Tro-Tros

‘Tro-tro’ is the catch-all term for pretty much any licensed passenger vehicle that isn’t a bus or a taxi, ranging from comfortable and only slightly crowded minibuses to customized, covered trucks with densely packed seating, a pervasive aura of sweat, and bugger all chance of finding an escape route should you be involved in an accident’ – Bradt Guide, pg. 68

Too Good To Be True

As much as I want to sleep in (despite the fact that I get up hours later than most Ghanaians anyway), some Saturdays I feel must get up “early” and head to Wa for internet and fruit. The weekend of this story (and the one that follows) I wanted to take the MetroMass bus. A little safer, cleaner and more comfortable. So, I headed into town at 07h40 to catch the bus that would leave at 08h00+/-30min. It hadn’t yet arrived, so I started to try and find a place to sit in the shade until its arrival. As I did so, a man asked me if I was headed to Wa. He had a tro leaving shortly. I really wanted to take the MetroMass; I wasn’t up for potentially sitting next to a chicken or goat.  However, he was insistent his tro was better than the bus. This is one of those instances where I did judge him by his appearance, not just of him, but also his tro. They both were clean and seemed to be in good repair.

“Are you going to stop 100 times along the way?” I prod.

“No, we are going straight to Wa and will only stop in Jirapa”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes”

“Really sure?” I’m sure he is internally laughing at me, as much as I was. Really, a tro that won’t stop 100 times. Ha! “And you’re leaving right now?”

“Look, we’re just finishing tying the load”. Ok, I give him his GHC2.10 and get in. The remaining passengers settle, and five Canadian minutes later the door seamlessly slides shut (looking good so far).

We started down the Nandom-Jirapa road and I realized that the tro isn’t rattling, and seems to be driving pretty smooth (another point for this tro!). And then I noticed the bars on the windows. Crap, no escape route in case of accident! But I quickly did a mental check and yes, I had my Swiss Army knife. The screws didn’t look like they were in too tight so I should be able to unscrew the bars if need be. But he was actually a good driver, so I tried to relax my mind.

The music started, something that I would describe as Ghanaian BackStreet Boys, and at a reasonable level too. The teenage girls in the back seat started to sing quietly along with the music. They were actually pretty good.

We’re almost to Jirapa and we hadn’t stopped yet, this is pretty good. I then realized that it’s pretty quiet. The goat in the back had fallen asleep; rare, and extremely amazing. We exchanged a few passengers and carried on our way. I was then struck with the thought: goats don’t fall asleep in tros, what if the goat died? I laughed at myself for being concerned, and then let the thought go. Even if he had died, there was nothing I could have done about anyway. 

As we approached Wa, the goat woke up; I was secretly relieved that he was not dead. In the tro yard, I disembarked, quite amazed at how wonderfully perfect that tro ride was, grabbed some bananas for a hobbit breakfast, and headed off to the internet cafe. 

Living On A Prayer

Note: Parents and grandparents should probably skip this story.

After a great day of internetting and shopping, I made it to the tro station by about 4:10pm. I wanted to leave Wa no later than 4:45pm, 5:00pm at the latest. That way I would be in Lawra before dark. Furthermore, I could tell there was a big storm brewing. There was no way I wanted to be in a tro, on a horrible dirt road, in a torrential downpour, in the dark. Well …

Let’s just say my “too good to be true” ride, had to be balanced out by the opposite experience.

There was one tro to Lawra just pulling out as I got to the station. There were just a bunch of empty spaces in the line, but a lot of people waiting around. I started asking where they were going, Babile, Jirapa, Hamale … ok, all these mean I can still get home, or at least closer to home. One tro to Jirapa started to fill up. I tried to get on, the conductor actually pushed me away and said no. I was mad. After arguing (my theory was get to Jirapa, and grab something else to Lawra). He said I had to go to the ticket window and get a ticket. I have never had to do that before. There was a bunch of us sent to the window, so we went and waited … eventually they got around to selling tickets, but of course, there was no tro to Lawra. This other girl and I shared a “yeah right” and proceeded to go back tros and started harassing drivers. It was now past 5:00pm, and I was getting nervous.

I saw some of the Babile and Hamale people starting to get on a tro. I ran over and asked them if they were going to Lawra. Of course they were, since Lawra is in between the two towns. I think they were about to say they were full, so I proclaimed that “I need to go to Lawra now”. The conductor and the driver exchanged a few words in Dagaare and then shoved me in the front seat, I would sit next to the driver. At least I was going.

