Kumasi, Kumasi, Kumasi….

Well, it’s time for another status/life update. I’ve been reading blog posts of newly arrived volunteers and felt a bit guilty to not post something every month (or even week) like they do. But, that’s what happens when you’re eased into daily life anywhere you go (even in Africa!) --- things stop seeming that exciting and new, you just kind of live here. Even seeing something crazy (like people whose entire bodies are painted like flags of local political parties or a burnt shell of a VIP bus on the side of the highway) are not worthy a diary entry but simply a shrug (or a gasp).

For the last five months I’ve been living in the city of Kumasi. Let’s just say that it is not the most favorite city in Ghana, at least for volunteers. It’s confusing to get around, its dirty, tro tro mates and sellers grab you everywhere. Every time I traveled through there when I lived in the village I felt harassed, dirty and tired. But now I live in a little oasis called KSO which I fell in love with since my first visit here back when I was a trainee.

“Kumasi” literally means “under a Kuma tree.” Legends say that during the Ashanti Kingdom times a king decided to build a city wherever a kuma seedling would survive and grow (he planted several). So, that’s why Kumasi is where it is (which is conveniently right in the middle of Ashanti Region, or Kingdom). Ironically, there is a town next to it under the name of Kumawu, which literally means “a dead Kuma tree” – that is where the seedling did not survive.

Kumasi is a big trading hub – all types of goods are brought from the North and South; people break their travel to stay here. The infamous Kejetia market is one of the biggest ones in West Africa. You do not want to go there by yourself for the first time. But you can find anything there – literally, especially famous kente cloth woven by local artisans, wax print cloth and any second-hand clothing (even diving goggles). The city also has hundreds of hotels and guest houses. And, of course, churches and mosques are rampant. One of my local acquaintances told me: “This is what people in Kumasi do – they trade and then they pray.”

So, as you can see, it is not a hub of style and night-life like Accra or a land of NGOs like Tamale (which is still my favorite city in Ghana). But slowly but surely I am finding my way around, navigating through circles, markets and stores and find some “gems” along the way. For instance, I found a great TJ Maxx-like shop which sells brand new clothing from Europe and US for very reasonable prices. If I told you that I have just found fantastic pair of ski pants for about 6 bucks there, would you believe me? Ha, but it’s true! Another question, of course, is why ski pants are sold here in the first place. But I’ll tell you – a lot of people drive motos here, and they use warm jackets, pants and ski gloves to protect themselves.

I also found several trails to run and walk on, as well as places to buy yogurt, Indian food and hummus. So, even though Kumasi is not on everybody’s list, it’s growing on me.

Now, what am I doing here? Per previous post, I have been promoted as a PCVL, and so now my life is very different. I literally work from home and on the road. One day I may be at the house doing paperwork or reading a book, and another day I may have to hop on a car and drive to pick up a sick volunteer. I am literally on-call 24/7, like a 911 response. I have to be “on” all the time – whether to answer a question, to reserve a bed for someone or to buy a plane ticket for a medical emergency. Things are not as peaceful and quiet as in Adu Pri, but I manage. Plus, the team here is great: Aikens the driver is hilarious (the other day he pointed at a weird mural depicting a chicken with a tie and a Bible saying: ‘Praise the Lord, and stop using me for a fried rice!’); the guards are helpful and Uncle Sam who is a program assistant is simply adorable. My current position is a strange combination of a volunteer and staff duties. Sometimes I also feel like a mom…or at least experience what every typical mom in America does every day – shopping, cleaning and worrying. And delegating the tasks, of course J.

In short, over the past several months I’ve done the following:

Successfully petitioned for and installed two brand new toilets (not more weird algae thingy);

Got two new fans and a new fridge;

Fumigated the entire building;

Started an accidental garden (I planted beans but instead I got pawpaw);

Visited sites for new and replacement volunteers to collect data on housing, GPS coordinates, potential projects and safety issues;

Successfully removed a couple of volunteers from their unsafe site and found a new one for them;

Met and greeted a new group of Ag trainees (such a weird feeling, to see them and remember myself two years ago, fresh off the plane);

Found a place with a trivia night;

Reorganized the library;

Painted the TV room.

Sounds like a lot… but there is still plenty to do.

A Ghanaian Graduation

 One fine spring day, Miki and Hannah, a married couple who took me under their wing, invited me to their graduation at the University of Winneba, Kumasi campus. Ghanaians are very proud of their educational accomplishments, and take any graduation ceremony very seriously. Getting a laminated certificate for any course is also significant and is considered a great resume-booster. That is very reassuring since, by the time I finish with my service, I will have so many laminated certificates that my resume will be boosted for sure. Now, whether or not I will be able to get a job is another story.

