Hellish ride north
Thursday was a horrible day. I managed to book my ticket to Portugal, getting up again at the crack of dawn and hopping down to the Internet to send photos and stories, checking on emails and sending out another round on Liberia. Two hours passed in the blink of an eye. The ticket-buying process was arduous, mostly because the girl booking the ticket devoted three minutes of flirting to every minute spent talking to me. I just hope the arrangement s are as I requested, although I have little faith. I have yet to pick up the actual ticket: I went to three different travel agencies just to buy the stupid thing.
After that I raced to the STC station to buy bus tickets, hoping to make it back to the house by noon so I could say good-bye to Lana, who left Thursday afternoon with a bunch of drums and some other art and the promise to return with some funds to help out Louis’ school in Princesstown. The STC buses were sold out for two days, an unprecedented event, as far as I can figure. So I headed over to Kingdom Transport, where they told me I could show up at 6 a.m. and hope for the best for a Saturday bus. By this time it was mid-afternoon, I was hot, thirsty, tired and frustrated and, in a new twist, completely nauseous. I dragged myself home on the tro-tro, ate a Fan-Yo on the way and came up with a new plans with my roommates, which would see us all meet at the Neoplan station and hope for the best.
I had one of those typically Ghanaian conversations with my new reporter, Grace, much to the delight and amusement of my roommates, who were listening in. When I phoned to explain that I couldn’t get STC or KTS tickets for the next day, she told me she’d like to leave the next day. I said, yes, so would I, but there are no tickets. We talked about ways around that. She had no ideas. I asked her to go to Neoplan. She said she’d rather travel by STC. I explained there were no tickets. We talked around and around and around in a circle until finally I lost my cool and said: “Grace, listen to me. Are you listening?” And then I spoke to her as though she were five. But she seemed to finally get it through her head that there were no tickets for the next day and if we wanted to make it we would have to come up with a different way. Unfortunately, this miscommunication was not a one-time event.
For the rest of the afternoon, I worked a groove into the floor between the toilet and my bed, throwing up intermittently all afternoon in what I can only assume was food poisoning of some sort. Ugh.
I was up at the crack of dawn and out the door by 7:30 a.m., feeling a little better but still pretty shaky. Joanna met us at the station, albeit 45 minutes late, which had me fuming. Grace was also half-hour late, even though I explained to her that we needed to get on the road in good time because Bolga was at least 14 hours away.
We climbed into a tro-tro and paid our c20,000. Another 50 billion climbed in on top of us, including a little hussy of a teenager who sat next to Joanna and hummed the whole way to Kumasi, making me want to push her out the window. We were just jammed in, with things crowded around us on the floor. I could feel every movement Joanna made with her legs and every time we hit a bump or the driver moved the wheel, she would elbow me in the side. I thought it was the longest ride in the damn world.
At Kumasi we hopped out and stretched our legs and took deep breaths. Then we got the bad news that the next buses to Bolga and Tamale were all sold out at Kumasi as well. Onto plan C. We trudged to the KTS, which is supposed to be nicer, since they’re small, air-conditioned vans, which get you there a lot faster. But it’s much more expensive. We signed up for the 6:30 a.m. bus and were promised tickets when we showed up in the morning.
I called Kristy for advice on hotel and restaurants. Joanna called Nana Aba, who was also in Kumasi for the weekend and staying nearby. The place was pretty bare, with “rooms” made of particle board and mosquito netting carved out of various spaces on each floors. There was basically enough room for a single bed, a small night table and a fan. The bathrooms were down the hall and they kept the lights on all night long. (I slept with a tank top over my head.)
Nana Aba, Tanya and Joanna decided to go out for Indian food at a chi-chi restaurant, so Grace, who wrinkled her nose at Indian, and me – with a sore stomach and limited funds – went to a café nearby. Dinner was, um, interesting. Grace has this manner of speaking, I’m not sure what it is about it. It’s shrill and slightly condescending. Sometimes I think she’s the Master of the Obvious. Sometimes I think she’s pretty smart. I think if I were to meet her in any other situation, I wouldn’t like her at all and I’m not sure, even though we’re working together, that I care for her that much.
Things got off to a rocky start when she asked my age, then looked at me in horror. Oh my! 28! Not married! No boyfriend?! What will you do? She seemed genuinely horrified. What did I think I was going to do, have babies at 35? Was I even looking? Were my parents worried? I told her I had a few things I wanted to do before I got married, but I would keep that in mind, that babies don’t wait around.
