Why Bikes Are Good Bargaining Chips (and Other Useless Information)

Since living in Ghana I've learned an awful lot about the ‘barika’ (or, the bargain); most importantly, I've learned that currency does not always come in the form of coins or bills.

In the village, I often held aloft small things – pencils, paper, chewing gum and other teeth-rotting concoctions, movie viewings, and temporary skull tattoos (lovingly referred to as ‘la stamp-la’) – as payment for chores and services rendered (because as Ghanaian as I think I am, I couldn't fetch an entire drum of water if I wanted to). Among the best of things I had to offer, however, was my bike. And my bike was a hot commodity.

On average, even with a flat, bikes have two more wheels than most humans. What this meant – in midday heat – was the difference between ‘footing’ one’s way from shady tree to shady tree (which are sparse, at best) and rolling swiftly by all those suckers with their pathetic walking feet. It also carried with it the Flintstones equivalent of a drop-top: beautiful man-powered wind. What might take forty minutes to walk one-way was now fifteen at most and this, my friends, left a lot of time for socializing – the biggest benefit of them all.

In addition to the obvious advantage of two hollow, inflated circular tubes, a bike has a basket. Some bikes even have a basket AND a platform above the rear wheel – like mine. These come in handy when hauling heavy things like packages or a week’s worth of groceries; water is easily hauled from borehole to door, children can be hauled from home to school (riding on the back rack, legs splayed and looking surprisingly comfortable, though I tried it and it wasn't), and usually means that walking with such things on one’s head (or shoulders, or kicking and screaming at the end of an outstretched arm) is unnecessary. Last time I checked, humans have neither baskets nor built-in butt racks so, clearly, the owner of a bike is at an advantage. All of the time.

Bikes happen to have bells which, while much more adorable when rung by well-dressed old men, happen to make everyone who use them polite and endearing ( ... just try to squeeze past someone without ringing a bell and your charm is instantly lost, you dangerous vagabond, you). Bikes can be used to lean against in the midday sun, sat on in the absence of a chair, and is rather effective at parting crowds in times of need and desperation (though a white person on a bike will part crowds whether it’s necessary or not).

Conveniently, after the initial purchase, bikes are free. In the village this is the difference between waiting every three days (and paying a fare) to leave town or traveling wherever and whenever one pleases. When one has free, two-wheeled transportation at the ready, everything becomes that much simpler – which makes it so sought after to begin with. Especially in a poor farming village.

Of course, people don’t get things like flat tires – which makes having two feet rather convenient when a tube happened to pop – and I'm not personally equipped with a chain in danger of rusting or jumping the tracks - which are both things that happened whenever I loaned out my bike - but the fact that medicine and food and meetings were a simple ride away made my rusted, beat up little guy a resource to be collected frequently.

Thinking back, I probably could have gone all ‘Jaffar’  on my household, jealously coveting its power and convenience, but a bike is meant to be used and if it wasn't always going to be used by me, it might as well have been a village bike [insert ‘yo mama’ joke here]. Until people adapt to grow wheels in their heels like some kind of twisted, awesome opposable thumb, just remember: never underestimate the things you take for granted - turns out bikes are excellent bargaining chips.

xx

Some Things Never Change

I know I’ve been talking up my new digs like it’s nobody’s business, but I thought I’d revisit a few things that haven’t changed in the name of nostalgia (you know, for those tiny moments that make me realize I’m still in Africa):

   

1    1. My roommates:

Nothing says you’re in Africa quite like the mummified carcass of a lizard *falling out of the closet and smacking you in the face*

2. Lights Out!

I know I live by the ocean and I know a lot of power in Ghana is water powered, but thinking that I get steady, reliable electricity because I live near a steady, reliable source of water would be foolish. The only thing that connects our frequent power hiccups and the ocean are the pirates who stole our oil on its way from Nigeria.

3. Oh, is that the ocean?

It’s torturous, really. I work on the harbor, I pass the ocean on my way to work and I have this beautiful plumbing system with all of these taps attached to it and yet … I still store water in giant drums, I still bathe from a bucket most days and my office – on the second floor  – still pays a man to fetch water and haul it. I’m starting to realize that this is just how things are.

