Travel in Ghana
You decide you've had it with site. You need to get out of your room ASAP or you'll go crazy with cabin fever. So, you pack a bag, lock your door, greet everyone you meet as you walk towards the school gate, and stand at the side of the road.
Where are you going?
Option A: Eh, I just need a short break, so I think I'll head to town. Plus I'm running low on rice anyway.
Once at the roadside, you start walking down the street towards town. Dozens of motos whiz past you, and even a few motokings (motos with a flatbed attached) filled with bottles, onions, and even people. The smell of exhaust is pervasive, and your brain starts thinking "am I getting lung cancer right now?" The thought is shaken away as young children call out to you: "Nansalaaaaa!!! How are you? We are fine! Thank YOU!" A guy on a moto stops and asks if you want a lift. Being a good PCV, you politely decline, but this only prompts further questions: Where are you from? What are you doing here? How old are you? Are you married? After evading such questions or providing vague answers, you start walking and hope he gets the hint. He does.
The sun is HOT and you can feel the sweat dripping down your back and face. Thankfully, you have your handy sweat rag cut from an old t-shirt that you wipe your face with, leaving it grossly damp. As you walk, you greet people with the little Waale you know. Unfortunately, this leads to more questions using Waale words you haven't learned yet, so you just nod your head awkwardly, hope the person hasn't noticed your face turning red in embarrassment, and promptly avoid greeting or even making eye contact with anyone else on the walk to market.
As you walk, camboos (tuk-tuks) honk at you, hoping you will pay them a cedi to hop on. However, on your limited Peace Corps budget and adhering to official Peace Corps policy, you decline these the temptation to flag them down. However, as you walk and sweat, you find yourself cursing Peace Corps and its restrictive budget and its southern-biased transportation policies (a note: Peace Corps volunteers are not allowed to ride camboos, motos, or motokings. In the south, where alternative options like tro-tros (small buses) and taxis exist, PCVs can easily adhere to policy. However, in the north, especially Upper West, these options either do not exist or are few and far between, leaving PCVs stuck walking or breaking the rules).
Finally, you make it to town, passing by dozens of roadside shops selling everything from woven kente smocks to off-brand "Gucci" t-shirts to haircuts to fried rice and chicken. As you walk, you feel the business of the city wash over you and you feel a tinge overwhelmed. But then you see the market in the distance and you walk faster, knowing you are headed towards some delicious fried plantains that will be worth all of the sweat.
Option B: I need to get out of here, but not too far, because I have church/school/a program in two days that I can't miss or my community will kill me.
After walking to town, you make your way over to the lorry (tro tro) station. Your senses are barraged with smells of garbage and cooking food, the sight of hundreds of people slithering past each other in such a tight space, and the sound of people screaming "Nansala! White lady! Kumasi? Hippopotamuses?" You quickly decide you want to head to Nandom to see the largest stone structure in Africa (and get a drink with the nearby volunteers) and walk towards the designated tro tro dead-eyed, staring straight ahead as dozens of people hiss and kiss at you and grab your arm trying to get your attention and lead you to their tro tro. One older man is being persistent, following you and trying to convince you to go to Kumasi, so you give him and evil glare and say "N gaara Nandom, kye" and point to your bus. He lets go of your arm and lets you continue.
When you make your way to the Nandom tro tro, you fork over your 18 cedis and sit in the back of the cramped lorry. It is falling apart-- the seats are ripped, the ceiling is sunken in, and the windows don't open. Darn. It's going to be a steamy ride. Thankfully, 16 tickets have been sold and the luggage, including someone's goat, has been tied to the top of the vehicle, so you settle into your cramped seat next to a woman with her baby (who looks at you wide-eyed and cries) and a young man who starts asking for your number. You shut him down quickly by putting in earbuds and staring straight ahead.
