The 37 Trotro station is an enormous, overcrowded lot, with Trotros and people dancing around one another. The sounds of loud music and preachers drown out the sounds of Trotro drivers yelling and honking at one another. The day was hot; like most days here. But on this day the sun was shining without any clouds to obstruct it. I rolled up my sleeves.

I made my way to where the Madina Trotros are located; every day, the same spot. The mate, who recognized me, encouraged me to a seat. I was the first person on board. It was at 1 p.m. I was unaware that I would spend the next two hours sitting in the same place, waiting for the van to be fully crammed with people.

I watched through the dirty window as Trotros and people moved in every direction. It appeared to be chaos. A line of Trotros waited to pull into the station – the drivers honking and yelling simultaneously. It moved slowly, but, one after the other, empty Trotros pulled in and drove past my seat into the back of the lot. As they passed, the drivers and I would make eye contact and, in a brief moment, share our smiles with one another. The Trotros would, occasionally, crash into one another, adding one more scratch or dent to the abused vans. A canvas of the years of use. Every scratch or dent acting as a badge of honor – a right of passage. A short, intense argument between the drivers would follow every incident, but they would quickly move on, away from the chaos. This ritual is most likely repeated hundreds of times every day. Nothing was different about this day. Except, I was there to see it.

I sat there for an hour, shifting in my seat, watching as the world continued to turn around me. I questioned whether I should get off, find a different way home. But I was amazed by the spectacle around me. People would come to my window and try to sell me things as I waited. Sunglasses, gum, wallets, and plantain chips were among the countless items I could buy. People would climb into my van and sit down, only to get up and leave after a short time had gone by. It seemed the van would never reach its goal. It seemed to stay empty as if every time someone decided to get in, someone got out. The people who stayed in the van quickly looked at their phones after they sat down. They put headphones in and quieted the world around them. They tried to escape the world I was observing. A world new to me, but a world far too familiar to them.

Slowly, the van began to fill. Within minutes the driver would casually get in his seat and begin my journey home, driving through the sea of people and somehow making it to the street.

Sitting in that same spot, I saw many things in the two hours I was stuck there. I saw arguments and laughter; the kind of laughter that happens between people who are vulnerable and have known each other for many years. People who share themselves completely. The kind of laughter I have seen between Ghanaians so often on this trip. I saw people dancing to the music that obscured the sounds of honking and shouting. I saw many people come and go as they probably do every day. So many different stories that brought all of them to that station. Nothing was different than any other day. Except, I was there to see it.