4. Teenage Mutant Ninja … yeah, I’m not going down there, dude.

You know that moment when you walk out of your apartment, holding a flask of piping hot coffee, and walk right into a wall of odor that stops you in your tracks? You don’t have an open sewer right outside your gate? My bad … I thought that was a problem for everyone.

5. Goat or baby?

I cannot tell you how excited I was to hear a goat behind my house the other day! I live in a city, which makes my favorite game ‘goat or baby?’ really hard to play. Plus, baby goats are hilarious and I found one.

6. Oh my God, I LOVE your shoes!

Now that I have an office job, it’s tempting to wear high heels everywhere I go. Except that high heels are pretty inconvenient when the sidewalks are busted. And I don’t mean a few cracks here and there, I mean an open sewer drain covered by a plank of wood; I mean sidewalks that lean to one side; I mean hazards that could cost me an ankle, if not my life.

Okay … so maybe that last bit was an exaggeration (I would never twist my ankle in high heels – I’m a pro), but I mean it when I say it’s a jungle out there – a heel-unfriendly jungle that will probably make me look ridiculous in the near future (because let's be honest - I’m not going stop wearing high heels).

7. I know I look like I just showered, but you’d be mistaken; that was hours ago …

There’s nothing like looking your best walking out the door and showing up to work looking like someone tried (and failed miserably) to baptize on your way there: mascara running down my cheeks, tendrils of hair sticking limply to my forehead, a shirt that looks like some kind of ink blot test (maybe it’s a bird, maybe it’s Lionel Richie, but it's definitely not normal) …

You know what? I’m sure it’s fine. I’m sure I look really impressive; you’re right.

8. Hallelujah!

If you ever visit me, you may start to wonder what that sound is from 6-9pm every day. That, my friends, is salvation. Friday through Sunday are all-day extravaganzas – a cacophony for Jesus. I may have gotten a nice apartment complete with guards and no neighbors, but I also have three churches surrounding me … and they have generators.

There’s no lights-out for Jesus.

xx 

Think Like a Man

[A reflection on 'If Beale Street Could Talk' by James Baldwin]

I wonder what it's like to be a father, not just a father, but a father to a daughter. Women are born mothers, we embrace the world and long to soothe it of its woes; men are born with its weight, resting there, on their shoulders. Struggle as we might to adopt that weight women can never truly carry it alone, and man could never survive without a woman. She is always the pillar and never the roof.

I wonder how this changes their minds, turns them away from us; I wonder what it's like to love as a man, to fear as a man; to know that, in addition to loving someone, you must also protect her and support her and in doing so accept that you might hurt her - even as you love her deep into your organs and the crevices in-between. It must be a painful, terrifying kind of love; seeing the carnage of those before you and knowing they expect you to will fix it, not make it worse.

I imagine what its like to experience that, to hope vehemently against it when it becomes my own daughter; knowing all of the things I did in youth and stupidity, seeing all the damage I created, and knowing I have the potential to do worse, still, even as she stares at me with those big, innocent eyes.

And you always end up doing worse - out of fear, mostly - and all you can do is hope to God she'll be strong enough to grow past it all and forgive you for being so goddamn scared.

You love her, of course; you love her so much it hurts to breathe, to blink, to live and watch her move about the world. You pray for the day she finds someone who loves her a fraction of the amount you do, because you'll have to trust him to take care of her; to make her believe. You just want to be able to feel that relief, knowing that she'll be happy and safe and all the other things you ever wanted for her. You could never give her away otherwise, this tiny little thing that managed to change everything - everything you thought about women, everything you thought about everything.

If you'd had a boy, your view of the world would have stayed exactly the same, but thank God, because you realize now that James Brown was right -  you just had to hold her; just had to know you would do anything to make her world spin. And you realize you don't want her to be like those other girls, the broken ones you've met along the way. And it's this awesome responsibility - greater than the stars in the universe, greater than the universe itself; and while you're proud, always proud, goddamn if you aren't scared shitless.

I know what it's like to be a woman, what it means to love as a woman, but sometime's I wonder what it's like to love, to fear, to feel, like a man.

Tell me your secrets.
xx

My Last Day: In-love

Well, I did it: two years.

