My Day - Part 2

“Thirdsev, thirdsev, thirdsev, thirdsev, third-sev.” “Excuse me, is this the trotro to thirty seven military hospital?” “Thirdsev, thirdsev, thirdsev, thirdsev, third-sev” he repeats as if he had just answered my question. I keep staring at him with a puzzled look on my face. He points inside the trotro. Hesitating briefly as I'm still waiting for an answer, I follow his instructions and step inside. “Obroni!” somebody cries out excitedly as they see a white man crawling into the vehicle. I see a few kids giggling in the back waving their hands at me. Despite its limited size there are nearly twenty people crammed inside this trotro, a vehicle slightly larger in size than a VW combi. Realising that there is no space left I turn around to exit the vehicle when somebody suddenly folds out another seat and gets me to sit down. Here I am, the last sardine in the trotro can. The mate knocks on the outside of the vehicle, folds out yet another chair, sits down and slams the door shut in one singular, well rehearsed motion. The driver puts in the first gear, the engine howls and the trotro jolts into action. The black smoke billowing out of the exhaust pipe envelopes the cars behind in a veil of black. I'm still not sure where this trotro is headed but decide to stay calm, lean back and relax. Unfortunately I'm already off balance when I realise that my seat has no back rest. The lady behind me is a little more attentive and pushes me back onto my seat. A little embarrassed I turn my head to thank her. She points me to the front where the mate is now standing semi upright with a bunch of notes and coins in his hand and his head squashed against the roof to keep his balance. He's collecting money and points at me as I'm trying to recapture my composure. I pass a note to the passenger in front of me and my money floats towards the mate like a rock star crowd-surfing at a concert. A few seconds later my change floats back towards me over everyones' head. I do not know how the mate figured out the exact amount of my fare without knowing my destination, but since he only charged me 40 peswas there is no need to argue. The trotro is slowly approaching full speed and we're cruising along on the way to my work. With little else to do I start looking around the cabin marveling at the décor inside. The driver is either a big Chelsea fan, as there are at least three stickers plastered across the windscreen or trying to prevent the crack in the window from widening. A fourth sticker for the local football team as well as the Ghanaian flag and some faded registration sticker seem to have been carefully placed to mend the crack. For good measure a cross is dangling from the rear view mirror, hoping the Lord will do his bit to prevent major investments for overdue repairs. There is no shortage of slogans on the vehicle that highlight the importance of faith over good grammar: 'God time is best', 'No sweat, no sweet', 'Blessed you enterprise', etc. All of a sudden my heart jumps as we seem to be suspended in mid air. I look out the window and see that the tarred road has come to an end, drops off abruptly and the highway we were on turns into a dirt road. For a second I feel like being on a plane that missed the runway, when the vehicle crashes back to the ground with a loud thud, then bounces back into the air after hitting a bump before gravity pulls it back into the next pothole. Everyone on the trotro is shaken wildly up and down, left and right in synchronised movements reminiscent of crash test dummies in super slow motion. The driver hangs suspended between his seat and the gear lever but he manages to keep one hand on the steering wheel and skilfully navigates the trotro around the next potholes lined up on the road in front of us. After a few seconds of inaction my heart starts pumping again and my brain signals that I'm sitting more on, than next to my fellow passenger. I move back onto my seat, while everyone else is busy fixing their hair or recovering their possessions. A few moments later everything seems to be back in order. The driver has regained control of himself and the vehicle and now sits back in his chair as proud and upright as the king on his stool. “Maaaet! Baaastop.” somebody shouts from the back. “Baaastop”, the mate relays the message from the back to the driver. The driver breaks and pulls over at the bus stop. How on earth is the guy in the back going to get out of this vehicle, I think to myself. The mate slides the door open and jumps out of the car. Then the guy in front of me leaves the vehicle and folds his chair back up to make way for me. The lady behind me gives me a nudge to indicate that I need to move. In clear breach of trotro etiquette, I forget to fold up my chair as I exit the vehicle, which gets the lady behind me grumbling. She reluctantly folds the chair up for me and exits the vehicle. This procession continues until the guy in the back finds a passage to squeeze out past the remaining passengers. After he has managed to disembark the process starts in reverse, except everyone moves one place further to the back leaving the old guy at the front with an empty seat next to him, space he happily claims for himself. Eager to fill the spare capacity the mate starts shouting again: “Thirdsev, thirdsev, thirdsev, thirdsev” and sure enough he finds another passenger willing to join in the fun. The door re-opens and to the horror of the old guy at the front, an elephant of a woman steps inside. As she swings her behind around her massive boobs nearly knock the guy out, before she comes crashing down on the bench accompanied by a crushing noise that makes me shudder. I'm hoping it's the bench and not the old guys thigh that just cracked. To the mate's delight the vehicle is again filled to capacity and the trotro is back on the road. I'm watching the scenery outside when the driver abruptly stops the vehicle on the side of the road. Without uttering a word he jumps out of the vehicle, unbuttons his pants and in clear sight of everyone on and off the vehicle he has a good old wee. People break out in laughter and there is a big cheer as he re-enters the vehicle and resumes his day job. Moments later the trotro is flying along the road again and I continue inspecting the inside of the vehicle. There is rust everywhere. Panels with holes welded onto older panels with more holes, often three layers thick. The benches are screwed onto the chassis with rusty screws that would barely sustain the strain of an emergency breaking action, but then there is a good chance the breaks would fail before the screws give way. Why fix anything if you can pray for good fortune, I think to myself and briefly contemplate saying some prayers myself. Another loud bang and a metallic screeching sound send my heart rate back up to 200. The door has disappeared! I turn around and sure enough the whole side panel is sliding along the road behind us. The driver pulls over and with the help of the mate the door is quickly collected and put back in place. Obviously not the first time this has happened and nothing short of a broken axle or lost tyre is going to stop these guys. Still on an adrenalin high and in hysterics I'm wondering how long this fix will last. The next pothole answers my question and convinces pilot and co-pilot that this problem requires a little more than duck tape to fix. Always ready for the unexpected they find another cunning solution. This time the door is placed on the roof of the trotro. After a quick inspection our two engineers are happy to resume the trip without even tying the door down. As we navigate around town I'm waiting for the door to fly off the top of the vehicle at any moment, but to my surprise the door remains in place, even on the last sharp bend as we turn into our destination, a large bus depot filled with hundreds of other fellow travellers and feeble trotros. Squeezing my way out of the trotro my knees feel like jelly and I wonder if Ghanaians have a special word for a white man that looks so pale he's practically transparent.