As you ride, you try to ignore your crushed kneecaps (there is ZERO legroom) by looking out the window. The road is full of potholes and police checks, but the beautiful scenery almost makes it worth it: majestic baobab trees, grasslands that go on for miles, small cement and mud houses with families cooking lunch and pounding fufu, goats and pigs munching grass, small children carrying buckets of water on their heads, teenaged boys napping under mango trees, students playing football in their school uniforms.
You lose yourself in the beauty of Upper West (and admittedly, some deep thoughts) and before you know it, you've arrived in Nandom. You shoot a quick text to your friend and she tells you she's waiting for you at a nearby spot (outdoor bar/canteen). You grab your backpack and head over, glad to get out of the steamy lorry and into the sunshine towards a fun mini-vacation.
Option C: I NEED to leave this region for awhile!!! My students have left for the break and it's lonely on campus. *Insert sad face emoji here*
After making plans to visit your friends in Kumasi and making the trek to town, you stop at the OA station. Giant red buses are lined up in an empty parking lot, like scarlet beacons enticing you to travel to places far away. You make your way to the ticket table and ask for a ticket to Kumasi (an "ordinary" 55 cedi one rather than a "deluxe" 75 cedi one, so you can save 20 cedis because you are a poor Peace Corps volunteer). The bus ticket says the departure time is 7:00am, and it's 7:00, but there is still a long line of people waiting to stuff their belongings underneath the bus-- giant bags of rice, overstuffed suitcases, even a goat or two. You sit and read until the driver calls all passengers to board the bus. It's now 8:15. Classic.
You enter the bus and search for seat number 22, matching the handwritten number on your ticket. It's by a window! Sweet! That means no being brushed up against constantly as people make their way up and down the aisles AND you get to see the sight of the changing landscapes between Upper West and Ashanti region. You sit down and try to get as comfortable as you can for the 8 hour ride.
Thankfully the person next to you doesn't look interested in starting a conversation, so you stare out the window as the bus gets going. At around 5 minutes into the trip, the TV at the front of the bus turns on and begins to blare Ghanaian movies. You try to ignore it, but the bad acting and screaming and strange camera angles pull you in and you begin to watch.
Four hours later, when you think you have lost your hearing, they switch off the TV and begin to play the music of Lucky Dube, a South African reggae star from the 1980s who tragically died. For some reason, OA buses always play his music, but I don't mind-- this is MUCH more enjoyable than the bad films.
With nothing to distract your eyes anymore, you start looking out the window. Already, the landscape has begun to change. Nowhere do you see the big baobab trees and eternal grasses that define Upper West. Instead, the scenery is dotted by palm trees and the towns are closer together. One thing has not changed, however: every time the bus passes a village, the little kids look up and shout at you excitedly. "Nansala!" "Salaminga!" "Obroni!"
Soon, you make a pit stop for people to buy lunch and "urinate." You realize you have to pee and look for a restroom. It's 50 pesewas just to pee here??? What a rip off. You know for sure there was a pit stop just a few miles back where the price is only 10. Oh well. After relieving yourself and washing your hands, you buy a snack of plantain chips (can't find those in UW!) and head back onto the bus. The driver begins to frantically sound the horn, signalling it is time to move. As you head back to your seat, a man grabs your arm. "White lady, I would like to be your friend. Here is my number. You seem so nice. Be sure to call me." I smile weakly, take the number and throw it on the floor under my seat. I don't feel like making friends today.
Aw, spoke too soon-- your seat neighbor has just begun to strike up a conversation with you. You start off nervously-- will he ask me to marry him??-- but you end up having a great conversation about Islam and holidays in Ghana. You end up so busy enjoying the conversation and looking at pictures of his recent marriage ceremony that you are shocked to find you have arrived in Kumasi. You bid goodbye to your new friend (YOU asked for HIS number!) before heading out into the bustling streets of Kumasi, filled to the brim with tro tros, taxis, pedestrians, motos, bicycles, giant billboards, the smell of exhaust mixed with meat pies and animals, and the sound of hundreds of voices demanding that you enter their vehicle. You finally enter a tro tro and begin your journey towards your hostel, excited to meet the friends you haven't seen in months!
