To Africans, simply not being from Africa automatically means we have more money than they do. In Ghana you are considered wealthy if you can provide yourself your needs and most of your wants. If we used this principle as a measuring stick of wealth in America, I would be considered rich. Most people would be considered rich.
But we must not compare apples to oranges.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)