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Published: October 25th 2007
Pray For Me
When I'm done with myself....sure!It was deep, smelt like 3-day old festival and ran both sides of the street. In it, stuck fast, random bits of rubbish; waiting for biodegradation, the destruction of the planet or whatever comes first - probably not the Ghanaian garbage service.
Is it, I wondered, a drain or very elaborate obruni trap? For beyond the ankle snapping gap, encroaching in fact, to its very edge, was a chaos of road side stalls, leaving me with no option but to walk on the road, drain one side, traffic pulsing past on the other. One lil lurch to the left and I’d be in the sludge, one falter to the right and I’d be one more dent; every car, bus, and truck having a good collection - even the taxi’s and tro-tro’s with their rear window messages of hope and prayer. ‘Jesus Be Kind’, ‘Pray For Me’, ‘God Is Good’.
Maybe I could get ‘The Lord Loves A Backpacker’ for myself….with drains, traffic, a heavy load of bags and stray chickens ducking unseen between my feet I was feeling precarious enough to warrant a bout of religious fervour. Try as I might to keep my mind on foot placement I
became more and more aware of the stares my slow and ponderous progress was garnering, the blush on my neck more than the gentle kiss of humidity. I had so much
stuff - too much to carry on my head even. When I reached the Darkuman Goil Petrol Filling Station I was glad to sit on my pack, hoping that my fat arse, a western excess in itself, would hide some of the materialism.
Figuring the Filling Station would be easier to find than the hostel, I’d arranged to meet my lift here; two guys from the boyo’s company who happened to be heading Takoradi way. As I waited the passing traffic gave me special obruni honks, a school bus full of children erupted on my wave, people stared and some, as they walked past, muttered dark and incomprehensible things which could have been ‘hello, how are you?’ or ‘ho, ho obruni’s arse is as big as her bag’.
At least the little ones were easy to understand, a wave or hello splitting shy faces into toothy smiles that were, for the minute, making my life worthwhile. By the time the company ute pulled alongside I’d spent 45
minutes in the spotlight and was happy to clamber in behind its tinted windows, getting a well deserved giggle in reply to my smart arse question, “how’d you know it was me?”
Our progress out of the city was as interesting as it were laborious. While the previous days urban safari had broken me to the replacement of indicators with continuous application of the horn, which sounded to me like a fairly happy (as is the Ghanaian way), ‘helloooo I’m here, going there, don’t hurt me’, I could only watch with a very open mouth, as in the morning crush, 2 lane streets expanded into five then back again - all apparently on the whim of whichever driver was leading the pack.
As we reached the outskirts I complimented the driver, Lawrence, on his obvious good skills. The ute was the only one I’d seen with a straight body and it seemed a minor miracle. “Not quite”, he laughed, “it is very new”, adding that, “we had two but the other one they roll.” All the religion seeped back out of me at that point. I didn’t want to think about what lay ahead.
Distraction arrived at
the next set of traffic lights; a conga line of entrepreneurs weaving between the waiting cars, a diverse range of wares balanced on their heads. I’d heard about this and hoped to see at least one toilet seat. Toilet paper, yes. Malta Beer, Coca Cola and many other drinks, yes. Lots of interesting looking foods, including some round balls of dough which I made on sight my mission to taste at some stage. No toilet seats.
A disappointment salved only by one man’s unlikely combination of dog muzzles and “Tummy Trimmer”, which from the picture on the box; a white lady resplendent in high cut fluoro leotard and perm; had to date from the 80’s. I knew that till the end of my days I would wonder where he’d found the “Tummy Trimmer” and what connection, if any, there was between the two items. Maybe, (if I survived enough Ghanaian road trips) I would see him again and be able to ask.
Though I couldn’t help but swear and yelp every time someone passed on a blind corner or crest, I felt my odds were pretty good with Lawrence behind the wheel. Soon I realised if an overtaking
Kente Kids
Kente is the national cloth of Ghana - what you wear if you want to show you are something special. car pushed it too far the oncoming traffic would flash their headlights - which did fuck all - but saved on swearing.
The 200 km between Accra and Takoradi takes 4 ½ hours to travel. I’d presumed this was due to poor road conditions. Not so. There is just an immense amount of traffic, built up areas and slow moving goats. Very few times (and not for a lack of trying) did Lawrence hit enough open road to make the speed restrictor chime.
The scenery kept my attention for a few hours then I turned to the newspaper. In it I discovered the pearl, “Dentist Claims Chest Fondling Appropriate” and am now expecting a strong Ghanaian contribution to my list of best-headlines-ever. Perennial favourite, “Killed By A Tampon” (UK Take 5 magazine 2005) may finally be knocked from first place…
In case you’re wondering (and I bet you are!) chest fondling, if you subscribe to the ankle bone is joined to the knee bone medical school, is a legitimate method of manipulating jaw muscles. So now, in my head at least, Africa + Dentists = Storm screaming rape.
When we arrived at Takoradi the boyo was
still half an hour away and I was whisked off to lunch at the Africa Beach Resort, joining the expat staff from the local office, an invitation extended, I think, not out of hospitality but for not knowing what else to do with me. My greenness generated, especially from the old and crusty ones, a fair degree of disdain. Perhaps they just thought my place was at home with the other wives, where I couldn’t interrupt their drinking and whoring.
Ghana (though it seemed to be sucking the joy out of some) was obviously well under their skins and behind the blokey talk and bullshit, lay the familiar African refrain of love and lament. Annoyed as I was at the ‘footy camp’ mentality and repeated introductions as the ‘girlfriend’ I softened; time wounds all heels.
Thankfully there was nothing crusty about the boyo when he arrived, looking a bit sweaty and a bit happy. Mwah! And so forth… We travelled back to Tarkwa with the two of us in the back seat (watching the boyo cram his long legs in made me realise just how bad he’s got it!), leaving our poor driver with only my bags as
company in the front.
Outside, and unnoticed by us in the midst of our chatter, the sprawl of Takoradi gave way to jungle and then old rubber plantations. Finally, around one last bend, was Tarkwa. I guess in the back of my head I’d expected it, as the home of the biggest gold mine in Ghana, to be a little like Kalgoorlie (an Australian desert mining town), an oasis of consumerism in the most unlikely place. Yet to my untrained eye, the main street seemed as ramshackle as all the other towns we passed, with no hint the local wages exceeded by far the national minimum of 2 cedi per day (2.40 AUD).
We drove right through town to get to the mine, following the inevitable convoy of beaten up taxis. Most turned down the entrance to the camp and now in the habit of reading their rear window entreaties to see what could top ‘Pray For Me’, I craned my neck to see what the fella in front had on his.
For a few seconds after, so complete was my astonishment that I couldn’t speak. I poked the boyo, pointed and did my best to communicate with blinks that I really, really couldn’t believe it. For across the taxi’s window, in chunky red letters were the words, “Take Time”. Even with the boyo’s eye witness support I knew no one would ever believe it. But there it was, the truth, stranger than fiction and all over the back of a taxi. Maybe at the end of our time in Ghana we would call it something more - something good I hoped.
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Steph
non-member comment
hello again
Hi! so the adventure continues! The pictures look pretty interesting...and that whole "Visitor rapes a goat" newspaper article is a good one! got another link for you, of you get a chance...http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/default.stm Steph