Monday- The Long Journey Home

10/20/08

I did not sleep Sunday night due to my anxieties of sleeping in a bed infested with biting insects, not to even touch on how diseased the foam mattress and pillows must be under the questionably “clean” sheets. I had a headache at this point from dehydration and exhaustion and stress, and decided we should try to get back to the village on Monday instead of spending more money for another hotel and more food. If we got back to the village, I could sleep in my own bed, under my own mosquito net, and could take a bucket shower with my own pretty blue bucket in our clean cement enclosure, and eat good, free food. I made it my mission to get us back to the village. I had 25 cedis, which would cover my bus fares from Cape Coast to Accra, and then from Accra to Ho, and then we’d have to pay 15 cedis for a taxi, but it would be worth it to be back home in our clean safe village that night.

It was a long day to say the least. I had some delicious coffee with breakfast, minus the ant I picked out, and was ready to bid farewell to the coast. We walked to the Castle where we were told we could find the busses that go to Accra. On the way, a tall guy with short braids, a hat and an mp3 player stopped us. He explained that his friend was the musician we met at Oasis two nights before. They came back to Oasis after their performance to find us, apparently there was a party going on they wanted us to come to. After talking to the waiters, they found out we had left a short time before and ran after us trying to call us back! We were oblivious and obviously had gone back to our gross hotel room anyway, but it was flattering and I was kind of bummed we missed the party. I know Denise wasn’t feeling well, but I could have used a pick-me-up. At any rate, the guy was really nice and wished us luck with our travels and told us to hurry to catch the bus. *Wow, the first Ghanaian to initiate the end of a conversation!*

We waited on the Metro Mass Bus for about an hour before it departed Cape Coast. During this hour we read our books, listened to our iPods, and tried to methodically wipe the sweat dripping profusely from all over. The 3 hour trip to Accra was largely uneventful. On the bus we heard a British accent from somewhere a few rows back. The Brit (Tolga, age 19) was actually headed to Ho just like us. When we arrived in Accra, I followed a woman in a pink shirt (who had a surprisingly fast pace) to a tro-tro lot, while Denise and Tolga tried to keep up. Once we were packed in our final tro-tro of the day, we waited for another half hour or so.

I’ll pause here to say one final thing about tro-tros. A tro-tro is a unique extension of travel here that really deserves a few more descriptive words (if you can believe it) for you to fully comprehend the atrocity of compact budget modes of transportation. As mentioned before, a regular tro-tro is made to seat 11 people, but often manages to squeeze upwards of 19 or 20 adults into every possible open space—defying the laws of human physics. Every person may have 10 to 11 inches to sit. Surpassing the bonds of physical closeness you ever imagined possible, you’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder literally like the infamous task of “how many marshmallows someone can possibly fit in their mouth.” If you’re leaning forward (usually over whatever cargo you are carrying on your lap) you may be lucky and able to move your arms at the elbows in a curling motion. Usually the only other things you can move are your toes. Denise had this glorious experience recently, though her trial was significantly more difficult as she was seated next to an incredibly well-fed woman. Everyone’s bags are piled high with cargo and occasionally topped with children. The ride is pretty noisy, not because of people, but because of the rattling metal pieces that are actually holding the vehicle together. The gages don’t work so you can’t tell how fast you’re going, or if you have enough gasoline to complete your trip. There are no seat belts, and only occasionally do they have rearview or side mirrors. The only thing guaranteed to work on a tro-tro is the guy collecting your fare, and the sheer strength of the guys hanging on the back who inevitably help push the tro-tro up a hill.

I was sitting in the middle row just behind the driver, and Denise and Tolga sat in the back row. The driver’s seat was separated from the rest of us by a metal wall with a wire mesh opening at the top. I think this tro-tro used to transport prisoners or something. A vendor was trying to sell children’s French books, and would read aloud to us, “Good day, sir; Bon jour mousier.” Denise bought some plantain chips from a woman carrying them atop her head. They were good but thinner than I’d imagined them to be. I sat, reading my book, as Denise and Tolga chatted about anything and everything… for the entire 3 ½ ride back to Ho. I finished my book about halfway through the ride, and tried to sleep sitting up between the two men also occupying my row. I was unsuccessful.

We finally arrived in Ho and took a taxi back to our village. We surprised everyone with our arrival on Monday afternoon since we were planning on arriving on Tuesday. We arrived around 4:30pm, and Kosi immediately ran up and offered to carry my tote bag, and Jessica carried my drum. With little Jessica leading us by the hands, we walked straight to Sema’s house to say hello. There’s just no way we could stay away. Sema and Beatrice were happy to see us, as was Jessica who seemed a little less sick, but still not 100%. We had dinner of boiled cassava and palava sauce (the boiled cocoa yam leaves) and crawled into our clean beds, under our clean mosquito nets, and fell asleep, so glad to be home.