Take A Ride On the Reading Tro-Tro

I hesitantly place one foot into the oversized coffin and nervously look for an opening among the densely packed seating. I am prodded by the mate, a 15 year old boy whose responsibility is to herd passengers in and collect their money, as he pleads, "Hurry white man. You get in now". People stubbornly shuffle over and I head towards the rear where a woman with a satchel of yams on her lap picks up her small child to make room for me. She asks if he could sit on me and I just stare back as the boy reluctantly shifts his weight onto one of my knees. My knees are shoved against the metal frame of the seat in front of me and I wonder how anyone bigger than me could fit. The beads of sweat are clouding my vision and through a salty haze I look around and curse myself being the only one without a cloth and fan to free my face from the heat. Through his nose the mate chants “Achimota, Achimota, Achimota” – our intended destination. All I hear is “moamoamoa” but the call transfixes others and people begin to slowly fill the car. As more and more enter, crude foldable seats extend and greedily block any semblance of an aisle. I squirm in the stagnant air and battle the subtle pains of panic as the cracked window remains at a claustrophobically inducing distance. I concentrate on work, on food, on relaxing pools, that devious mass of snow that always found its way down my back during snowball fights, but the invasive aura of sweat forces my attention on the more tangible. I count. There are 5 rows of people with 4 people squeezed into each row. Two others sit alongside the driver making 23 seats…24 if you count the child on my knee. I think of prairies and Ansel Adams landscapes, open spaces that I can retreat to in my mind, but I can't help to ponder that an escape route would be nearly impossible to find should there be an accident. The slow baseline of the reggae song exacerbates my uneasiness as it blasts from the radio and occupies all the remaining space. The thought of screaming and clawing my way out to escape the belly of this great beast crosses my mind, but the door slides closed and the vehicle tenaciously starts, the artificial breeze recalling my self-control.

Thus was my first experience (3 weeks a go) in a tro-tro – the generic name for anything larger than a taxi that carries passenger along a strictly adhered to route. I ride in a tro-tro about three times a day and have been in everything from small mini-vans to old school busses (no description could envelop the lot). Except when I board with a friend, I have always been the only white person on the tro-tro and I reminisce about old kindergarten picture-books with the accompanying record that repeated, "One of these things is not like the other". White businessmen and the Lebanese (whom own 40% of the businesses in Ghana I'm told) seem to prefer alternative modes of transportation.

Maneuvering around Accra takes a certain amount of courage, a bit of trial-and-error, and a whole lot of p-a-t-i-e-n-c-e. If you don't learn to enjoy the excitement of traveling than you're not going to appreciate the destination.

I have learned to take pleasure in my commute to work. To get to work I take a leisurely stroll along the open sewer canal that runs past my house (and all throughout Ghana as far as I can tell), past the tired shop-people selling their inconsequential items and usually I make time for a beloved egg sandwich. Within a makeshift vendors stall, a woman will cook a couple eggs, onions, and tomato over exhausted coals and slap it on a generous roll for less than fifty cents! I eat it as I walk which I think is unusual here but the grab and go mentality is tough to break.

There are no sidewalks anywhere in Ghana and as I walk along the street I have even begun to appreciate the wholly unnecessary bursts of noise from the horn of every passing motorist, the daring maneuvers of drivers anxious to steal any piece of open road in a traffic ridden city, and the steadfast pedestrians who won't flinch when a truck heads straight for them only to make a quick adjustment at the absolute last possible moment. I arrive at the bus stop and wait for the appropriate shared taxi to the main station. These taxis follow a pre-determined route as passengers enter and exit and I ponder the consequences of jumping in a stranger's taxi at home. Generally, the driver only allows four passengers, but in more rural areas I have been in situations where the driver will pull over and you can't help but laugh at the idea of squeezing someone else in. The Ghanaian anthem should be "there's always room for one more" and I've been in a taxi with 8 bodies tucked neatly inside – cooperation and determination are vital for such feats of group contortion.