I didn't realize until Lauren mentioned it; I kept thinking of the continuation, of the next step, forgetting completely what I'd accomplished - the fulfillment of two years. What an awesome thing to suddenly realize; what a wonderful thing to celebrate! And then, there I was ... eating my last meal with Mary, spending my last morning at Travelers Inn, and leaving the Upper East as a resident for the last time. Just like that; two years.

I feel like I'll live in Africa for the rest of my life; I'll always be in the Peace Corps and I'll always be an O'broni. It's written forever in my sky - the people I met, the things I did, the simple fact that I was here. I can't name all of the things I learned about myself, but I do know that I fell in-love here; with life and potential and, dare I say, myself.

Any love is a good thing, an amazing thing, but the kind of love I found in Africa is different; it's hard to explain. It's a love of complete vulnerability - the honest kind; the kind of love that looks like a halo; the kind of love that feels like a furnace; the kind of love that's contagious because there's just too much of it.

I've never known a light like this - directed not only at the world around me, but inward as well. It's close kin with gratefulness, it finds inspiration in adventure and calls empathy a friend. It paints the world in dazzling frescoes, makes music of the simple things and the poetry - oh, the poetry ... I walk taller; I smile wider; I laugh all the time. I'm so happy that I can't explain it and the only thing I could do to express myself was to apply for an extension.

Maybe my insecurities will come back sometimes, maybe they'll always exist because I gave birth to them, but most days they grow quiet and I can finally think. I don't pretend to know anything about the world - three years here and I will still be its student. I can venture only to say that now I know myself. I love deeply and endlessly, unapologetically. I have finally accepted a lot of things, learned to be calm about them, learned to let go and let my heart breathe a little.

I know more about the atrocities of life - things I should never accept because the world is worth so much more. I learned when to find balance, when to pick my battles; that tugging on the rope around someone's neck - the shackles on their wrists - will sometimes make them cling tighter, struggle against you harder. I learned what it means to invest in people, to protect and nourish something as precious as their potential.

My heart must have grown three sizes, my tear ducts have sprung a permanent leak. I got lucky; I realized I'm not hot shit. I fell over, but I found people who helped me get back up - some of them complete strangers, some of them close friends. I've experienced a lifetime - a separate life, completely - that seems more real to me than the one I'd already led. I wouldn't say I'm different, but I'm changed. Everything is still in order - I've been the same person since the day I was born (just ask my mother) - but my perspective is new, and the distance between lives impassable.

I love people in a way I never loved them before; I've forgiven people, taken the time to understand and let go. Having so much free time managed to do that - allowed me to think, threw everything into sharp relief; a photograph made of words and actions and emotions scratched into the surface. Ugly things were there. And I had to be honest with myself about the fact that some of them belonged to me.

I think that's what's made the most difference - taking responsibility for my part in my life. I stripped myself of pity and talismans and began to define myself anew. I reinvented myself, not to run away, but simply because it was time. Meanwhile, I became an inspiration to others; I was emboldened, validated. And, once, I needed these things; I needed the Peace Corps. I don't anymore. My decision to stay is purely my own.

My third year is what I want; the first two were what I needed to kick me in the ass (and show me some sugar). I mention love so much because it changes everything. I don't think many people take the time to appreciate themselves or their place in life. It's one thing to love and appreciate the life one leads, the luck one encounters; but to love one's place in that life is rare. And important. And it's something I finally found here, finally allowed myself, and for that reason I will never truly leave this place.

Nor do I ever want to.
xx

Where I Sleep

I'm writing this blog on my 26th birthday (by my count, which is probably off by at least six time zones, I am 6 minutes into my twenty-seventh year). Of these twenty-six years, I can honestly say that the last two and a half have been the most important.

In the six weeks I was home, I heard one thing more than anything else: I'm different. Whereas before I wasn't aware of the changes occurring within and around me, growing older has allowed me a closer seat to retrospection. Of course I can't observe these things as they happen, but now I am aware ... which is definitely new.

Looking back, I've always enjoyed life, but today I can say I understand much more of it; this is something I could not have said at 23. I think a lot of my growth came from the acceptance that I am always a student, even in my work with the Peace Corps - I have learned so much more from this experience than I could ever hope to teach - and understanding this has made my job much easier; it's also made the world more enjoyable.

