Five months ago, I was stranded in the middle of the road between Bamboi and Wa. I was still five hours away from where I wanted to be. Hot, thirsty, and alone, I really thought that day started out so well.
I had a successful training session the day before at the In-Service Training and a good night with all the PCVs who were there. I didn’t have to worry about getting up at the crack of dawn to waddle through the chaotic murk of Kumasi station to find a car because there was a Peace Corps car heading toward Upper West, and I had a seat on it. The ride was smooth, Aikin the driver was wonderful, I was in good company with one of my good friends. We garbed and carped while speeding through the Wa-Kumasi road with the optimism that I could make it home early that day. I was definitely sad when we reach the car’s last stop, Techiman. It was time for me to get on my own.
Anticipated to spend a few hours waiting for a car to Wa, I felt absolutely in luck when the first car glided up was shouting “Wa, Wa, Wa!” The prospect of me getting home before dusk was looking good. I hopped in, found a seat by the window. The car wasn’t crowded. The road was empty. And soon enough, we were approaching the mid-way point, Bamboi. Wa was 3 hours away. Thing were going smoothly.
The mate began to collect the lory fare, and I was happy to pay. Since I have never taken a car from this point before, I wasn’t sure of the cost, but knowing the route, I had an anticipating number. So when the small boy (who was actually a young man) told me the price, I thought I heard him wrong. The cost was as if I had taken the car straight from Kumasi, and despite my protest, people were paying! Part of me wanted to shell out the money to just get home, but the cheaper part of me just didn’t want to pay that much money to go half the distance I normally would. Meanwhile, everyone was trying to convince the fighting white lady (me) to calm down and that the fare has always been this way. No it has not, damn it. It felt as if I was in the middle of a conspiracy.
In the end, I just couldn’t pay knowing that the fare was overpriced. Living on the Peace Corps allowance, I was definitely cheap, but also because I couldn’t stand being in the vehicle knowing that we were all being taken advantage by the driver, and everyone else was accepting it because they didn’t have a choice. It was not the first time this has happened in Ghana, and though I normally pick my battle, I just couldn’t give in that day. As soon as the car reached Bamboi and out of the middle-of-nowhere stretch, I decided to take my chance at hitch hiking. By this point, it was everyone’s business that the white woman didn’t want to pay the fee and wanted to get off. They were convinced that I wouldn’t be able to find another car. Jokes were made, advices were given. They didn’t think I was going to really leave them and walk the road alone. The driver even caravanned after me saying he would reduce the price, but I was already committed to hitch hiking, so I ignored him.
I wasn’t worried when I watched the car sped up toward Wa. I have hitch hiked numerous times before. Hitch hiking in Ghana is significantly less creepy and dangerous than the urban-legend-horror-stories-American version. You never know who is going to pick you up, the interesting “big man” who wants to befriend the random white person walking alone on the road or just a good samaritan. In fact, most PCVs prefer to hitch hike because sometime it’s the better alternative to stuffing yourself in a broken down minivan for 6 hours. Better days have seen me in a AC-powered truck with working suspension and seat belts. And that was what I was hoping to find me.
I walked up the road for about 15-20 minutes and stopped for water. My backpack felt heavy. Bamboi was still in my vision field. I opted to stop walking and sat by the side of the road, rehydrating and watching cars going by from the opposite direction of where I wanted to go. I felt like that was a recurring theme. Cars going where you don’t need to go — somehow strangely poetic when it shouldn’t be. The occasional bicyclist or motorist wheezed pass me staring. People never get tired at seeing a foreigner, even though Bamboi was a bigger town and definitely has seen its share of non-locals. We even used to have a Peace Corps Volunteer here a few months back. Still, people stared.
Big giant trucks also passed, puffing out massive black clouds of polluted smoke ignoring me. The cars that zoomed by showed no interest in stopping. The sun was getting higher and the heat rose. Sweat began to soak through my cap. The cooled water gave into the heat and became warm. I began to feel that maybe I was about to run out of luck and started to doubt if I was going to make it home. The day didn’t feel so great anymore.
Yet I wasn’t worried about it. I wasn’t afraid that I couldn’t find a ride, or panicking about not making home. I had no idea what was going to happen next, who would come by and pick me up but none of that was a pressing concern. All I felt was that moment. It was long and endless but it wasn’t terrible. I felt calm and okay, and as I mentioned before, strangely poetic. I thought that if I could gather my thoughts together, I would write about it so that’s how we got here.
I woke up this morning thinking about that morning. It was almost exactly five months ago give or take a few days, and taking in where I am now, it felt like a completely different world. Surreal and ephemeral. As I was sitting there watching the empty road, I had no doubt that the long moment was going to end, and even though it wasn’t enjoyable to say the least, I knew I was going to miss it, and I do miss it now.
Eventually, after about an hour and a half, a truck stopped. The driver was a young man, I couldn’t pronounce his name, but he was polite. I always imagine how strangely sorry I look to Ghanaians when they find me on the road. Sweaty, dehydrated and tired — completely contradicting the popular belief that foreigners have money and can afford anything, like their own car. If my new friend had any inquiries, he kept it to himself as we drove in silence while I took in as much AC air as I could.
While attempting to make small talks, I learned that my friend has accomplished a lot for a person of his age. Coming from an affluent family, he studied abroad in Hong Kong, and therefore, didn’t make the assumption that I was Chinese (this won him points). He spoke fluent Cantonese from the time he was there, and is preparing to studying for another degree. I was impressed by his experiences and felt relaxed. His questions weren’t invasive (do you have a husband/boyfriend?) and he let me fall asleep when the conversation died out. He even apologized when the car broke down and we had to stop to fix it. We reached Wa promptly, I caught a car to my village and the rest, I assume, was typical because I couldn’t remember it.
In Peace Corps, we were told “Days are long, weeks, months and years are fast. Two years would go by before you know it.” And whoever they are, they were right. Some days blended together, and the week went by in a blink of an eye. The routine I had made my days automatic and the things I did mundane, even if I did them in a “special African environment”. So it was experiences like this in Ghana that made the longest lasting impression on me, that I think about the most when I think about the last two years and are also so hard for me to explain when asked the question “how was Africa?”. Days in which I had no anticipations of outcomes, days that were special because they only happen once in your life, moments that felt like a lifetime but felt fleeting when they ended. There were no lessons, no punch line, yet I remember everything. They are so hard to let go, but maybe I want it that. When I think about these days, these moments, I’m sad because I know that I can never repeat it, even if I return to the same place and sit on the same spot.