I have even begun to enjoy the infamous tro-tro and the environment of the stations. You could conceivably get anything you needed without ever leaving the tro-tro. I’ve sat at a red-light when a man poked his head through the window and shoved toilet paper rolls and plantanes in my face telling me “their real fresh man” – what?? Waiting for the tro-tro to reach capacity in the station you can listen to a preacher, stock up your medicine cabinet, and even buy a puppy while being served elaborate displays of food including hard-boiled eggs, fried fish, sandwiches, various cuts of meat, chilled cocoa, fresh fruits, meat pies, and plenty of other indiscernible items without ever leaving the tro-tro! Like a live infomercial a man will hop in and proudly unveil an odd showcase of items for one low-low price. Today, someone offered a flashlight, shoe polish, a toothbrush, and a pencil for a little over a dollar. What a deal! I take pleasure in the debates that erupt when a controversial talk radio show is played and admire the care that is displayed when an entire car will protest to the mate if they think they have overcharged a customer.

Again, though, there is a dark side. I think it's summed up best by the fact that a tro-tro may not be equipped with a licensed driver, rearview mirrors, proper brakes, door handles, or even a complete floor, but without exception, every single vehicle has a fire-extinguisher…gulp. It can easily be argued that tro-tros are a human rights violation. Citizens are forced to utilize them because they are the only affordable way to move about the city and they are not particularly happy about it. The driving style is a stark contrast to the interpersonal relationships here as there is an every-man-for-themselves mentality that consistently engenders accidents. I have already witnessed a six year old girl brutally killed in a hit and run, a car flip over in front of my house, and two taxis crash into each other in a station. Tro-tro accidents do happen and when they do they are fatal. Sitting in the back of a tro-tro where the floor was raised making it unusually cramped, the man next to me angrily reminded the mate that they are transporting human beings. Receiving additional money for each person who rides and earning less in a day than a two hour's wage at McDonalds, I don't blame the mate for waiting until every conceivable seat was occupied, letting the artificial breeze muster the old man's contempt.

Escape

September 11, 2006

While it was only my second weekend in Accra, I have to admit it felt good to leave the hustle of the city centre. I traveled with two girls, Liz and Laura from the east coast, to the Volta region. We left after I finished work and took a four hour tro-tro (minibus) to HoHoe (Northeast of Accra along the border of Togo). The tro-tro experience really requires its own blog entry so I will just mention that the highlight of the trip was the brief moment when the guy next to me leaned over just enough to allow my right leg to fully extend for an instant. The sun had already set when we reached our destination and we quickly learned that the city did not have any electricity for the night. The only light in Hohoe was the glow of the moon’s reflection off our pale skin and we looked like ghosts as we hesitantly found our way to the lodge.

When the electricity’s out in a rural area there is not really much to do except drink or sleep and luckily we managed to do both. Waking up, the town seemed to transform itself overnight. Growing up in Chicago I have become easily amazed at any landscape that is not brutally flat and I could only sit down and admire the mountains with lush trees crawling up their backs surrounding the region. Ambitiously, we attempted to see two ‘attractions’ around Hohoe, something that is quite unheard of in a country with a relaxed disposition and where getting somewhere is as much of an adventure as the destination. Our first stop was a hike to Wli falls, the largest waterfall in the country. The trail was littered with dozens of different species of butterflies and apart from a colony of ants that attacked us, the trail was accomplished with ease. The trail rewarded us with a striking waterfall all to ourselves and we played in the mist. We sat and let the flowing waterfall hypnotize us and then returned back into town to go to a monkey sanctuary!

We hit a uniquely Ghanaian detour on the way into the sanctuary in Tafi Tome as our entrance was blocked by a procession of the entire village chanting and dancing. Fifty girls sprinted past us into the woods and group of men jumping in a circle and playing instruments followed. The week before, a 14-year old boy unexpectedly died when he was tragically bitten by a snake. The ritual that we were witnessing was being performed because the villagers believed that the spirit was aimlessly wandering and they needed to relocate it to the forest. In the eye of the mass of people a lone woman walked balancing a pot atop her head where the spirit was thought to be trapped. After the spirits were satisfied we were able to follow a guide into the forest inhabited by the Mona monkeys. Laura had the foresight to buy a couple dozen bananas and it didn’t take long before we had cautious little monkeys eating out of our hands… damn I love monkeys.