I will never be perfect (audible gasp), but no one is. While this used to be an earth-shattering possibility, I realized that giving myself (and everyone else) the space to make mistakes, sometimes fail, and almost always land right on my face, was the key to my success. I had more fun and learned a valuable lesson in the fact that the world was still standing when I picked myself up. Looking around me I can see that true beauty doesn't lie in perfection; my most exciting adventures, my most memorable moments, were born out of the unexpected.

Maybe it came from a willingness to put myself out there, trusting that everything would work out even when it didn't; I found that having such an extreme lack of control created a sense of reckless abandonment I completely embraced. And though it may seem backwards, letting go of that control seemed to garner me more of it (unless of course I noticed, after which I would almost always be forcefully thrown from my high horse).

After all of this, more than anything else, I've found that I'm happy. Even as I say this, I will admit that it wasn't always easy; this has not been a smooth journey, but my happy eyes tend to forget the struggle they sometime see. Honestly, I think it's the risks that have made me happy - the blind chase after my dreams - because in them, even in failure, I find fulfillment. Yes, I miss my friends and family; yes, I miss the amenities that make America so wonderful, but I'm proud of my work. This alone fills up all of my empty spaces and makes time pass so quickly that endings still sneak up on me.

At twenty-six I'm proud of myself in a genuine, healthy way; I'm motivated even in moments of doubt; more importantly, I'm self-assured. All of these things, if nothing else, make three and a half years absolutely worth it.

As I start a new year, I start a new job; I'm in a new city and a brand new house; I'm even thinking of getting new babies (read: kittens). Call me crazy, but (be it the size of my new house, the job I both sought and was fortunate enough to get, or the general proximity of a pretty awesome beach) I think it's gonna be one hell of a good year.

Wish me luck!
xx

A Day in the Life of Me: A Satire

I am about to perform a miraculous feat; you are about to witness a 'Cultural Transplant.'

Much more difficult than, say, a heart transplant, this procedure requires you to suspend everything you know about reality and allow me to rewrite your world - my life here, exactly as it plays out, in America. Brace yourselves for a journey; it will be absurd (it's a satire, after all), but don't make the mistake of thinking that all of it is an exaggeration ...

6:00am, Saturday morning:


"WAKEY, WAKEY DAH-LIN!"

You've just woken up, not to an alarm, but to a gaggle of squawking Guinea Fowl perched in the tree outside your window. Stretching, you imagine all of the wonderful ways you could eat them for dinner and they, having accomplished the act of serenading you, move on to other, unsuspecting sleepers. Padding to the bathroom, you fill the tank behind your toilet from a water barrel against the wall and dry brush your teeth.

Within a few minutes of walking into the kitchen - sleep lines and blanket creases etching the side of your face, hair orbiting your head like Rodney King and Conan O'Brien had a love-child - there is a knock at the front door. It is insistant. You rush to wrap a two-yard of fabric around your bare legs and answer in a puff of activity ... to find your sweet, elderly neighbor from two floors below. He just wants to greet you before he leaves to farm his small plot behind the building. Looking in, he invites himself to your breakfast, reminding you that he is your father, after all, before realizing it's something he doesn't like. He recovers by asking for various items visible to him in your open cupboard, but, being in a rush, he informs you he'll come back later. You're pantry is safe for now.

In the time this exchange has taken place, several people have passed in the hall and have stopped to politely greet you; one drags a very uncooperative goat behind him with a rope. You assume the goat is screaming his greetings, as well, as you shut the door and return to your breakfast. It's 6:15am - you will have this exchange at least two more times before you finish your first cup of coffee (strained with the only clean pair of socks you own). Delicious.

After bathing from a bucket placed *just so* in the bath tub and getting dressed in a mirror you are convinced was made for the Fun House, you decide it's time to head to the grocery store. It's Market Day. (Though you can get some things every day, the actual grocery store is only open and fully stocked every three days.) You grab a reusable bag (you consciencious citizen, you) and head out the door.

Walking down to and now along the street, you greet everyone you see. If you happen to miss someone, they call you back, and all of them inquire as to where you're going; many of them will ask, half-jokingly, what you plan to bring back for them. Bread is the safest response. Keep in mind, while you're promising an entire bakery to your neighborhood, that most of these people are complete strangers. Also keep in mind that none of this phases you.