Because we left our market town a bit late, and because of the traffic to Kumasi, we did not reach the campus until about 1.5 hours since the start of the ceremony. But then we were told that it did not start on time (just like all other events in Ghana).

Overall, a graduation ceremony in Ghana is just like the one in the US. There are speeches, singing of the school and national anthems, announcement of graduates, dressed up guests, photo snapping and so on. The only difference is that the announcement of names is read from the list, and not at the exact moment when a graduate receives his diploma. Also, the commencement’s program printed names of graduates under their academic standing, clearly marking not  only those who was in excellent (summa cum laude) second upper (cum laude) standing but also satisfactory and passed standings. 

The most striking thing about the whole day was the fact that the campus was full of freelance photographers who were hunting after happy graduates and their relatives. They set up huge tents with backdrops, printing machines and laminating devices (laminating is the key in Ghana – everything is laminated here so it would last forever, or at least until the next rainy season). Once Miki and Hannah walked with their caps and gowns (blue, white and yellow, rented), we were promptly ushered into one of these tents. A photographer snapped our pictures, and then started to haggle over prices for various photo products, including a “calandar” (a laminated one, of course!). 

After the obligatory photo business, we sat down while Miki and Hannah went to submit their caps and gowns and pay their last remaining school fees in order to receive their real diplomas (the piece of paper tied with a ribbon they got during the walk was just that – a piece of paper). Waiting is the most common state of mind and body in Ghana. People wait for public transportation, church service, appointments and meetings for hours at a time. Being patient is very important – otherwise one can go crazy with all of this waiting. While waiting for Miki and Hannah, I read a book and played with kids. I also taught Gladys, Hannah’s sister how to play a string game – you know, when you pull a loop of string with your fingers and make different shapes. She seemed to enjoy that. Also, while waiting, you tend to buy snacks that are sold from vendors’ heads – seems like an appropriate passing of time. Thus we purchased some water, plantain chips and biscuit for kids and munched on them. A side note – when I travel I don’t usually eat, but when I do, I buy a bofrut, yam chips or crackers to sustain me.

After more than two hours of waiting (which, if it were to happen in America, would have caused a riot on any college campus), we found out that graduates could not get diplomas on that day. So, we headed back to Western Region. I asked Miki if they were going to have a celebratory fufu at home. He smiled: “Yes, maybe.” A restaurant-going practice in US would not have worked in Ghana – usually a home-cooked meal is much better welcomed (and much more affordable) than the food from either an over-priced “obroni” restaurant or a local chop bar where food is served in semi-clean plastic bowls.

Status Update

Yes, its been a while since I wrote in my blog. Shame on me – especially since I was keeping the blog more for myself…. Well, things have been happening left, right and center, and I’ve got a bunch of status updates that took part in my service.

First, and foremost, I got promoted. I became a volunteer leader (or a PCVL in a peace Corps lingo), and will start my duties in June. Basically, I will be a den mother for other volunteers and will look after our regional office in the city of Kumasi (Ashanti Region). My service will be extended until December 2017 (I know, seems like an eternity from now, but it is only one extra year)…  Besides, what am I going to do in America anyway? As far as I can tell, the elections are a big mess, and who know who will get elected – so let’s just stay put to be on a safe side.

Being a PCVL will have its perks too – I will live at our regional office with running water, fridge, air conditioning and other advanced products of civilization. Plus, Kumasi is halfway from Accra and Tamale. Besides, I will be traveling on a special Peace Corps vehicle for business (I remember complaining about a peace Corps bus which took us everywhere during training; well, let’s just stay that I’m very nostalgic about those good old days now every time I ride an overheated tro crammed with sweaty people).

Buh-bye, good old blue latrine. You will be missed. Sometimes.

Second, I am finally figuring out my meaningful work – basically, projects that I’m most interested in. Peace Corps is one big improvisation, there is no clear job description. You’re just thrown into this one community and gradually figure out what makes you happy and what your community needs your help with. Well, I am happy to report that throughout the last year I found my happy place. Or, more like, places.

1. I’ve been teaching GrassRootSoccer activities to local schools. It is an HIV- and malaria-prevention program originated in South Africa, which, to me, is a perfect project for any Peace Corps volunteer. I’ve reached out to four schools and taught some 200+ shy but scrappy teenagers about causes of HIV, the correct way to use a condom, and other interesting things (e.g. reasons why the US government allows gay marriages, or an origin of Groundhog Day).