Where are you going?
Option A: Eh, I just need a short break, so I think I'll head to town. Plus I'm running low on rice anyway.
Once at the roadside, you start walking down the street towards town. Dozens of motos whiz past you, and even a few motokings (motos with a flatbed attached) filled with bottles, onions, and even people. The smell of exhaust is pervasive, and your brain starts thinking "am I getting lung cancer right now?" The thought is shaken away as young children call out to you: "Nansalaaaaa!!! How are you? We are fine! Thank YOU!" A guy on a moto stops and asks if you want a lift. Being a good PCV, you politely decline, but this only prompts further questions: Where are you from? What are you doing here? How old are you? Are you married? After evading such questions or providing vague answers, you start walking and hope he gets the hint. He does.
The sun is HOT and you can feel the sweat dripping down your back and face. Thankfully, you have your handy sweat rag cut from an old t-shirt that you wipe your face with, leaving it grossly damp. As you walk, you greet people with the little Waale you know. Unfortunately, this leads to more questions using Waale words you haven't learned yet, so you just nod your head awkwardly, hope the person hasn't noticed your face turning red in embarrassment, and promptly avoid greeting or even making eye contact with anyone else on the walk to market.
As you walk, camboos (tuk-tuks) honk at you, hoping you will pay them a cedi to hop on. However, on your limited Peace Corps budget and adhering to official Peace Corps policy, you decline these the temptation to flag them down. However, as you walk and sweat, you find yourself cursing Peace Corps and its restrictive budget and its southern-biased transportation policies (a note: Peace Corps volunteers are not allowed to ride camboos, motos, or motokings. In the south, where alternative options like tro-tros (small buses) and taxis exist, PCVs can easily adhere to policy. However, in the north, especially Upper West, these options either do not exist or are few and far between, leaving PCVs stuck walking or breaking the rules).
Finally, you make it to town, passing by dozens of roadside shops selling everything from woven kente smocks to off-brand "Gucci" t-shirts to haircuts to fried rice and chicken. As you walk, you feel the business of the city wash over you and you feel a tinge overwhelmed. But then you see the market in the distance and you walk faster, knowing you are headed towards some delicious fried plantains that will be worth all of the sweat.
The view as you walk.
Option B: I need to get out of here, but not too far, because I have church/school/a program in two days that I can't miss or my community will kill me.
After walking to town, you make your way over to the lorry (tro tro) station. Your senses are barraged with smells of garbage and cooking food, the sight of hundreds of people slithering past each other in such a tight space, and the sound of people screaming "Nansala! White lady! Kumasi? Hippopotamuses?" You quickly decide you want to head to Nandom to see the largest stone structure in Africa (and get a drink with the nearby volunteers) and walk towards the designated tro tro dead-eyed, staring straight ahead as dozens of people hiss and kiss at you and grab your arm trying to get your attention and lead you to their tro tro. One older man is being persistent, following you and trying to convince you to go to Kumasi, so you give him and evil glare and say "N gaara Nandom, kye" and point to your bus. He lets go of your arm and lets you continue.
When you make your way to the Nandom tro tro, you fork over your 18 cedis and sit in the back of the cramped lorry. It is falling apart-- the seats are ripped, the ceiling is sunken in, and the windows don't open. Darn. It's going to be a steamy ride. Thankfully, 16 tickets have been sold and the luggage, including someone's goat, has been tied to the top of the vehicle, so you settle into your cramped seat next to a woman with her baby (who looks at you wide-eyed and cries) and a young man who starts asking for your number. You shut him down quickly by putting in earbuds and staring straight ahead.
As you ride, you try to ignore your crushed kneecaps (there is ZERO legroom) by looking out the window. The road is full of potholes and police checks, but the beautiful scenery almost makes it worth it: majestic baobab trees, grasslands that go on for miles, small cement and mud houses with families cooking lunch and pounding fufu, goats and pigs munching grass, small children carrying buckets of water on their heads, teenaged boys napping under mango trees, students playing football in their school uniforms.
