While I finished packing, Edem picked up some carvings I had
ordered for my family and we were soon on our way to Accra.
We hopped into a tro tro and just as we pulled out of town a
car driving toward us hit a sheep, head on. The poor thing bounced under the car up and down, side to
side like a pinball. No one said anything, or even seemed to notice. I heard the sheep make two last
desperate pleas for its mother. No one stopped, or even slowed down. I turned to look back, and after one
last spasm someone just pulled it off the road. I must have looked horrified, because Edem very concernedly
looked into my eyes and asked me if I was all right. I’m not sure I was.
At the next intersection Edem bought us coconuts, which spilled
all over my pants because drinking out of a coconut shell is hard enough
without being in a deathtrap on a dirt road that’s mostly potholes. It was delicious, though. And distracted me from thinking about
the sheep. Now I was thinking
about how I was going to spend the next 24 hours soaking in coconut juice.
Along the way, we seemed to pass through a lot of police
checkpoints. I know we passed a
few on the way to Kpando, but I suppose I didn’t notice them as much, seeing
how I was more concentrated on surviving the drive in the tro. Now that I’m use to riding in a death
trap, I’m free to notice things like men with machine guns along the side of
the road. Our driver paid a bribe
or two, and we putted along until we got to a checkpoint where there was a
machine-gun-man flagging us over to the side of the road. Everyone on the bus was escorted off,
and we stood in line at a little blue wooden hut. One machine-gun-man asked Edem something, and Edem turned to
me and asked for my passport.
Sketchy. Edem assured me
that it would be fine. I looked at
the machine-gun-man and felt like this was anything but fine. He took my passport without comment and
walked away. I pictured him
returning, poking the machine gun into my back, and leading me to a government
vehicle which would ultimately deliver me to the jail cell where I would spend
the rest of my 20s before our government got around to bribing the
machine-gun-men to let me out.
Every time the line moved I shuffled a few steps thinking that they were
surely my last, and how my mother was never going to trust Anthony Bourdain again.
Finally Edem and I were next. We were waived ahead and stepped into the little blue wooden
shack where two fat men in uniform, looking overly important, sat at a small
wooden table. They asked Edem a
few questions, looked at me, produced my passport from the top of a pile of
papers, examined my passport, looked me up and down again, re-examined my
passport. I watched the
machine-gun-man out of the corner of my eye, waiting for him to make a
move. But, one of the fat men in
uniform handed my passport to Edem and they dismissed us with a curt hand
wave. I could breathe again.
On the other side of the small blue wooden shack saleswomen
bombarded us from every side. We
zigzagged through the gauntlet of ladies carrying shredded dried fish in
plastic baggies on plates, glass containers of cold fried yuka and hot sauce,
and boiled eggs on their heads and finally made it back to the solace of our
seats.
Once on the tro, Edem explained to me why there are so many
checkpoints. Apparently the police
don’t get paid very well. On paper
they are suppose to be paid well, but they very rarely actually receive the
salary they’re contracted to receive, so they subsidize their income. Corruption and bribes are big, he
explained, so the police set up checkpoints mostly to collect money. Edem vouched for me as a volunteer of
his children’s home, which may have saved me from being relieved of some
cash.
Eventually everyone made it back on the tro and we were on
our way, once again, to Accra.
When we finally arrived, Edem asked if I wanted to go shopping, because
“American women like to shop.” I
explained that I actually don’t really like it at all. He didn’t seem to believe me.
As we walked, hand in hand across the city, I noticed the
gutters for the first time. In
Kpando, the gutters are mostly empty, with little puddles of piss and a plastic
water bag or two. In Accra the
gutters are full of this grey liquid covered in brown foam with chunks of
garbage floating around.
Disgusting. I’m glad I
haven’t spent much time here.
The sidewalks are difficult to stay on, so you often have to
jump over the open gutters to walk in the road and suck in your stomach to
avoid getting hit by tro tros and taxis. After only a handful of brushes with death, we arrived
at the art market where there were dozens and dozens of little stalls where
people sold drums, carvings, masks, clothes, jewelry, and all sorts of junk
that most Ghanians don’t actually own.
Predictably, salesmen accosted us as we roamed the
market. We stopped once or twice
so I could look at something, and Edem would start to argue over the price of
the item. Some might use the word
“barter,” instead, which makes the process sound fun and exciting and possibly
quaint, which it is not. It’s
stressful. I just want a goddamn
price tag and have that be the end of it.
I suffered through about 3 seconds of bartering before telling Edem
“never mind, I don’t want it that badly.”
If the place didn’t feel touristy enough, a Rastafarian
manned almost every stall. The
only Rastafarians I’ve seen on the entire trip, mind you. I guess tourists prefer to buy things
from black guys who look Jamaican.
Edem pretended I was his cheap-and-hard-to-please-wife to
get deals on some beads I liked.
Most women and girls wear a few strands of seed-beads around their
waists. Edem explained to me that
they’re a symbol of chastity for young girls (no one should see your beads),
and fidelity for married women (only one person gets to see your beads.) Apparently they’re also supposed to
keep you fit. He said this as if
the beads have magical powers, but I think that they just let you know when
you’re getting a little tubby because they don’t fit anymore! I purchased a set for every female I
buy holiday gifts for, regardless of their archaic symbolism and spurious powers.
Pocketing my loot, I told Edem I was ready to go. Incredulous, he lead me out of the
market, stopping once more to make sure I was really finished shopping. I really was.
Then we walked to the tro station, hopped on one and started
driving into the center of town where the REAL congestion and filth is
rampant. Two wild tro rides
later we were at a little cafeteria-style restaurant. Edem ordered me my last meal of red-red and as we sat down
his friends Ben… and Mauwli showed up!
It was a really nice surprise to see Mauwli once more before heading
home. After a leisurely meal Edem
and we all walked to a tro station, said our goodbyes, and Edem took me to the
airport.
Although my flight left at 2am, Edem needed to drop me off
at 8pm so he could catch a tro back to Kpando and not have to stay the night in
Accra. He thanked me again and we
hugged. I pulled out my last bit
of leftover cash, about 8 cedis, and put it in his hand before pushing open the
door and stepping into the air conditioning.
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