Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Accra, Ghana
The day of our arrival in Accra brought up a cycle of familiar emotions that I will forever associate with this city. I was instantly swept into a flux between happiness and bewilderment. It is part of what attracts me back to Africa. Even though this may seem to be a strange attraction, this constant volatility is an integral part of the magnetism of a place like Accra. I had notified a few friends of my return and Anselme, my old boss's brother, had offered to put us up in his house for our first week. I had been eagerly anticipating our arrival in Accra, since even before our departure from Gambia almost three months ago.
As we arrived on the outskirts and fought for hours through traffic that I suddenly remembered was characteristic of this bustling capital city, some of the high that I had been experiencing wore off. We struggled through one traffic circle, the Nkrumah Circle, for a good half an hour. Here, tro tros cut each other off in a fashion that stubbornly defies any logic. A logical driving strategy, like sharing the road to smooth the flow of traffic is irrelevant here; the circle is a space where testosterone has declared supremacy over rational thought and civility. As I was forced to utilize aggressive tactics to get through the circle, I let my mood be spoiled by the thought that this is a man's world. While I realize that not all men rule the world through testosterone, I will hypothesize that tro tro drivers as a group have excessive amounts of it.
We finally arrived at an outdoor spot (bar) that is a stone's throw from Anselme's. Calling him, he informs me that he will not be arriving for two hours. He tried to tell me this the day before, but the phone line cut. This is no problem, as we have a pressing need to unwind from the drive and are entertained by the Friday night scene unfolding in front of our sidewalk bar. The food stall next door conveniently serves the best fried chicken in town. Not one minute after ordering our staple of Castle Milk Stout, a representative of the company walks up and hands us all sorts of promotional items, like tee-shirts, bags, and hats sporting our favorite beer's logo. My high returns a little.
Anselme has a flat tire and will spend the night in his car along the Tema-Accra road, so when we knock on his door a few hours later, a priest from Benin answers the door and eyes us suspiciously. We sleep on the couch. We wake up to yam being pounded in the kitchen, along with a trail of Anselme's nieces and nephews from Benin that use the house as a meeting point. I feel confused.
Anselme arrives, exhausted but excited to see me. I am overjoyed with catching up.
The day of our arrival in Accra brought up a cycle of familiar emotions that I will forever associate with this city. I was instantly swept into a flux between happiness and bewilderment. It is part of what attracts me back to Africa. Even though this may seem to be a strange attraction, this constant volatility is an integral part of the magnetism of a place like Accra. I had notified a few friends of my return and Anselme, my old boss's brother, had offered to put us up in his house for our first week. I had been eagerly anticipating our arrival in Accra, since even before our departure from Gambia almost three months ago.
As we arrived on the outskirts and fought for hours through traffic that I suddenly remembered was characteristic of this bustling capital city, some of the high that I had been experiencing wore off. We struggled through one traffic circle, the Nkrumah Circle, for a good half an hour. Here, tro tros cut each other off in a fashion that stubbornly defies any logic. A logical driving strategy, like sharing the road to smooth the flow of traffic is irrelevant here; the circle is a space where testosterone has declared supremacy over rational thought and civility. As I was forced to utilize aggressive tactics to get through the circle, I let my mood be spoiled by the thought that this is a man's world. While I realize that not all men rule the world through testosterone, I will hypothesize that tro tro drivers as a group have excessive amounts of it.
We finally arrived at an outdoor spot (bar) that is a stone's throw from Anselme's. Calling him, he informs me that he will not be arriving for two hours. He tried to tell me this the day before, but the phone line cut. This is no problem, as we have a pressing need to unwind from the drive and are entertained by the Friday night scene unfolding in front of our sidewalk bar. The food stall next door conveniently serves the best fried chicken in town. Not one minute after ordering our staple of Castle Milk Stout, a representative of the company walks up and hands us all sorts of promotional items, like tee-shirts, bags, and hats sporting our favorite beer's logo. My high returns a little.
Anselme has a flat tire and will spend the night in his car along the Tema-Accra road, so when we knock on his door a few hours later, a priest from Benin answers the door and eyes us suspiciously. We sleep on the couch. We wake up to yam being pounded in the kitchen, along with a trail of Anselme's nieces and nephews from Benin that use the house as a meeting point. I feel confused.
Anselme arrives, exhausted but excited to see me. I am overjoyed with catching up.
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