Liz and I bought instruments from the village and Frances, our cab driver, entertained us by masterfully playing for us the entire way home. He started making clicking sounds with his mouth and then acting somewhat the monkey himself, began pounding his chest and elbows to create incredible music. The music consumed Frances and Liz nervously was forced to grab the wheel until Frances was finished. Frances followed us to dinner and we felt obligated to buy him a beer and he gratefully accepted our scraps of food. After dinner we had to kindly tell him to stop following us.

Sunday we traveled to Akosambo and took a six hour river cruise down the Volta complete with a full reggae/ highlife band that oddly played some covers of Elton John and Bryan Adams. After the relaxing trip we hitched a ride with the captain to the tro-tro station. When we felt the rhythm of traffic and smelled the spices from the market that always seems to be around the corner we knew we were home.
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September 12, 2006

I got off of work early Monday and met up with Laura and Liz at a nearby pool. 5 P.M. marks the seemingly innocuous swimming lessons at the Shangri-la hotel and an empty pool is quickly filled with over thirty Ghanaian men. The free swim ended when one of the more daring tread as much as he could muster and had to be dragged to the safety of the shallow end. I have never seen such a large group of uncomfortable adults in the water and the next hour could only be described as a cross between America’s Funniest Home Videos and Survivor. Lessons began by the men pairing up and assuming the wheel-barrel position. Cruel and unusual punishment soon followed as one of man in each pair assumed the unfortunate position of being held face first in the water, having to flail wildly to fight for breath. After they were all done experiencing what it was like to have someone drown you they were ready for some formal instruction. They got up out of the pool and in a painfully synchronized fashion took turns diving into the pool and then swimming back. If I have learned one thing in the last two weeks it is that Ghanaians are not fazed by belly-flops. Gracefully, they slowly lifted their hands above their head, stood on their tippy toes and proudly fell into the pool. Lessons continued like this for the next hour and I couldn’t help but watch.

I mention this swimming lesson for a few reasons. The slapstick quality of the lesson made me laugh but also I think it is daring and honorable to try learning a new skill such as swimming at such an old age. In their actions and emotions, Ghanaians seem to not be afraid to put themselves in a vulnerable position. Despite their ability, everyone seemed to have a great time and each time someone successfully completed a task the entire group enthusiastically cheered for one another – a testament to the communal spirit I feel everyday whether it be from my co-workers who insist on sharing their food with me, the stranger who is always willing to walk me to my destination when I am lost, or the reception, ‘you’re welcome’ (as in you are welcome here), that I hear every time I enter a new place. In fact, I’ve heard ‘you’re welcome’ so many times I feel it necessary to formerly say, ‘thank you Ghana’.

This entry is dedicated to Ted Mullin. While I had lost most contact with him since high school, I know his warm character and caring soul would not have hesitated to put his swimming ability to good use and jump in that pool and not get out until everyone had learned to swim. You will be missed.

Ted Mullin Cancer Research FundC/O University of Chicago Medical Center Development1170 East 58th St., Second Floor,Chicago, IL 60637, ATTN: Kevin Largent.

My new number in Ghana is 011-233-27-692-8247. Call anytime you'd like....free incoming for me!

Also, if you'd like to be emailed when I post a new entry just send me an email at brianschwa@gmail.com and I'll make it happen.

Why I'm Here

Written Wednesday, September 6, 2006

When I was in the fourth grade ‘field day’ meant for me a glorious day of sports and no classes (editor’s note: I was also voted captain – the official peak of my popularity). Now, in Ghana, ‘field day’ means a trip to one of the local markets littered with children who call a small space in front of an abandoned stall ‘home’. The only thing congruent with my fourth grade definition is the absence of school.