You are walking to the bus stop because you don't have a car. In fact, many of the people in your neighborhood don't; when you finally reach your destination it's crowded. The bus fare is pretty in-expensive, but on the whole the bus is unreliable, at best. As more and more people arrive, the feeling of ease and laughter amongst friends is on the decline - potential seat rivals mill around, eye-balling each other with increasing malice. Some people walk farther down the road in order to catch the bus before it arrives and even you find yourself searching for weaknesses in the crowd. An old man stands next to you, shaking three well-fed chickens in your general direction, attempting to sell them to you as he waggles his eyebrows up and down. The chickens are not amused.

Roughly forty minutes after you arrive, you see the lorry coming. (Yes, you call them lorries.) It's in bad shape, but it appears to be moving and that's what matters ... well ... moving after a fashion ... once it rattles to a stop several men hop down from the roof to off-load goods. People fight their way off as others attempt to fill the empty seats; you manage to squeeze on and take the closest seat available (but are not immune to a pair of elbows poised for victory over the seat behind you). For a moment it's chaos. Two minutes later there's no room to spare (and you swear you saw a woman crawling through the window), but the mayhem has dissipated and for some reason there's a baby on your lap. You stare at each other suspiciously.

The bus pulls out slowly and you hope it won't take too long to travel what ends up being roughly 8 miles (the way the roads are organized, you couldn't walk it in less than two hours). Another forty minutes and numerous short stops later, you arrive - the parking lot is loud, crowded with buses heading in every direction; stalls of goods perch here and there, grey hounds call out destinations and animals roam around; people peddle wares from the trunks of their cars. Entering the store you are 'greeted' with disdainful stares and silence ... customer service needs a little work in this neck of the woods ...

To the right is the butcher's area - animals are fresh and you can watch your meat prepared, pig-to-pork-chop, if you'd like. You don't. You start to wander the aisles and before long you realize that they all display the same basic items, varying in price. Several people stand in the aisles, having bought all of one item, and attempt to sell them to you at prices high and low. You find several items this way and manage to save quite a few pennies: it is a small victory.

Clothing is strewn in piles on the lenoluem floor. You sift for a few minutes until you see something you like that's ... that's ... way too small. (There's only one of each item and only some will be your size - you continue to sift.) Everyone around you barters for better prices, several items are stained or ripped; if you need to try something on it's done in public. A couple of women fight over a shirt and you give up, sulking away empty handed. Next time, perhaps?

At the check-out there is no line, there's a crowd. Everyone simply waits for an opening (or a distraction) and slinks right in. The cashier is disinterested and gives an entire range of prices on similar items being bought by different people; you barter until you can both be satisfied, but when you hand her the money you find she has no change. She proceeds to leave completely and spends the next five minutes asking all the other tellers to break your bill. When she returns she lets you bag your own items, but gives strong critiques on your form, before you are moved away by the growing crowd. You almost forget your change in the process, but a smiling child chases you to the door to hands it to you.

People offer to carry your things, strangers in every direction greet you, and peddlars try to sell you anything you could dream of. (Was that a full magician's set he pulled out of his bag?) A motorcycle wobbles past you from inside the store - BEEP - as you dodge in the direction of the 'spot' (read: bar) your co-workers are waiting at. Four taxis honk at you in the span of twenty yards, each yelling a different location in an attempt to guess your destination, and a very naked homeless man watches you walk past as you try to ignore his nakedness.

Fifteen minutes of catching-up goes by before you realize no one's approached to take your orders. You volunteer to order inside and walk in to find an empty bar; the bartender promptly ignores you for two more minutes until staring at you silently (apparently this means he's ready). "Um ... two Buds, one Coors Light, and a Coke, please." (No, micro-brews do not exist - I told you this was harder than a heart transplant.) "No Bud, the Coors Light is warm and I only have Sprite." "Okay ... what's cold?" "PBR and Guinness." "Okay, so ... two PBRs, one warm Coors Light, I guess ... and a Sprite?" (At least the beers are giant, you think.) The beers take five more minutes to come and he leaves without opening them, preferring, instead, to put on a football match (which he turns up to 11).

After a second round (three cool Coors Lights - he put them on ice because you drank the last PBR - and a Fanta that miraculously appeared as you watched a shipment of Coke get stocked), you decide to go your separate ways. Your beer costs $2.30 (which is $2.00 more than it cost to buy lunch from that stand on the road - a meal too big for you to finish). Your priorities seem skewed.