Or was going to be going.

Another 45 minutes passed with us all loaded in the tro before we took off. I’m not entirely sure what was going on, I was focused on trying to mentally cool off without drinking water. I already had to go to the bathroom, but had no idea when I would reach home. I was also trying to ignore the fact that to my left, the sun was starting to slip lower in the sky, while on my right the clouds were billowing higher and higher while getting darker and darker.

Seconds before I’m about to lean out the window and buy FanIce (ice cream), we take off. I settle in, precariously balancing myself on the edge of a too small seat, while trying to give enough room to the gear shift while trying not too smoosh too much into man sitting next to me.

Heading out of Wa, I enjoy what was actually a very beautiful sunset in the west, accented by tremendous lightening on the other eastern horizon. While chiding myself for being an internet glutton and not leaving Wa earlier, I enjoyed the beauty in these few moments, knowing what would be next.

Just as the sun slips below the horizon, the skies open. Within minutes, the tro becomes akin to what a Toronto subway car does when it enters into St. Clair West Station on a hot, rainy rush hour morning in July. (For the non Torontonians this means sauna-like, completely fogged, very crowded, ew!). To compound this problem, I quickly realized, as did the driver, that the defrost (or is it defog in Africa?) doesn’t work. He pulls out his hankie, and proceeds to drive with one hand, while wiping the windshield with the other.

“Please slow down, please slow down,” I’m pleading in my mind. It works, he drops his speed to 55kmh (from 70kmh). A little bit of defrost comes on, the wiping is seeming to work well. His cell phone rings.

“Don’t answer, don’t answer.” This time the pleading doesn’t work. I think it was at this point I fully internalized the fact that I’m sitting in the front seat of a flat-fronted vehicle. We hit anything, I am dead. And while I’d offered a few little prayers at the outset of my journey, it was around this point that I lapsed in full on pleading for my life. The road was flooded. It was raining so hard that visibility had dropped drastically. And then I saw lights in front of us, the gap between us and them quickly narrowing.

Another prayer. I quickly ran through the list of people I emailed that day; I think I got everyone who was of utmost importance to me. I hoped that I had explicitly wrote in the emails to my family that I loved them. The driver noticed the lights too, and applied the brake. I think we were both hoping there was enough traction.

Fortunately we slowed in time. And then he turns on his signal light. Passing was definitely not a good idea, but he does so anyway. As he starts to speed back up to 50kmh, I see more lights ahead of us. This time they were stationary, and slightly to the right. But the vehicle was also moving towards the right.

“I’m going to be sheared in two!” my mind screamed. Well, since I’m here to tell this story, I wasn’t, but please don’t let that diminish the terror I felt at that moment. We stop in front of the vehicle. The unwritten rules of the tro world seem to be: you see a stopped tro, check to see if they are ok. We were doing just so. The other driver came up to us and said that they were just stopped because it was too bad to drive (why wasn’t I on that one?). It started to rain even harder, if that was possible. Our driver turns off the engine.

Another prayer, this time of thanksgiving. I resume breathing.

A few short minutes later, he starts up the tro again. Sigh.

Another prayer. I hoped he would drive slowly this time.

We pull back onto the road, precariously creep along, a little slower than before. As we reach Jirapa the rain stops. This is particularly fortuitous because at Jirapa, the pavement also stops. After a few stops through the town, we head out into the dark yonder. I’d heard the side road from Jirapa to Babile was pretty bad. I can now attest that this is not just a rumor.

We get to a town and he turns off the engine. At this point I’m half asleep, trying to ward off the rumblings in my lower intestines, and fighting off a heat and anxiety induced headache.

I try to read the sign out the window. I was pretty sure this wasn’t Lawra, but you never know, I felt delusional at this point. Ok, Babile. Sigh. Almost home. I close my eyes. The driver then starts to talk to me.

“I am going to chop [Ghanaian for eat]”

Seriously? Babile is 21 km from Lawra. I was so angry, but quickly rationalized that he was probably Muslim, and fasting (it was still Ramadan), and that since the sun had been down for a few hours by this point he probably needed to eat.

“Ok, but will you come back and go to Lawra?”, everyone was getting out of the tro.

