A typical afternoon

I usually manage to set out right at 4:30pm. Often however, I am delayed by conversation that leaves me grinning to myself as I leave the office and amble down the three flights of stairs to street. There I say goodbye to the man who sits day in and day out by the front of our building. I can’t quite figure out what it is he does, and I usually can’t make out what it is he says to me the majority of the time… but you get the sense he is very genuine, and this makes me smile.

I walk close to the side of the road, to avoid being hit by a car or a tro, although in spite of my best efforts I usually think to myself: I think I almost died just there, at least once a day. I try to quickly pass this place with a sign suggesting they rent cars (definitely is not the case), and the men making cement blocks.

The air is warm and filled with a rather distinct and pungent smell… my suspicions are frequently confirmed by the random man turned away from me, engaged in a rather common activity that results in many the sign: No urinating here. It is something I am still not used to, although I am getting much better at avoiding the random puddles.

As I walk up toward the Total filling station (read: Shell, Ultramar, etc.) I notice how full the open sewers are after the heavy rain last night. Full not only of water (and the like), but of black plastic bags (a Ghanaian staple it seems), old sashay packets, orange peels and probably many other much more disgusting things I won’t mention. I say good afternoon to Jamila and Deese, my banana ladies… they wish me a nice day and I do the same, smiling once again and I walk past the filling stations and car wash, which is not an actual car wash, but rather a spot on the road where cars are washed. As per my usual routine, I go into the Total shop to buy another 1.5 L Dasani, because some of the Ghanaian brands have an unpleasant taste (and they are the same price). The ladies ask: Where is your friend? (They mean Shanika) And I tell them she has already gone home… impeccable memories I begin to think, and then it occurs to me that there can’t be THAT many Obrunis (foreigners) that come in everyday to buy yogurt (in the morning) and water (in the afternoon).

I wander up past several vendors selling cheap cigarettes and Milo (like chocolate ovaltine) mix, oranges, cookies and more; wait for a break in the line of cars in order to dash across the road to catch the tro. I usually wait in the same spot, where the guys looking over from the building above tend to make noises at me which suggest that I am a cat, or some other small animal. I ignore them, as I tend to do when people hiss at me, or make comments that perhaps are intended as compliments but come off as anything but. This is just normal, I would say it takes getting used to, but it does still bug me. What I can say though, is that you do eventually get better at ignoring it.

Several tros pass, most of them making hand signals, which makes it easier to differentiate. The one going to the Circle tro “station,” makes a circle (innovation eh?), and the one going to 37, which is my tro simply points. It sounds random. I know, it is, trust me. The hardest part is determining where they are going when they shout and don’t use the signals though. Until now I would have never guessed that “Circle” and “Thirty-Seven” could possibly sound alike. Here they sound identical. So far I haven’t managed to make a mistake… so far being the operative. A tro stops and pulls up in front of me. Attracting even more attention, I run with my backpack to catch up to where it has stopped, confirm in fact it is going to 37, and climb into the back seat. Usually the ride from Pig Farm (where I work – NOT an actual pig farm… just the name of the junction) to 37 is pretty empty. I can often get a seat to myself, and the mate (who takes the money, calls the directions etc) seems to charge less than when we come in in the morning. I pay 2,000 cedis (20 cents) and get 200 back; it is a steal when compared to the taxi fare.

The journey is short, and if I am lucky we get an “idyllic tro” (this is an oxymoron if there ever was one) that plays awesome music. Usually we are let out before pulling into the station, because there is a line up of tros and shared taxis all trying to pull in at once. We hop off one by one and walk into the “station.” I realize the quotations are getting annoying but there isn’t another word you can use to accurately describe their purpose. Station. The place the tros meet? Right. Well it is a massive place, with hundreds of tros (this may be an exaggeration… but it certainly seems like there are well over a hundred). The ground is unpaved, which makes for a spectacle the day after it rains. Most recently my flip flop came off in the mud, making those around me nearly collapse in laughter. I had to admit, I would have done the same… I did recover however, a few awkward hops later.

You can buy many a thing at these stations… papaya, eggs, razors, cloths, nuts, plantain chips, sashays… the list is almost endless. As I trudge over to the side where tros go to Osu (my neighbourhood), I pass many of these vendors, walking around with baskets of their goods atop their heads. It is a skill I tell you, although, here it seems to be more like second nature. Man, woman and child.

The Osu side is much busier and abrasive than the side going to Pig Farm. I haven’t quite figured out why. It might be because usually there are loads of tros going to Osu, and therefore many more mates yelling Osu, and their friends hanging around asking the random Obruni: How are you?

Luckily I usually don’t wait, and hop right on the tro to Osu. An older woman gets on with two small schoolchildren and appears to be complaining about me taking up far too much room (my backpack is sitting on my lap, but I am squashed up next to the window). The lady next to me speaks in my defense, and I lift my back to show that we are in fact knee to knee. The older woman sighs, quite exasperated, and gets off the tro with the children. This is what I imagine happened, as all conversation on the tro takes place in Twi. In fact, people generally converse in Twi over English all over Accra… it makes for some interesting situations, and although everyone does speak English (at least most people do in Accra), there are many of the same challenges associated with being in a country where you don’t know the language.

The tro takes off reasonably quickly, and we don’t encounter too much traffic, which is a plus. Traffic in Accra is notoriously bad. It seems as though everyone drives, which was kind of odd at first, but enough people do that it can be gridlocked for hours in any given area.

I have taken to getting off at Koala (the grocery store) and walking to the gym. I gear up to ask the mate to stop at Koala, we go around the roundabout and pull up across the street from Koala... "Mate, Koala bus stop." I hop out and walk past vendors on Oxford street (the main street in Osu… wildly busy, ALL the time) selling souvenirs: paintings, jewelry, wooden carvings, you name it. Up past another Total filling station, and down a road that probably wasn’t even meant for cars to drive on.

I pass by Venus and Sunshine Café (the salad place), two good restaurants. Some foreigners stare at me. Seems like they have that problem too… I am still doing it. You wonder: who are you, and where are you from? Do you live here? Are you a diplomat, or a kid of a diplomat… it's a constant guessing game…

Finally I come to the street which has piles of red dirt along it. This makes it very treacherous to walk along, as there is only room for one car to pass on a two way street. An old man shouted for me to move out of the way on my first trip down this road. I thanked him profusely… the cars don’t slow down here. Now I walk constantly turning back to make sure a car isn’t going to come barreling through… people often say the first thing they would do for Ghana is make sidewalks… as I have had numerous close calls lately, I couldn’t agree more.

When I used to take a taxi, I’d navigate my way to the gym by following the “Care” signs. I think they are for Care international, the NGO, but I am still unsure. Anyway it is foolproof and I always end up in the right general area this way. Walking however, I actually pass Care. I casually stare past the gate into what seems to be a massive parking lot. Still unsure if it is the NGO or not. Likely it is… Accra is after all the NGO capital of the world. Or so it seems.

I walk a few steps further up the road, kicking the red dusty ground, which explains why my feet are NEVER clean. I turn at the corner of the road and walk up to Pippa’s gym. An oasis with AC. My short walk has left me sweating before I even reach the gym. What ever will I do when it gets really hot I wonder?