Then she told me she’s a charismatic Christian, a special brand of fiery evangelistic Bible thumper who makes the average devout Ghanaian look like an Easter-and-Christmas pew warmer. She was comforted to know I was raised in a Christian household, but was flabbergast to hear I don’t go to church on Sundays and that I don’t have a church in Toronto. (I always sound like I’m making up a religion when I tell people I was raised in the “United” church. Unitarianism – which is not the same thing – also isn’t very big here, but no one really likes the idea of a bunch of religions mixed together, especially one that allows gay ministers. On rare occasions, I have explained that my separation from church came about the time that my parish decided they were against the idea of gay ministers – an attitude I found hypocritical, judgmental and unchristian -- most look at me with a cocked eye.)
Anyway, she asked me if I believed in hell and understood that unless I became a practicing believer that’s where I was headed. She also asked if I knew about fornication and that’s where I drew the line. I was pretty uncomfortable with the whole conversation from the get-go, so I told Grace that I live my life by certain Christian principles – like not murdering people or coveting my neighbour’s wife, and some more simplistic values like doing unto others as you would have done to you – shockingly, she’d never heard that one before! – and she seemed to think that I need to supplement that with a little up-early-butt-in-the-pew-on-Sunday activity. I told her I’m not into spending hours listening to someone tell me how shameful, guilty, dirty and worthless I am, as a lot of ministers preach nowadays. She told me that some of us need to be reminded. The conversation closed with her saying, “Karen, I want you to try to be a devoted believer” and me saying, “I’ll respect your beliefs, Grace, but I want you to try to be tolerant of people who don’t share your views. “ She gave me a smirk.
After a light night’s sleep – haha, pun intended – I was up and waiting outside the guesthouse at 6:15 a.m. Grace and Joanna were nowhere in sight. I called Grace, who came down minutes later, and called Joanna, who was still getting ready. I told her we’d meet her over at the bus station and it was a good thing I was a nag, as the ticket guy was auctioning off our spaces, figuring we weren’t going to show. Once we got in, however, we weren’t sure we’d made the right decision in showing up. The van was nothing more than a tro-tro with plush seats and air conditioning and in the backrow was a big fat woman who insisted on sitting with her legs apart, like the starting quarterback. Joanna is no slim woman either and by the half-way point, I was ready to start randomly hurting people. We had a little food and then everyone on the bus, except for the driver, fell asleep. Joanna even snored, as an extra special treat.
As we were leaving Tamale – the biggest northern city but a pretty small place comparatively, although it was certainly bustling – the van scraped a taxi and a fight between the drivers ensued. We asked the driver to drop us in Walewale, where the guidebook said we could find a tro-tro to Gambaga and at a dusty junction, where a broken down bus was sitting in an abandoned parking lot, the driver let us out with our belongings. A man sitting on a donkey cart loaded with straw yelled “You are welcome!” as he passed and I thought, alright! This is finally going to be fine.
After that I raced to the STC station to buy bus tickets, hoping to make it back to the house by noon so I could say good-bye to Lana, who left Thursday afternoon with a bunch of drums and some other art and the promise to return with some funds to help out Louis’ school in Princesstown. The STC buses were sold out for two days, an unprecedented event, as far as I can figure. So I headed over to Kingdom Transport, where they told me I could show up at 6 a.m. and hope for the best for a Saturday bus. By this time it was mid-afternoon, I was hot, thirsty, tired and frustrated and, in a new twist, completely nauseous. I dragged myself home on the tro-tro, ate a Fan-Yo on the way and came up with a new plans with my roommates, which would see us all meet at the Neoplan station and hope for the best.
I had one of those typically Ghanaian conversations with my new reporter, Grace, much to the delight and amusement of my roommates, who were listening in. When I phoned to explain that I couldn’t get STC or KTS tickets for the next day, she told me she’d like to leave the next day. I said, yes, so would I, but there are no tickets. We talked about ways around that. She had no ideas. I asked her to go to Neoplan. She said she’d rather travel by STC. I explained there were no tickets. We talked around and around and around in a circle until finally I lost my cool and said: “Grace, listen to me. Are you listening?” And then I spoke to her as though she were five. But she seemed to finally get it through her head that there were no tickets for the next day and if we wanted to make it we would have to come up with a different way. Unfortunately, this miscommunication was not a one-time event.
For the rest of the afternoon, I worked a groove into the floor between the toilet and my bed, throwing up intermittently all afternoon in what I can only assume was food poisoning of some sort. Ugh.
I was up at the crack of dawn and out the door by 7:30 a.m., feeling a little better but still pretty shaky. Joanna met us at the station, albeit 45 minutes late, which had me fuming. Grace was also half-hour late, even though I explained to her that we needed to get on the road in good time because Bolga was at least 14 hours away.
We climbed into a tro-tro and paid our c20,000. Another 50 billion climbed in on top of us, including a little hussy of a teenager who sat next to Joanna and hummed the whole way to Kumasi, making me want to push her out the window. We were just jammed in, with things crowded around us on the floor. I could feel every movement Joanna made with her legs and every time we hit a bump or the driver moved the wheel, she would elbow me in the side. I thought it was the longest ride in the damn world.