“This is Babile. I need to chop,” as he makes motions for eating.

Yeah, ok, dude, I know it’s Babile, and I know what chopping is, but are you going to get back in and drive me to Lawra? We came to a mutual understanding that he was going to go and chop, and then come back and drive on to Lawra and Hamale.

I was too tired to even get out of the tro, and at this point, starting to feel sick. I just sat in my seat and closed my eyes, attempting to sleep. I heard people talking about me. Sigh, “nasa po”. I just feigned sleep.

Once we got going again, it quickly became evident that while it was no longer raining, the rains had definitely passed through. Fortunately, I now had the entire front seat to myself, and sat there half sprawled, staring out the window. 

We finally arrived in Lawra and as I started to get out, the driver and the two ladies sitting behind me try to stop me. They wanted to know where I was going, and where I should be let off at. I explained to them that I live only 5 minutes away, and it was ok. They were continuing on down the Hamale Road, and I live down the Nandom Road. After relentlessly asking if I would be safe, they let me go. Quite frankly, I just wanted to get out of the tro. I was also a little annoyed that they were concerned for my safety at this point in the journey. I assured them it would be ok, and I started to walk home, with Britney’s Circus, playing from the downtown record store (a detail I feel compelled to sure, although I’m not sure what it adds to the story). As I left the town centre I pulled my flashlight out of my bag and turned it on, only to realize that the batteries were dying. I turned it off, making the decision to use it only if I heard or saw any approaching vehicles. The road was straight, paved for most of the way, and in remarkably good condition for Ghana. However, as fate would have it, just as I turned it off, I tripped in one of the rare potholes on this road. In an effort to save either my face or my avocadoes (not entirely sure which one),  I put out my hand, only to cut it on the jagged pavement. Sigh. At this point I abandoned any hope of making myself a late dinner and just wanted to crawl into bed. Just another kilometer, if even. A UN truck passed me and turned into the Guesthouse. Just another 200 m, and I cross the road about to head across the little field in front of my place. A moto pulls up to me. Seriously!? Just leave me alone, I’m thinking. The fellow introduces himself with his name, and his UN project. To further validate himself, he points ahead and says that the rest of his team is in his truck. (This is thoroughly appreciated!). He just wanted to make sure I was ok, since we were now at the edge of town, and he didn’t want me walking in the dark. I was comfortable enough to point to the smaller guesthouses where I live and to tell him that I was now home. He told me he was relieved, and just wanted to make sure I was safe in Ghana, and heads into the big guesthouse where he was staying.

I got home, rehydrated, ate one of my avocadoes, and climbed into bed, falling into an immediate and deep slumber.

Cheated

On another journey to Wa …

As we approached Wa a young lady and her son got off. The driver offloads two bags of rice from the roof for her and demands more payment. I could tell something was not right, the lady looked like she was going to cry. Others on the tro were staring out the window in disbelief and whispering quietly. I could tell this argument had something to do with money, but my Dagaare language skills are virtually non-existent. I wanted to just pass the lady some money out of the window and take care of the situation, but without really understanding what was going on, I was afraid of the problems this might cause.

The driver then has one of the bags of rice put back on the roof, and we drive away. Wayne, the other EWBer I was travelling with, and I just look at each other in shock. A girl in the seat behind us leans over and explains what happened. The driver was demanding an additional GHC 3 for the transport of each bag than what was originally agreed upon. The lady did not have this money, so the driver took the bag of rice, was going to sell it, and then she would have to to arrange to meet him and collect the change. A bag of rice goes for GHC 20. I hope that she was able to eventually meet him and collect her GHC 17, as that was probably her month’s income.

White Privilege

Another overcrowded tro: people sitting on people. They say I should get in. Wanted to buy bananas still, but didn’t want to miss this opportunity to go to Lawra, especially after my last misadventure trying to get home.

Sigh, it will be a long ride back to Lawra. I’m about to climb in and they grab me and tell me that no, I am to sit in the front.

The sun is still high in the blue, clear sky. I figure it will be a tad safer than the last time I rode in the front. Definitely a little more breathing space than in the back.

We’re off almost immediately, and the driver is driving safe and respectably.

As we pass through some customs checkpoints, I can’t help but wonder if the drivers often strategically place me in the front of the tro so they will just be waved through these checkpoints and avoid inspection.