By now you faithful readers have learned about the terrors of the trotro. The good news is that all 14 of us here know (more or less) the trotro route to our respective internships and back. And as awkward and wearisome though we feel in these glorified rickshaws, nothing is worse than actually having to pay a cabbie ten times as much as we would to a trotro mate.

Aside: I am often tempted to ask cab drivers blaring their horns at this oburoni, “Did you notice that I’m walking faster than you’re driving?”

Compared to others, I have eluded a true trial of trotrology (say that ten times fast). I definitely think my card will come up, because my urbanite’s sense of direction and moxie can only get me so far in this city.

In terms of US cities, only a few NYC suburbs in New Jersey have higher population densities. All the same, navigating the hand signals, the chants that all sound the same, and the (very rare) depot placards that were seemingly painted by pointillists at the turn of the 20^th century is brain surgery compared to the PATH train. So far, my worst incident has been being punctured on the ball of my foot by one of the fold-up seats of death. Good thing I am updated on my shots, or I might have experienced the worst trotro tragedy of all: trotro tetanus.

Aside: Seriously, those fold-up seats were installed by Dr. Evil. The cost of replacing them all is… one MILLION cedis!!!!!!

There is no shortage of transit options in Accra, from bus to taxi to personal vehicle…to trotro, to big trotro, to kind of medium-sized trotros. At any rate, no rail system to speak of. So the streets are more clogged than my stomach after being forced to polish off groundnut soup and two fist-sized chunks of banku.

Ciaglo has bestowed Accra with the honor of “best worst drivers in the world.” In a bid to finagle valuable road (or off-road), drivers will come within millimeters of other cars to change lanes (on the off chance such a lane is marked). I’ve yet to see a minor fender-bender, but with this glut of cars, it’s bound to happen. I will say that there is no shoulder, except for the ones of your fellow trotro passengers’ slicing into yours; as such, there are frequent disabled vehicles in inconvenient places, which only adds to the traffic labyrinth.

On the preternaturally bumpy ride, it’s impossible to sleep, read, write, or even play Super Jewel Quest on our burners. The options we’re left with? Observing the landscape or chatting with the locals.

Who knew such a discomfiting experience could lead us directly to our program’s goal of absorbing Ghanaian culture?

My route from American House Road to Shiashee to Achimota to Abeka Junction is always the same on googlemaps, it seems there can be as many ways to get from point A to point… D as there are stars in the universe. That’s just based on the logarithms of the roadways (or mound-of-dirt-ways, occasionally). For the trotro driver and his mate, a map is a palimpsest.

The real journey is peering out the window to a world of hawkers weaving between cars—with loads of merchandise balanced atop their heads, no less!—they put trotro drivers to shame with their fancy footwork. There are also brilliant colors, occasional yelps of “Oburoni!”, lush greenery, and the smiles (or really cute blank stares) of Ghanaian tots to make us feel welcome, if not “at home.”

Aside: For you Eugeniuses, I think Accra might be the place-sake for this favored establishment.

Today I was thinking to myself how routine this radiance is to so many Ghanaians. For some of these people, straying far from their trotro route is rare, if not unfeasible. Still, I wonder where they are going, how they live, whether they are ever confused by the mates’ ambiguous sleight of hand.

In five weeks, we will be traveling home in the vastest space as one can commercially travel: airspace. Some of us might never return, but we will always remember our daily commute in a sardine can. Fondly, I hope. At the very least, I hope no one grumbles about how cramped economy seating is after our five weeks of trotrology. After all, some of us probably spent more time in a day on a trotro than on the length of the flight to D.C.!