I arrived in
I was met at the arrival hall by our driver, and we immediately began a journey that would take us to the town of
The over-used tape player churned the over-played cassette and the speakers crackled with rapid-beat, singsong music of a famous Ghanaian singer as our driver maniacally sped along both lanes and the blind-curves of the road snaking up and down the hillsides. His quiet lip-synching along with the music would be interrupted with rapidfire commentary as he intermittently would swerve onto the oncoming traffic lane at full speed while pointing at a pothole the size of a pond, or worse yet, a poured block of cement, covering our lane.
“Wartime checkpoint, no good for the axel of the car, hehehe...”
Instead of slowing down, he would honk once or so before overtaking, and at times overrunning, lumbering minivans with 20 passengers inside and a dozen on top.
“Sleepy time slow taxi...They go faster if they walk alongside....”
He double-honked when reaching the hapless, meandering dog or cow, “ Move now, or be stew later...”, and laid a steady horn for walking and cycling villagers with large parcels balanced on their heads “The road is no bazaar mama...”. Magically, they would get out of the way as we passed, only to re-emerge from the tall grass that flanked the windy road.
We only slowed down for the occasional rope stretched across the road, with a soldier, or otherwise camouflaged gun-toter, holding one end, lounging under a shade and dark pilot sunglasses. Driver would sit up straight and tip his imaginary hat with two fingers.
“Easy we go...no trouble we with the NGO car.”
While the road-blocker’s companion would extract ‘tolls’ from the overloaded minivans and local transports, he would wave the foreigners by in their air-conditioned SUVs .
As hours rolled on alongside the scenery, with the repeat of the same 7 songs and the almost identical anecdotes dotting the constant harrowing driving style, I started to concentrate beyond the road and passing of the circular mud huts and occasional villager in a daily chore.
By the time darkness fell, all that was visible was the orange scatter plot of distant bonfires that accompanied the scent of burning firewood coming through the windows. By then, the Ghanaian songs’ innumerable replays had turned into a mantra, and the drive had become a vague multisensory experience of getting deeper and deeper into some unknown world. My only connection to the here and now was the basic but overwhelming need to relieve myself, which we had postponed in order to reach our destination before curfew.
“Plenty of bush for the business when we reach...”
By the time I was about to succumb to an embarrassing personal spillage moment, we suddenly turned off the main road into the creek-bed serving as a long driveway at the end of which a walled compound appeared with dim light bulbs demarcating the metallic doors. A dog barked on the other side, as the driver pulled the parking break, honked three times and opened the car door.
“Welcome to the compound in the nighttime
I was overjoyed to leave the SUV, step into the darkness around the wall and answer nature’s call at likely the exact coordinates of the middle of nowhere.