Learning team work and dangers of malaria.

This project brought good memories of my own high school days and our celebration of a World AIDS Day where I played a call girl who sang (in an Alla Pugacheva’s fashion) on how you can get HIV through a kiss with elements of sadism (read: biting).

Beating HIV one football at a time.

We did it!

2.       I’ve taught many people how to make batik and tie-dye. It may sound like something silly, but it’s been super-fun, creative and educational. Every time you do batik or tie-dye, you get different results – and most of the time, they are pretty good J). I’ve taught students, tailors, farmers and their wives, and my village neighbors even urban expats. Definitely a success story (see some photos). 

My little criminals at their creative best.

Teaching local Presbyterian church members.

3.
       I collaborated with Eyes on Africa, a non-profit organization, which sends free reading glasses to Africa. We did three distributions, and now over 300 people in Western region of Ghana can read their Bibles or check students’ homework without too much strain on their eyesight. I also connected other volunteers with this organization, and now they are also keeping busy with helping their villagers. Hooray!

Lovely farmer ladies with their new specs.

So, here we are. Comparing to some other super-volunteers who are building schools, latrines and borehole in their communities, it is not much.  But I’m proud of what I’ve done. Every person experiences Peace Corps differently. For some it is a good opportunity to figure out if development work is for them. For others, it is a chance to escape a daily grind of American corporate life; to see the world; to live outside one’s comfort zone; to experience something different. And to have fun while traveling on a rusty tro, of course.

Well, this one is not too rusty...

(Un)stolen Memories

The other night while I was walking on the beautiful beach in Busya, a criminal snatched my phone and ran away into the darkness. This, by far, is the biggest blow that I’ve received while being in Ghana. And in some ways I’ve been fairly lucky. I was not held at a knife point, or beaten. I was not raped, strangled, or murdered. True, I was robbed, which is not a very pleasant experience either – your possession is taken, your personal space is violated, your privacy is in jeopardy, and your communication with others is hindered. Perhaps the biggest reason I became upset was the fact that all (literally, all) pictures and videos I’ve taken while in Ghana are now gone. Yes, I’ve been telling myself to back them up on my laptop, and I haven’t. Yes, I should have finally learned how to put my data on the cloud. So, lessons learned. I will be more watchful next time. Besides, after some thinking, I realize that most of the pictures I’ve taken….were not that good. I am neither Annie Leibovitz with her elaborate celebrity portraits full of special lighting and make-up nor am I Ansel Adams with his sweeping vistas of American splendor in black and white: my photos don’t stand a chance of being featured anywhere except on my friends’ Facebook  news feed. They were taken on an impulse because the scenery (to me) looked cool or cute, or they were taken for reports (so I could remember how many people showed up to my meetings).

Most importantly, my pictures and videos may have been stolen, but my memories were not! In fact, some of the best images were not in my phone - they were (and still are) in my head J. Here are several of them:

The day when I met my home-stay family in Anyinasin: my host brother Imma took my giant orange suitcase, put it on his head like it was nothing and walked to my new home, while his sister Effia ran along. Just picture them in the distance, framed by plantain trees and glorious sunset.

One evening I was very late for a Grassroots Soccer practice: I assumed the school kids left for their homes, but then I saw several girls still waiting for me. When they noticed me, they smiled and ran to me yelling “Madame, madame, you returned!” It was like they haven’t seen me in years. Just picture being surrounded by their smiling faces.

Riding the bus full of excited singing football fans to a friendly match.

Watching the downpour from a local spot, while old men next to me poured some apeteshie to appease to weather gods.

Walking in the bush in the morning, getting ready for the day, flooded with memories, emotions and sudden urges to stay here forever.

Riding a giant but rickety bus to Tamale, getting a flat tire, skidding off to the side, waiting in the darkness for the tire to be fixed, riding again, a person next to me offering his dinner.

Right before the rain, wind picking up dandelion-like fluff from oak trees; watch it float in the dark sky, just like snow…

My courtyard floor, covered with children’s Crayola drawings.

During one soap-making session, oil in a pot caught on fire. The fire created vortex in the pot and started shooting upwards, higher and higher! It was subdued, but I was really afraid it would spread and burn down half of a village. “This is how NOT to make soap,” I told villagers. They solemnly nodded. Later, still covered in soot, we finished making soap and started singing and dancing. Ghana – the country of contrasts….

