This morning, fellow Media in Ghana-ian Will and I went on a pretty sick little adventure. He needed to get to Nima to pick up a shirt that a coworker had ordered for him, and he knew that I had been very enthusiastic about wanting to ride on a motorcycle, or ‘moto’. After asking our security guard, Alex, how much we should expect to pay to go the distance we needed to go, we set out to the Okponglo bus strop to try our luck at finding some moto drivers.

At the bus stop, we were met with anything but the thrilling experience I was expecting. There were four motorcycles sitting in a field behind the trotro stop, but all of the drivers were napping in the shade of the giant LED sign there. Not wanting to wake them from their naps, and unsure if we were even supposed to or not, Will and I decided to take a trotro a couple of stops to the Spanner interchange, where I had seen an entire rank of motos calling my name in previous commutes.

When we alighted at the Spanner stop, we had to walk over the footbridge that carries pedestrians over the highway. It was my first time walking on the bridge and seeing the road I had driven on about a million times from above. Traffic looked just as disgusting from above, but at least I was able to breathe the air that is not always promised in an idle trotro.

When choosing which drivers we wanted to take us on our trip, we had two criteria: each driver had to have two helmets, and they had to charge us a fair price. We found two guys who would take us for twenty cedis, which is about what Alex had suggested we pay. We strapped on helmets, hopped on the motos, and the adventure began.

My emotions as my driver pulled out of the moto rank can best be described as a mix of elation and sheer terror. I couldn’t tell if I was going to shout from excitement or pee my pants. As we went over our first pothole, I felt my driver’s ribs shake in laughter as I held on to him for dear life. But as we pulled onto a better-paved road, I was able to loosen my grip and that’s when the fun truly began.

Honking at pedestrians to get out of the way, swerving between moving vehicles, slowing down at the last second before rolling over a speed bump—all things that I never thought would give me such a thrill. Quite the opposite actually, they are all things that I really and truly cannot stand. But for some reason, Moto Maggie didn’t care. Moto Maggie was filled with what might only be described as a newfound BDE. Moto Maggie was having the absolute time of her life.

I kept looking back to see how Will was faring, and he too seemed to be having a great time; he was grinning from ear to ear, eyes wide with excitement and maybe a shimmer of fear every now and then. We had agreed to try and snap pictures of each other if we came to a stop and had the chance. When we pulled up to the Liberation Road airport interchange, we had our chance. It seemed fitting that our liberating moment was captured on Liberation Road. At lightning speed, he whipped his phone out and photographed one of my most thrilling experiences of the whole trip.

We entered Nima and rounded a familiar corner, exchanging glances and remembering our trip to the Anani Memorial International School as we passed the spot where our bus parked near the Big Gutter. The alien-eqsue cows were still there, with their strangely humped neck ridges and astonishingly white hides.    Driving through Nima is best characterized by the narrowness of the road and the plethora of potholes and speed bumps. On at least a dozen separate occasions, I thought I was going to lose a kneecap to a taxi as my driver cut back around cars to avoid the traffic. Rounding street corners coasted in Ghanaian dust at vaguely worrying speeds would make regular Maggie flip the heck out, but Moto Maggie was loving every second of it.

As our ride came to an end, I could tell that we were both sad to disembark and leave the excitement of the windy open road. We thanked our driver, paid, and walked off towards Will’s work. We instantaneously decided that we had to take motos back too. We were hooked—little adrenaline junkies on a mission. The return ride was equally as exhilarating (minus getting pulled over by a police officer, but that’s a whole different story).

I don’t know when it is that Moto Maggie will make her next appearance. It seems less likely—and honestly less appealing—back at home. I don’t think that my motorcycling BDE stretches quite that far.