The TroTro Saga

With their rattling seats, squeaking floors and peeling metal, it's hard not to love the trotro. The mates lean half their bodies out the window and shout "Accra Accra"(except it sounds like crawcraw, like a crow) while waving their hands around in patterns I still can't discern. I've learned that when they chant "dodododo" they're not doing some tribal call, but instead that particular trotro is headed to my house. How they get "dododo" from Legon/Medina, I have yet to figure out.

Sometimes, the people are nice. They ask me where I'm going and then pay careful attention to make sure the mate doesn't forget about me. Today, I caught one little boy seated on his mother's lap running his grubby fingers through my hair, yellow and damp-- I didn't mind. One robust woman seated next to me in a brilliant dress that reminded me of a peacock insisted (literally) that I try a piece of her corn on the cob. Normally, I would have said no, thanks and been on my way but never has my body craved vegetables like this, so I accepted. The corn was sweet and warm in my mouth, the little kernels breaking and leaking their juices down my dusty throat.

I have learned, though, in my three weeks here in Ghana that trotros aren't always the best means of transportation. First, they often leave me in their dust, literally, as I wait and wait for the right one to arrive. There are no real stops, persae, so I have to hope that one will stop at the part of the road I happen to be standing at. Every day, I say a little prayer that one of them won't run me over. Second, they often defy death by swerving all around through traffic, dodging hawkers selling toothbrushes, t-rolls and little packets of "fresh" water. Naturally, this makes me a little car sick and, when added to bumper-to-bumper traffic, exhaust fumes and little venhilation in swelting conditions, is enough to make anyone a little weak in the knees.

Some of the trotros idosyncricies are slightly more serious. Take, for example, the trials and tribulations of my last three days' commute to work. The trotro from home to Tetteh Quarshie Interchange is usually uneventful. The whole ride costs about 20 cents, maximum, and I usually ride with someone from my group. After 'eliting' at the Interchange, I join well-dresed Ghanaians as they clamor across four busy lanes of traffic, dodging Morrocan children who beg with wide eyes while pointing toward their dirty mouths. I walk less than half of a mile through street vendors and stop most every day to buy a mango from a woman whose name might be Janice. Men play ping pong on make shift tables and I breeze past them, waving as they shout "Heeeey obroni!" and wave with pink palms. I hop on the trotro in a large barren field, filled with chattering Ghanaians and trotro drivers soliciting their services. I have to ask "Coastal?" before climbing aboard, since I still can't quite understand the hand signals. I generally get a few stares and some words in Twi thrown at me, but people are friendly and amused that this obroni has decided to brave the trotro system.

Monday began my week of trotro hell. I climbed aboard a white Merceded bus (not as classy as it sounds) and took my seat in the back between a Ghanian body builder and a wrinkley old man. Just as we were approaching the third stop of the trip, the door fell off. Literally, the sliding door that the mate uses to let people on and off of the trotro came lose from its tracks and fell off. Half of the thing was still attached, so the mate held it up and we continued on our way with a wide-open, used-to-be sliding trotro door. No one blinked. Needless to say, my hair was less than neat after a twenty minute breezy ride.

On Tuesday, a young girl with a swollen belly flagged my trotro at a dusty intersection. She climbed aboard, but handed the mate something on her way in. The mate opened the trunk and placed a large, metal propane container behind the last seat, which also happened to be my seat. The can was full, from what I understood, so I was all the more nervous as I watched the hatch fly open and the tank bonce heavily into oncoming traffic. It rolled gracefully across Spintex Road and straight into a gutter of raw sewage. I felt relieved knowing that the potential hazard wasn't below my feet, but was aghast only moments later when the mate came barreling back across traffic with the stinky metal container reflecting the sun's light in his arms. I 'elited' at the next stop and walked the mile further to my job.

Today, Wednesday, I decided to give the trotro one last go. Third time's a charm, right? I caught a big orange bus to Tetteh Quarshie Interchange with my friend Molly and paid 10 cents less than normal- the day was already off to a great start! The Morrocan children weren't begging at the corner for once, so I didn't have to feel guilty for not reaching into my pockets searching for change. I boarded a trotro at the same old lot and we chugged away down Spintex Road. We couldn't have been driving for five minutes when the driver swerved sharply to the side of the road and slammed on the squeaky brakes. He started shouting something in Twi and before I could register what was happening, men and women were clawing my hair and back, grappling with anything obstructing the van's exit. "WHAT? WHAT?" I heard myself shouting, but as the smell of smoke entered my nostrils I knew exactly what. Sure enough, my trotro had actually caught fire. Smoke was billowing now out of the glovebox. While others argued with the mate for their coins back, I ran far away and hopped another trotro (crazy, I know) to coastal.

We're off to the North this weekend in search of elephants, baboons and lions. I have to say, after my trotro saga, I think a safari jeep will be a welcome vacation.