Walking somewhere far away from my village, and all of a sudden being greeted by a friendly wave and “Sister Akua! Me huuwatche! (I’ve seen you long time!)” instead of the dreaded “Obroni! Ma me sika! (Give me money!)” Oh, the sweet relief of being recognized by your name and not by the color of your skin….

Getting an encouraging text from a friend thus making my day. True, the text is gone, but its effect is still with me!

It’s all about football

Ghana is all about football (soccer)… Each village, school, neighborhood and town has a team, and during evenings people go out to local football fields to play. If there is no local game, people disappear into their homes and watch a football championship on their TVs. Stickers of such prominent teams as Chelsea, Real Madrid and Manchester United adorn taxi cabs, and every school kid dreams to be on Ghana’s national Black Stars team. As for me, even though I grew up with football all around me (my father and both brothers would watch the World Cup and would play in their spare time), I was in no way a football expert, or a fan of any particular team. I did, however, knew the famous “Ole-ole-ole” chant.

Living in rural Ghana is definitely different from living in the States. This includes socializing. For example, I purposely did not make any close acquaintance with young nubile men for various reasons: most common one is that being somebody’s “friend” may have led to various sexual innuendo, propositions and uncomfortable situations. I knew some of them through my counterpart, and I would greet them when I had a chance. On their part, they were actually polite enough not to constantly proposition me (as it usually happens every time I go to market town, tro station and any other public place). Some of them I knew through various business transactions (an electrician, a carpenter, couple of taxi drivers) but I would not purposely hang out with them in the evenings, if you catch my drift. Being a girl in Ghana is not easy-o...

But one Sunday morning I overheard that the local football team was playing an away game at a neighboring village. As I was already doing some Grassroots Soccer activities with school kids, the football bug finally let itself known: I’ve decided to go to the game and cheer for “my” team. Besides, being in another village would be a nice break from my site and a market town. After all, you only live once.

So, we piled into a Sprinter mini-bus (while designed for about 20 passengers, we’ve had about 40 people literally squeezed into it) and took off. The players and the fans were singing and chanting throughout our trip along the familiar bush road, potholes and all.

Something changed that day. I became one of the guys. It is a familiar state of mind and place for me in the US where I’ve been one of the guys for years. I admit – this type of attitude was not very helpful for me in the dating department, as I would size guys up not as potential snuggling/kissing partners but as potential running buddies, concert goers or band members. Being a Caucasian female in Ghana created an opposite effect: I could no longer approach guys easily and be friends with them, I literally had to hide from them and their constant propositions. I was no longer perceived as a potential friend who would go to a concert and then grab a beer and discuss music genres and world news; I was perceived as a potential “friend” with all the benefits (minus a concert and a beer!).

But the football team guys were not that bad. First, upon arrival, they included my name into their sport chant, and we danced small-small. Then, we walked around the rival village, and finally, we high-fived each other every time the team scored a goal. Finally, after our team’s victory, we piled up into a mini-bus where the guys continued chanting and singing. In those moments – cheering for the home team, riding the mini-bus back home - I felt a quirky emotion, which does not have a name in the English language. It is something called amae , which roughly translates from Japanese as a “a kind of oceanic joy” or a “feeling of acceptance”. It is quite evasive and fleeting (at least for me here in Ghana), but when it strikes you, you feel all warm and fuzzy inside as you realize: “Aha – I’m being accepted.” Many sports fans and church goers would recognize the amae emotion. So, it finally happened to me as I cheered for “my” team and became one of the guys.

One Year...

October 8^th marked a one-year anniversary of my staying in Ghana.

In a nutshell, it has been a whirlwind of emotions, events, traveling, cultural guffaws, friendships, sweat, tears and satchet water.

What have I accomplished so far? According to the American result-driven paradigm, not much. But on another hand….the fact that I am still in Africa is an accomplishment of its own.

What else? Here are some main milestones:

1. I’m healthy. I’ve been living in a hot tropical climate without too much exposure to air-conditioning, refrigeration and fans, and I have yet to suffer from heat exhaustion or spoiled food. I have not gotten any serious tropical diseases – whether it was a dreaded ebola or wide-spread malaria. I’ve been spared from road accidents that are rampant here. I maintained healthy weight through running (I even completed one half-marathon and one full marathon), walking on my bush road instead of taking a taxi, and alternating sparse diet of boiled plantain and stew with home-cooked meals from ingredients found in care packages, fresh fruit (nowhere else will I eat such delicious pineapples, mangoes and bananas), and occasional “fattening up” days when I would go out for a Western meal or succumb to temptation of picking my plate clean during training sessions. I drink less alcohol (a demise of many volunteers – we are constantly warned of administrative problems if we are to be found drunk or hangover), but you know what Billy Joel sang: “….it’s better than drinking alone.” I admit, I do go out for beers when I meet my colleagues after not seeing them for a month or so, but, as ever a responsible first –born goody two-shoes, I have not gone on crazy drinking rage (maybe there was no legitimate reason for it yet?). In other word, I am a somewhat boring drinking buddy. But give me a guitar or take me to a karaoke, and that’s when the real fun can begin J).