You lose yourself in the beauty of Upper West (and admittedly, some deep thoughts) and before you know it, you've arrived in Nandom. You shoot a quick text to your friend and she tells you she's waiting for you at a nearby spot (outdoor bar/canteen). You grab your backpack and head over, glad to get out of the steamy lorry and into the sunshine towards a fun mini-vacation.
A bumpy ride.
Option C: I NEED to leave this region for awhile!!! My students have left for the break and it's lonely on campus. *Insert sad face emoji here*
After making plans to visit your friends in Kumasi and making the trek to town, you stop at the OA station. Giant red buses are lined up in an empty parking lot, like scarlet beacons enticing you to travel to places far away. You make your way to the ticket table and ask for a ticket to Kumasi (an "ordinary" 55 cedi one rather than a "deluxe" 75 cedi one, so you can save 20 cedis because you are a poor Peace Corps volunteer). The bus ticket says the departure time is 7:00am, and it's 7:00, but there is still a long line of people waiting to stuff their belongings underneath the bus-- giant bags of rice, overstuffed suitcases, even a goat or two. You sit and read until the driver calls all passengers to board the bus. It's now 8:15. Classic.
You enter the bus and search for seat number 22, matching the handwritten number on your ticket. It's by a window! Sweet! That means no being brushed up against constantly as people make their way up and down the aisles AND you get to see the sight of the changing landscapes between Upper West and Ashanti region. You sit down and try to get as comfortable as you can for the 8 hour ride.
Thankfully the person next to you doesn't look interested in starting a conversation, so you stare out the window as the bus gets going. At around 5 minutes into the trip, the TV at the front of the bus turns on and begins to blare Ghanaian movies. You try to ignore it, but the bad acting and screaming and strange camera angles pull you in and you begin to watch.
Four hours later, when you think you have lost your hearing, they switch off the TV and begin to play the music of Lucky Dube, a South African reggae star from the 1980s who tragically died. For some reason, OA buses always play his music, but I don't mind-- this is MUCH more enjoyable than the bad films.
With nothing to distract your eyes anymore, you start looking out the window. Already, the landscape has begun to change. Nowhere do you see the big baobab trees and eternal grasses that define Upper West. Instead, the scenery is dotted by palm trees and the towns are closer together. One thing has not changed, however: every time the bus passes a village, the little kids look up and shout at you excitedly. "Nansala!" "Salaminga!" "Obroni!"
Soon, you make a pit stop for people to buy lunch and "urinate." You realize you have to pee and look for a restroom. It's 50 pesewas just to pee here??? What a rip off. You know for sure there was a pit stop just a few miles back where the price is only 10. Oh well. After relieving yourself and washing your hands, you buy a snack of plantain chips (can't find those in UW!) and head back onto the bus. The driver begins to frantically sound the horn, signalling it is time to move. As you head back to your seat, a man grabs your arm. "White lady, I would like to be your friend. Here is my number. You seem so nice. Be sure to call me." I smile weakly, take the number and throw it on the floor under my seat. I don't feel like making friends today.
Aw, spoke too soon-- your seat neighbor has just begun to strike up a conversation with you. You start off nervously-- will he ask me to marry him??-- but you end up having a great conversation about Islam and holidays in Ghana. You end up so busy enjoying the conversation and looking at pictures of his recent marriage ceremony that you are shocked to find you have arrived in Kumasi. You bid goodbye to your new friend (YOU asked for HIS number!) before heading out into the bustling streets of Kumasi, filled to the brim with tro tros, taxis, pedestrians, motos, bicycles, giant billboards, the smell of exhaust mixed with meat pies and animals, and the sound of hundreds of voices demanding that you enter their vehicle. You finally enter a tro tro and begin your journey towards your hostel, excited to meet the friends you haven't seen in months!
Unloading the bus, Kumasi station.
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