For my second day of work at Street Girls Aid (S.Aid) I followed Rose, a social worker, to Mallaca, a town just outside Accra. Several football-field sized roofed structures make up the central market in Mallaca. Decrepit wooden stands offering all sorts of curios, food, and services create claustrophobic aisles and the pungent smell of a nearby butcher lingers with you long after you’ve left. There is noticeably more people selling than buying and a white face is somewhat of an oddity here. Immediately after stepping into the market Rose stopped in front of a group of fifteen girls who were sprawled out in a spot long ago abandoned by a vendor. She pointed to a heap of clutter, the only thing distinguishing it from garbage was several white ceramic bowls, and explained that the mass of bags, collectively, was the girls only belongings and its presence was significant because it marked where the girls slept. Anywhere where there was a similar pile marked the sleeping quarter of another group of girls. Rose clearly knew the girls well and introduced me as a friend of hers, theirs, and S.Aid. I smiled and waved at them and their returned smile accentuated the traditional decorative markings that surrounded their eyes and forehead. They managed to reply with a shy hello. Unschooled, none of them spoke English. They ranged in age from infants to twenty – the majority younger than 16. Rose joked with them a bit and then reminded the girls the importance of getting free vaccinations for their children and discussed aids prevention and further child care. As she spoke more and more girls came over to listen. I have to admit I was surprised at how well mannered and friendly all of the girl’s were. They genuinely seemed to appreciate Rose and seemed receptive to her comments.

The girls from Mallaca almost exclusively come from the northern rural regions of Ghana. They all have their unique story but most of them have either been forced by their family to go to Accra to make money, submitted to peer pressure and allowed themselves to believe stories of greener pastures in the capital, or have decided to run away from their planned marriage; a 14 year old can be married off to a forty, fifty, or even eighty year-old. So they run and what waits for them is Mallaca.

The girls form small groups which they almost exclusively eat and sleep among. The groups are formed according to the particular area that they came from in the north. We visited a few more of these groups within the market and then headed out to the surrounding streets where most of the girls sleep. They live outside rain or shine congregating in front of abandoned shops occupying a small slab of concrete between the building and the sewer that runs along the dirt road. To earn money, the girls work as Kayayoo meaning they carry loads in their ceramic bowls atop their head for people for a mere pittance. It is painful to see five-year olds carrying these heavy loads that defy the frailty of their neck. The girl’s almost all complained that there is not enough work for them. The lure of prostitution is always prevalent and indeed, in many other markets that is the main source of income for most street girls. It goes without saying that it is dangerous to live in such a way. The girls are frequent victims of rape and theft. Their children risk exposure and malnutrition. Rose caught one girl eating a stick of clay as a snack and promptly grabbed the stick out of her mouth and warning her not to eat such filth. Even with the seemingly crippling hardships the most common sight is a girl with a pleasant disposition finding a way to enjoy the day with her friends. The resiliency of the human spirit is something to marvel at.

Rose and the other social workers at Street Girls Aid visit Mallaca and half a dozen towns just like it everyday. The towns are unique in that some host mainly boys (for which a sister organization Catholic Action for Street children works with them) or are dominated by street children from a particular region. The social workers educate the girls on healthy living, assist them in any problems that they encounter, and also encourage the girls to come to one of the S.Aid refuges around Accra to live and learn a trade that can enable and empower them to leave the streets. We visited over a dozen groups of girls in three hours, being able to see only a small percentage of the street girls of Mallaca. A sickening feeling boiled inside me as we walked out of town passing all the piles of bags with empty white ceramic bowls callously lying next to them.

400 children come to Accra only to become street children every day.

Awkwaaba! Welcome!