At Kumasi we hopped out and stretched our legs and took deep breaths. Then we got the bad news that the next buses to Bolga and Tamale were all sold out at Kumasi as well. Onto plan C. We trudged to the KTS, which is supposed to be nicer, since they’re small, air-conditioned vans, which get you there a lot faster. But it’s much more expensive. We signed up for the 6:30 a.m. bus and were promised tickets when we showed up in the morning.
I called Kristy for advice on hotel and restaurants. Joanna called Nana Aba, who was also in Kumasi for the weekend and staying nearby. The place was pretty bare, with “rooms” made of particle board and mosquito netting carved out of various spaces on each floors. There was basically enough room for a single bed, a small night table and a fan. The bathrooms were down the hall and they kept the lights on all night long. (I slept with a tank top over my head.)
Nana Aba, Tanya and Joanna decided to go out for Indian food at a chi-chi restaurant, so Grace, who wrinkled her nose at Indian, and me – with a sore stomach and limited funds – went to a café nearby. Dinner was, um, interesting. Grace has this manner of speaking, I’m not sure what it is about it. It’s shrill and slightly condescending. Sometimes I think she’s the Master of the Obvious. Sometimes I think she’s pretty smart. I think if I were to meet her in any other situation, I wouldn’t like her at all and I’m not sure, even though we’re working together, that I care for her that much.
Things got off to a rocky start when she asked my age, then looked at me in horror. Oh my! 28! Not married! No boyfriend?! What will you do? She seemed genuinely horrified. What did I think I was going to do, have babies at 35? Was I even looking? Were my parents worried? I told her I had a few things I wanted to do before I got married, but I would keep that in mind, that babies don’t wait around.
Then she told me she’s a charismatic Christian, a special brand of fiery evangelistic Bible thumper who makes the average devout Ghanaian look like an Easter-and-Christmas pew warmer. She was comforted to know I was raised in a Christian household, but was flabbergast to hear I don’t go to church on Sundays and that I don’t have a church in Toronto. (I always sound like I’m making up a religion when I tell people I was raised in the “United” church. Unitarianism – which is not the same thing – also isn’t very big here, but no one really likes the idea of a bunch of religions mixed together, especially one that allows gay ministers. On rare occasions, I have explained that my separation from church came about the time that my parish decided they were against the idea of gay ministers – an attitude I found hypocritical, judgmental and unchristian -- most look at me with a cocked eye.)
Anyway, she asked me if I believed in hell and understood that unless I became a practicing believer that’s where I was headed. She also asked if I knew about fornication and that’s where I drew the line. I was pretty uncomfortable with the whole conversation from the get-go, so I told Grace that I live my life by certain Christian principles – like not murdering people or coveting my neighbour’s wife, and some more simplistic values like doing unto others as you would have done to you – shockingly, she’d never heard that one before! – and she seemed to think that I need to supplement that with a little up-early-butt-in-the-pew-on-Sunday activity. I told her I’m not into spending hours listening to someone tell me how shameful, guilty, dirty and worthless I am, as a lot of ministers preach nowadays. She told me that some of us need to be reminded. The conversation closed with her saying, “Karen, I want you to try to be a devoted believer” and me saying, “I’ll respect your beliefs, Grace, but I want you to try to be tolerant of people who don’t share your views. “ She gave me a smirk.
After a light night’s sleep – haha, pun intended – I was up and waiting outside the guesthouse at 6:15 a.m. Grace and Joanna were nowhere in sight. I called Grace, who came down minutes later, and called Joanna, who was still getting ready. I told her we’d meet her over at the bus station and it was a good thing I was a nag, as the ticket guy was auctioning off our spaces, figuring we weren’t going to show. Once we got in, however, we weren’t sure we’d made the right decision in showing up. The van was nothing more than a tro-tro with plush seats and air conditioning and in the backrow was a big fat woman who insisted on sitting with her legs apart, like the starting quarterback. Joanna is no slim woman either and by the half-way point, I was ready to start randomly hurting people. We had a little food and then everyone on the bus, except for the driver, fell asleep. Joanna even snored, as an extra special treat.
As we were leaving Tamale – the biggest northern city but a pretty small place comparatively, although it was certainly bustling – the van scraped a taxi and a fight between the drivers ensued. We asked the driver to drop us in Walewale, where the guidebook said we could find a tro-tro to Gambaga and at a dusty junction, where a broken down bus was sitting in an abandoned parking lot, the driver let us out with our belongings. A man sitting on a donkey cart loaded with straw yelled “You are welcome!” as he passed and I thought, alright! This is finally going to be fine.
posted by Palmer in Africa at 9:20 AM
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