On Roads, Cars and God's Will

It rained quite heavily the night before, and in the morning, on the way to the market town, we saw a huge truck in the ditch – it looked like while it was trying to avoid a fallen tree on the left, it swerved too hard on a dangerous curve. There were no police cars, no flashing lights warning other drivers to be cautious, no ambulances (the only purpose of ambulances here is to transport a dead body from a mortuary to a funeral). When I asked my counterpart if we should tell the police at the barrier about the accident, he just sighed: “They will not do anything.”

While in Bibiani, I saw a big orange truck going the other direction without thinking too much of it. But then couple hours ago when we were going back home, and were on that very dangerous curve, I saw that very orange truck twisted deep into the muddy trench! I became angry and upset. Why wasn’t police there? What was the driver thinking, driving so fast on this curve? Later we found out that the orange truck was trying to pass a motorcyclist thus killing him on the spot…

That day, I became upset at the way Ghanaians accept their fate without a proper fight.

Ghana seduced me with its relaxed way of shrugging things off when they would not go according to the plan: “Oh, well,” the collective conscience here seems to say “life goes on.” Tro breaks down, yam chips are “finished,” electricity is shut down – TIA (“This Is Africa” as I say now all the time)…

At the same time, Ghanaians struck me as very caring people: someone would always help me find my tro-tro stop, or a person I would be looking for; people would always tug my clothes or clean dirt off my face so I would look presentable. The support network in villages is amazing – since everyone is related to each other, people always help each other with chores, businesses or private affairs. Every time I would pass somebody while carrying a heavy bag or a bucket of water on my head, people always tried to help me. And when something was not going according to a plan, people would just shrug and say: “Oh, it is nature,” or “It’s God’s will.” And I would surrender to it too – why waste your nerve cells, as my mom would say?

But this time, this lack of regard for human life and well-being of others unnerved me. Yes, I understand why it is useless to complain to local police – it seems all they want is taking illegal fees from passing cars and being left alone. I imagined how this scene would play out in the US – and immediate 911 response, flashing lights or flares, alerts to other drivers, road signs saying “Slow,” “Caution,” “Keep Right,” accident victims airlifted to the nearby hospital and treated for their injuries. None of this happens here….

Traveling here is generally a pretty traumatic affair. As Peace Corps volunteers, we are not allowed to drive on our own or to ride motorcycles. The only modes of transportation that we are allowed to take are buses, tro-tros and taxis – all of which are in various stage of dilapidation. Lack of spare auto parts, bad roads and constant overloading of cars make them look like they’ve gone through a nuclear blast (plus, the fact that these cars come to Ghana already used doesn’t help). And overloading is no joke -  just imagine squeezing eight people into a sedan which usually holds five, or fitting 30 people, a couple of goats and tons of boxes and bags of plantains into a Suburban van.

Also, most roads are just… bad. There is no other way to say it. They are either dirt roads that make every trip to market feel like a safari (without any exotic animals). Or they are just narrow, two-lane county-like roads – but it doesn’t stop cars from going full speed and passing incoming traffic, sometimes dangerously close. During several trips to Kumasi, Accra and Tamale, I realized why people here pray so much: that is the only way calm yourself down and trust your life into hands of God while a driver tailgates huge trucks or goes around them on  a dangerous curve.

Bad cell phone connection, lack of warning system and a simple indifference of police doesn’t help the situation either. One time I was taking a bus from Tamale. Suddenly we slowed down pretty rapidly, and I soon discovered why. The left side of the highway was full (literally!) of overturned tractor trailers. And it seemed that all they were carrying were tons of cans of tomato paste and tomatoes. Just imagine  boxes and boxes of tomatoes – oh, the massacre…  Did our driver know about this accident? Of course not: he simply drove at full speed until he saw something suspicious on the road. The other time a tire on a bus I was riding blew up, and we skidded dangerously close to the ditch.

What am I trying to say? That Ghana is a dangerous place? That the infrastructure here is falling apart? That people believe that a prayer will save their tro from colliding with a tractor trailer? I myself lived in a country where aggressive driving, roads full of pot-holes and shoddily fixed cars caused numerous deaths. Yes, I did – and I did not like it. So now I have to accept the fact that anything can happen on the road… But I wish my fellow Ghanaians would be more willing and able to change the infrastructure, the police response and driving style instead of surrendering themselves to God’s will every time they go to their market town.

How I Ran a Marathon in Africa

It finally happened... I ran a marathon in Africa. And I survived!

The 9th annual International Accra Marathon (AIM) on September 27, 2015 was my slowest marathon (4 hours and 35 minutes), but it was my most rewarding one: I finished 9^th overall and placed 3^rd among women! If I did another marathon in America, I would have been one of hundreds finishers. But here in Ghana, where running community is still fairly small, it was simultaneously easy and hard to run among so few athletes. On one hand, the race did not look like a race but a long and uncomfortable urban run among exhaust-spewing tros, drinking spots, gaping locals and occasional police officers. But on another hand, it was a race, all right: you could see a string of runners ahead of you thinking – could you reach one of them? And how many are right behind me now?

