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.