Written September 2nd 9:45 pm

I’ve arrived safe and sound in Accra, the capital of Ghana. As I made my way to the departure gate to Accra in Amsterdam, reality finally set in. Two security guards from the airport nearly toppled me over as they ran past me – an elderly man laid passed out in front of the gate blocking my passage to the plane. I looked at the old man and then at the sea of unfamiliar faces and I knew that this was not going to be an ordinary trip.

As the plane’s wheels touched the runway in Accra the entire plane burst into jubilant cheers and the man next to me leaned in and said “welcome to Ghana.” In the mass of people that waited outside the airport for friends and relatives I heard someone shout out my name. Aseye, AJWS’s in-country representative luckily had come to pick me up. As Aseye was negotiating the fare down for a taxi home two men came running up to me a poster with my name neatly displayed on it. Auntie Alice’s son Baafour and his friend also came to pick me up from the airport… my first taste of Ghanaian hospitality! As we struggled with the 200+ pounds of luggage three other men came to help maneuver the bags over the dirt parking lot (my first taste of Ghana’s opportunist) and I could not help to smile at the unique entourage that had greeted me upon my arrival.

Auntie Theo (my landlady) had food waiting for me when I finally made it to my new home. I can only describe the outer house that I am sleeping in as somewhat like a rustic camp lodge leaving much to be desired. Let’s just put it this way: I am typing this in pitch black with no electricity and no running water with the blaring noise of the neighbor’s generator mocking me. Ghana’s energy is supplied by a dam that was built in the Volta region of the country and due to lack of rain the water level is low forcing the government to initiate “power saving” similar to the rolling blackouts in California. When there is running water I can take a normal shower and the unheated water feels refreshing in the African heat, otherwise I have to use buckets to wash myself “top to bottom like you are a car” as Aseye explained to me. However, I have already begun to settle in and I think my new place will suit me quite well. Auntie Theo is an incredibly nice older lady and is the headmaster of a local school. I plead with her all the time not to serve me so much food but she tells me that her goal is to have me leave Ghana a fat fat man. There is a dog at the house whose name is Mojo but I secretly call him “The Beast” like in the movie the Sandlot. He lives outside and I still have not gotten a good look at him but his wails at night sound terrifying. I keep my distance from the beast. I asked Auntie Theo what kind of dog it was and she said “a normal one.”

Accra is a busy city that baffles me. To add to the confusion the address system is completely useless. People tell directions relative to well-known landmarks. For instance Baafour business card reads: “Design Impressions / opposite Hotel President”. Navigating through the city has to be met with a certain amount of humor and I am comforted by the fact that soon I will be as comfortable on these streets as the ones at home. Besides, the people here are terribly nice and would be more than happy to show you the way.

It can be a bit lonely when I’m sitting in my place, but everyday I am meeting more and more people. Friday night, Baafour picked me up and took me to his family’s house. As we were eating dinner, Auntie Alice (Baafour’s mother) turned to me and said, with the utmost sincerity, “this is your African home and you should come any time you’d like”. I am still amazed at their warmth and kindness even though they barely know me and I am confident that this sort of hospitality is not unique to this family. Me and Baafour picked up Kenneth, a family friend, and went out for the night. I thought we were heading to a bar but instead we went to someone’s birthday party. Luckily it was a ‘drink all’ meaning all the drinks were free. Ching Ching! I sipped on some scotch as I talked to Kenneth who very kindly explained to me that this is my homeland and he grabbed my hand to say ‘welcome home brother’. It’s feeling more like home everyday.

P.S. One thing I must explain is that Bafour’s family is very well off. Poverty abound, the streets of Accra are cluttered with small shacks, homeless people, and an excess of garbage…it can really get to you. It was one of the more surreal moments of my life to be navigating through these roads in a brand new 2006 BMW sipping on courvoisier (im not joking). I’m still not exactly sure how to feel about this. There is a large gap between the haves and have-not’s in this county and it was impossible not to feel guilty seeing the city in such a way.

I have not touched on so much that I wanted to explain but I will keep the updates coming! Please know that I miss you all and am doing great here. I can’t wait to start my work at Street Girls Aid on Monday.