But let me start from the beginning. Two days before the race, me and several other volunteers had a nice pasta dinner at my friend’s Michael’s house. It felt like a dinner party in America – we were sitting in a nice dinning room, eating from porcelain plates with real metal forks and knives. There was cheese, wine, salads, real coffee and dessert. What can I say – Peace Corps changes the way you look at food. Food (especially Western food) becomes an obsession. It can be a blessing and a curse: in this case it was both, because we really enjoyed every bite, but the next day our stomachs were reminding us that we were still in Africa, and consuming copious amount of food that you haven’t eaten in a while could cost you more than one trip to the bathroom. Good thing we did it two days before the race, eh?

On the big day (or, better say, night), we woke up at 2:30am and took a taxi to Labadi Beach Hotel – a posh resort where a finish line was. From there, we took to the start – Prampram neighborhood, in front of the road to Central University College. In the pre-dawn darkness, we counted our opponents – couple dozen expats from England,  Japan, France, one tourist from Poland (who specifically has flown to Accra to run the marathon), and only several Ghanaians (one of them was Kwabena, who works at the Salvation Army Hostel). The organizers were setting up drums and snapping pictures of us. The runners were sizing each other up and dashing into bushes for a last-minute pee break. I put on my flashing mini-lights that I used during relays and adjusted my tu-tu (which I brought from US specifically for the race!). One of my colleagues gave me a GU gel (which later helped a lot). The sky changed from black to gray. Dawn was approaching. Somebody yelled “Go!” and we were off.

In retrospect, running one marathon in Africa equals three marathons in the US. Simply put, it’s hard! The roads are not blocked from traffic, there are no Gatorade or granola bars at water stops, there are no encouraging supporters with whistles, posters and flags. Thankfully, the organizers had a team of cyclists who kept close to us and waved the incoming traffic away. They also gave us water and motivated us in their own way (my biker’s way to give me a boost was this phrase: “Your speed is looow.”).

With the exception of the finish line at the resort and a final stretch along the beach, the race took us through parts of Accra that are not mentioned in tourist guide books on purpose: there was simply nothing there. We ran through industrial yards of Tema, scary roundabouts of Prampram, and past typical container stores, tro stations and food vendors’  shacks of Beach Road. The most exciting part for me was running through a college campus – which at that early hour was empty. But at least it was traffic-free and had nice tall trees for a change.

I still remember that during my first marathon in Pittsburgh I never hit a wall. This time, however, I started hitting wall after wall, and the finish was still 18 km away! It’s hard to admit it, but I had to stop and walk (which haven’t happened since Moscow marathon, which was also not an easy race).

As locals would say, the race was not easy-o. The course was stretched mostly along busy streets where runners had to constantly dodge traffic. The air was full of car exhaust, dust and various smells from gutters; the heat was rising with every hour. Even though there were water stops, some of them were out of water by the time I reached them. The course was also not marked correctly: after the last sign that said “5 km left” I felt like I ran five miles! My knee was literally killing me, and my overall energy level was loooow. It was simply brutal. I was getting upset and kept asking my biker; “How much longer? Where is Labadi?” Instead of showing me some sort of visual sign, he kept saying: “Oh, it’s close.” (one of typical responses of locals who never want to say the exact distance so you wouldn’t get discouraged). Despite all of these obstacles, I managed to pass my colleague Jeff (who was well ahead of me at the beginning).

When I crossed the finish line I was wet, sore, cranky and exhausted. Moreover, I’ve had bloody blisters on my feet (it never happened before!). But I accomplished two goals that I set to myself – I finished a marathon in Africa, and I did not shit my pants (pardon my French). Because – guess what? There were no port-a-potties at the course at-all! During our shuttle journey we were looking out for gas stations just in case the call of nature would be too much to handle.  

Jeff wobbled right after me and then several more volunteers finished the race. We were done! We slowly made our way towards the post-race fest where there was food (rice, chicken, coconuts), goody bags and medals. It turned out that I placed third among women! When they announced my name, I was trying to get my meal ticket, which was blown away by the wind right from my hand (as you know, your reaction slows down after constantly running for 4.5 hours). I kept hearing my name, but I couldn’t come right away: I had to get my meal ticket! Finally I screamed: “I’m coming! I’m coming!” and sprinted towards the announcer. My feet and brain did not believe I could still run after 26.2 miles – that’s how excited I was about getting a medal. I was also happy for my colleagues, Katja and Cyrus, who placed 2^nd in women’s and men’s category.

After some rest, I managed to hobble to “my” biker and gave him a hug – I was grateful that he stuck around despite my frustrations and “loooow” speed. His presence gave me a boost.

But the best thing in any marathon (including this one) was to have a nice shower and go out to eat with your fellow athletes. We celebrated our athletic feat by going to a local Italian restaurant where each of us got pizza (eating pizza in Africa is very special!). The icing on the cake was getting a free piece of teramisu (split eight ways) and lemoncello shots from the restaurant’s owner. Bravissimo!

So, this is how I completed a marathon in Africa.