In a country where private cars are few, all hail the commercial buses, tro-tros, taxis, and motorbikes that clog the speedways both around town and over hours of potholed roads to destinations far from home.
Sitting on a bus or tro-tro is not unlike punishment for minor sins unwittingly committed. The tro-tro seat is less comfortable than a park bench, but gratefully there is a bit more space to readjust. (My butt is likely considerably flatter after this weekend.) The commercial buses, though cheaper, must wait longer to load completely and pack themselves to fullest capacity.
This thought went through my mind as I attempted to access my assigned chair through the throng of already-seated bus passengers:
‘Clamber’ is an adequate term as one must perform various acrobatics down the aisle to avoid the large nylon bags of charcoal or farm equipment, cases of soda and beer, and the generous girth of several individuals whose legs must extend into the open space to accommodate their not-unimpressive midsections.
A bag of saws rested at my feet and the man next to me wanted to discuss American politics, Ghanaian economics, and Christianity for the full three-hour journey to Accra.
I take solace in my safe arrival – my person and belongings intact – and that no livestock traveled with us this time.