Wa, Wa, Wahnsinn

I was expecting the worst. I have come to expect the worst whenever I travel any long distance anywhere in Africa. You expect crammed buses, delays, pothols and the occasional preacher and of course you expect the unexpected. So you come with your own armour to shield you from the pain that is about to be inflicted on you: you come early, you come well rested and above all you come with lots of patience. So we did. We got up at 6am after a good night's sleep and made it to the bus stop in Kumasi by 7. We enquired about the bus to Wa, which happened to be right in front of us, an almost new 40 seat Chinese built Youtong bus. We bought the tickets for 15 cedi a piece and right at that moment the stars seemed perfectly aligned for our trip to Wa. The ticket salesman was smiling, I was smiling, Abena looked chirpy and even the bus seemed to be brimming with confidence as the sun appeared over the surrounding hills. What could possibly go wrong? Well, nothing really, and nothing did go wrong, but then nothing really happened either. At first we just sat on the wooden bench at the bus stop and watched the world go by. There was plenty to keep us entertained. The barber without a barber shop, the market ladies carrying their produce on their heads, the kids running by, lorries being overloaded, goods being traded. After a while we converted the wooden bench into a bed and had a nap in the morning sun. By the time we awoke from our slumber it must have been around 10am. Our bellies were empty, so Abena went out to hunt for some food. She came back with fried rice and a hot milo drink both packaged in cheap black plastic bags. Rested and fed we were in surprisingly good spirits considering we had not moved any closer to Wa in three hours. At this point a little trotro bus pulled up right in front of our bus. The driver got out, rolled out an electric extension chord, plugged it into the power socket and connected the other end to a little megaphone which he mounted on top of his vehicle. Then he pressed the on button.
From that point onwards the megaphone was the bain of my existance: 'Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Hamale, Obama' on automatic repeat for the remainder of our stay in Kumasi, though even after hours of being tormented by the same repetitive message from the megaphone I could not figure out what Obama had to do with it. To our dismay, but in strict accordance with Ghanaian tradition any device capable of making noise is to be operated at full volume: 'Wa Wa Wa Wa Wa... Hamale Obama'. It was an incessant assault on our eardrums and quickly depleted any good will we had at the start of the day. With our patience exhausted, it was time to take action. Our first inclination was to find out when this miracle of Chinese engineering would finally get moving so we got off the bus to talk to the ticket salesman. In the absence of timetables the ticket salesman is the best proxy to determine an approximate departure time. The logic being that the bus goes whenever the last seat has been sold, or more accurately, whenever the last square inch of spare capacity has been filled, for even a full bus may have some space left for a little chicken. The only problem was that the ticket salesman had long since left the scene, a rather ominous sign. So we tried to find someone else who might be able to shed some light on our approximate departure time. The only person who could help, or so we thought, was the guy who appeared to be the driver. He told us that we would be departing soon and that we should wait 'small small'. I told him that we had already been waiting 'big big', five hours to be precise, and that the only thing 'small small' was my confidence in this bus departing at all. After a little more to and fro we started threatening to pull out of the arrangement altogether and demanded our money back. A rather futile excercise in any situation in Africa, for once you have handed money over you will never see it again, and this situation was to be no exception. Despite the initial transaction being rather straight forward, everything becomes murky after you hand over the cash. What appeared to be the official bus company ticket salesman is in fact a mere intermediary who takes his commission before he pays some lesser amount to his brother in law, who in turn pays some money to the guy who specialises in cleverly stacking luggage inside, on top and around anyone on the bus. The remainder, or rather the rest of what is left after he takes his cut, goes to the driver, the owner and any other relative involved in the operation. So who precisely you have formed a contractual relationship with remains a mystery, especially because many a middleman has left the scene long before confidence in the operation leaves you. So with your tail between your legs and your hopes of finding a favourable resolution shattered, you get back on the bus swearing to never make the same mistake again, though what exectly you did wrong is hard to figure out. So what to do? Well you do like any African would, you take your seat and you wait 'small small'.
By this time the CD sales woman has assembled her gear. Her pumping African beats competing with my 'Wa Wa Hamale' friend, though, unfortunately the two don't cancel each other out, nor do they in any way form a melodeous ensemble. To add to the general ambience the afternoon sun comes glaring down on me after I so cleverly selected the shady side of the bus for the morning bus ride. Sweat starts running down my spine and the trip provisions, including our two bottles of water are starting to run dry. After another three agonising hours waiting on the bus there appears to be a sudden frenzy of activity as people start piling onto the bus, either to occupy the last remaining seats or to sell snacks, beverages and other trinkets to the passengers on the bus. Then finally, in a sure sign of imminent departure a preacher pushes his way to the front of the vehicle and delivers his sermon to a surprisingly captive audience. At the end of his sermon he advertises his potions to fight the many evils he so diligently listed during his sermon: Infertility, hemorrhoids, malaria, even the devil himself. To my disbelief his products sell like hotcakes, so much so that I am tempted to try some myself. Then, at 3:30pm, after more than eight hours waiting on a stationary bus, the beast finally starts moving. Though in a final agonising twist we pull up at the first service station to fill up petrol and tweak the engine, before we commence our seven hour journey to Wa. A trip that was sold to us as a three to four hour bus ride. Exhausted, hungry and tormented by a three hour Nigerian movie we arrive in Wa at the end of one of the worst days of my life.