2. I’m doing what I want. It sounds a bit selfish, but, on another hand, it puts my previous structured career path into a new prospective. While in the US, I had to adhere to certain physical constrains and schedule, here I can design my day in any fashion that works for me and others. If I traveled all day on a dilapidated tro, the next day I can relax, do my laundry and recuperate. If I schedule a training session, and everyone is late for it – oh, well, I can always read more books while waiting or do some errands. My office can be my courtyard, or a drinking spot at a market town, or a cocoa tree in the bush. Without constant rushing that I’ve experienced in the States I’m also less stressed (as we all know, stress contributes to a cause of 90% of diseases). I’m also VERY happy that I do not have to sit in a cubicle in an Office Space-esque setting and listen to colleagues complain about traffic, long line at Starbucks and other first-world problems. True, I miss the absence of fresh brewed coffee and bagel Fridays, but you cannot have it all. Besides, here I can always eat a bofrut (a semi-sweet donut).

Here I’m learning to create my own schedule and stay motivated. I’ve learned how to make batik and soap, as well as HIV-prevention training designed to be fun and non-preachy, and so I feel like a consultant from a summer camp sent to Ghana to teach kids and adults various fun camp activities. Yes, if you think about it, I’m a glorified camp counselor. Which makes total sense because back when I was a kid, I breathed pioneer camp stuff, and later in the US, worked at a girlscout camp and, of course, Kazakh Aul. Maybe it is my destiny – being an ever-chipper girlscout leader? We’ll see when I get back.

As I mentioned in my previous posts, African way of life is very relaxed. People do not rush, they take their time with greeting everyone they know on their way to work, they do not show up on time for appointments, and everyone seems ok with that. For time-conscious Americans, it can be torturous. But with time, Western people learn to ease themselves in into some type of worry-free state of mind. Tro broke down and stranded  in the middle of nowhere? Oh, well. People are an hour late for a meeting? Whatever. On another hand, this state of mind can also create a complete state of idleness, which plagues volunteers from another side of spectrum: being too lazy to do anything at-all. I admit, there were some days when all I wanted to do was to watch movies on a laptop, drink tea and be left alone. But some kind of inner engine has yet to give up on humming into my conscience: do something. And so I do. According to my abilities.

3. I’m still here! As of now, about one third of our original training group has gone home for various reasons. One person left during training, several others – during the first three months of site restriction. More would be gone closer to the one-year  anniversary. Sometimes I feel like we are all on this elaborate Survivor game: one must outlive and outlast other volunteers. Yet at the same time it is understandable when someone misses their family so much they cannot stand being away from them, or has to go home for other reasons – whether personal or professional. I’m not saying that I have absolutely no bouts of homesickness or thoughts on “what if…” should I have gone to America right now. I, like many others, struggle with loneliness, boredom, frustrations, lack of infrastructure and first-world amenities that make our lives so much easier. I wrote about these frustrations before, so I will not bore you with the same laundry list. But I will say that I see more clearly that Peace Corps is not for everybody; Africa is not for everybody; living in the bush without a fridge is not for everybody. It makes me wonder if upon returning to the States I will continue with a low-budget low-maintenance travelling-hippie lifestyle, or if I would want to surround myself with creature comforts after two years of deprivation. My guess is both: I am used to simplified life, but will embrace all necessary fruits of civilization that will help along the way. For example, I see myself buying a nice new car and driving across the States. At the same time, I would be fine sleeping in that car if I were not able to find a place to stay for the night. I see myself getting a new pair of nice jeans (it’s been a year since I wore jeans, unbelievable!), but I would not shop till I drop at TJ Maxx and buy 20 other garments. Or would I? Time will tell.

And finally, I can carry things on my head! I am not as graceful as Ghanaians, but I am able to carry a huge tub of water from the well to my house. When I first moved to my village, I could only carry a small bucket, so there is definitely some progress.

Overall, a year in Africa will be one of the most memorable years of my life. On to another year! It is already ticking away.

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.