Trotro Triumph!

I faced my greatest fear in Ghana, and I survived.

It wasn’t spiders, or getting hit by a taxi, or the language barrier, or the first day of my internship.

It was a trotro.

Among the snarl of traffic that clogs Accra’s highways, streets under construction and red dirt roads drive trotros, the most common form of public transportation here. A man drives a minibus converted to hold 15-18 seats and a second man signals when to stop and makes change. No signage identifies where they’re going; you’re supposed to just know by the second guy’s shouting or gestures. There are very few official stations; as far as I can tell, a pocket of people standing together and looking expectantly down the road is the best identification of a trotro stop.

So I was just a bit intimidated by the trotro, which I’ll have to take to and from work every day.

Luckily, my friend Kuukua, a Ghanaian I met in California, helped me on my first trotro rides. On the first go she did absolutely everything, and it was even a bit fun to hold on for dear life while the wind and clouds of exhaust whipped in through the open window. For the second go, though, we went to 37, a trotro junction.

I followed Kuukua through the maze of vans parked in an enormous dirt lot. I stepped over the plastic and paper strewn on the ground and tried not to fall into any gutters. Men and women appeared out of the dark, pushing fried plantain chips, bracelets and water packets in my face. Because the vehicles aren’t marked, we asked drivers leaning against their trucks and women waiting in queues where the trotros headed for East Legon, my neighborhood, could be found.

We finally found the right one, and Kuukua negotiated my fare—a mere 50 pesewas, about 35 cents. I breathed in the unfiltered fumes as we were stopped in traffic and wondered where the hawkers bought the gum, plastic hangers and fried dough balls they tried to sell us. Once we had gone some distance, I started to recognize the scenery. The Shangri-La Hotel! The Accra Mall! The billboard with the woman whose mouth opens impossibly wide! My confidence rose.

There Kuukua left me, and I stared out the window, greedily watching every familiar sign, business and driveway. The passengers tapped me on my shoulder when I needed to make way for someone else alighting. I banged my head on the top of the door at one stop, and I stepped on the toes of the man who couldn’t take his eyes off his cell phone. We kept on.

And then I stopped recognizing things. I started to worry, and at the next stop, the guy who took my fare got out, pointed to me and pointed to the ground. I climbed out and did the best thing I could think of: I walked back toward the last thing I recognized. I ignored the beeps of passing taxis. I kept my eyes straight ahead. I pretended to know what the hell I was doing. I pretended I wasn’t lost.

After a ten-minute walk, I started to get nervous because there were fewer people around. That’s when I saw the beautiful beacon of home: the billboard for the Adasa Hotel. I have never been so thrilled to see a piece of advertising.

I walked into our front door relieved, happy, grateful and triumphant. I probably couldn’t have gotten home without the guidance of my dear friend, and that made the arrival home even sweeter. Perhaps I can’t make it in Accra by myself. But with help, and friends, I can make this my home for the next six weeks.

-Catherine Ryan

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