The ride home is much easier now that its midday; even waiting for the seats to fill, you're still home within the hour (and you didn't have take an elbow to the face, either - VICTORY). As you walk from the stop, several kids you know run to help carry your things and many people, fetching water from a well and hand-washing their laundrey, greet you as you pass. A few of your neighbors complain that you didn't inform them where you were going, but laugh it off as they invite themselves to dinner. All of the doors you pass are open and you lean in to greet the neighbors you can see; many invite you to dinner, but you politely decline knowing they do so in earnest. At your door the children drop your things and wander off as you settle yourself to watch your favorite show.

LIGHTS OUT.

Luckily you have a gas stove; you start to prepare dinner, eyeing the fridge and idly wishing for electricity some time soon. A girl comes to your door to ask repeatedly for different things - she looks around your apartment for inspiration; some of her requests are pretty entertaining (the bottle of vegetable oil, the bookshelf against the wall, a lightbulb still in its socket) and when she gets bored she leaves. This happens no less than five times and the same sheep bleats into your apartment every other time you open your door, staring at you as if he expects answers. NOW. You avoid eye contact.

You know the lights are back when you hear a stereo thumping somewhere beneath you; it competes with several television sets for dominance. You shrug and pop your Ipod on, as the situation is clearly unavoidable. Your attempt a little later to make a simple phone call wastes at least three minutes searching for service in the building - you find it wedged in a corner and make your call from the floor. On speaker phone. You work out, check your very slow internet, and greet every neighbor on your floor before retiring to bed. Drifting off to sleep, you note a few loud exchanges below your window and the sound of thunder (which might actually also be motorcycle engines) and wonder if, perhaps, you should hand-wash your laundry tomorrow ... if those damn Guinea Fowl would let you sleep in for onc ... must fetch ... magicians ... the sheep are angry, angry magicians ... *snores*

xx

2 Wheels, 4 Wheels, No Wheels; Push!

When I was in training I wrote a blog about travel in Ghana. While everything I said still stands, I am convinced it's taken two full years of experience to understand what it means to 'Travel Ghana.' The difference? I'm no longer surprised. By anything. More importantly, I accept Ghana's transportation system for what it is and while we still have our disagreements, we finally have a stable relationship.

Before I continue, there are a few ground rules to consider:

1. If you are picky about seating, this will be a very painful experience.
2. Load up the Nook, charge your Ipod or make sure you're really well-versed in 'Sleep Mode.'
3. Go ahead and let your dignity slide for a day or two.

Of course, these only apply if you prefer to take public transportation. For all of you fancy VIP bus types, not only does this blog not pertain to you - you can go fly a kite. Good luck finding a kite ...

The first thing you should know defies all logic: In a country the size of Oregon, to travel from one end to the other takes at least EIGHTEEN HOURS. Yes, I'm yelling.

As you can probably guess, the roads are preposterous and most of the vehicles belong somewhere in the seventies. Many of them still have their original parts. The fact that they're still on the road is pure ingenuity - sometimes the only thing separating you and your feet from the moving pavement below will be a piece of metal welded to the edges of a gaping hole; sometimes you will look up and realize that the door you've been leaning against for two hours owes its existence to a piece of string tethered to the frame. Africa is the place seat belts, windshields and seat cushions come to die. If your Ipod can drown out the diesel engine abusing what's left of the vehicle around you, you're one step ahead of the game.

At least once you will fill an entire bus, only to find every person in the back avoided sitting in that crappy middle seat. You can't fool the bus driver - his eyes will not sweep over, and dismiss entirely, the missing fare that seat represents. He will sell that final ticket and one of two situations will unfold: everyone in between that person and the seat will file off the bus and back onto it or they will proceed to climb over everyone pretending not to notice that they created this problem. Someone's rear end will probably end up in your face, which leads me to my next point: bodily functions are tricky.

Stick a sick volunteer into a structurally-unstable hot box with shocks like ninety-four year old knees and you will test the strength of everyone involved. There are only so many drugs you can pump into someone before you have to throw up your hands and leave the next five hours to divinity. Just know that every pit stop you make will empty at least half of the car (requiring a human game of tetris to re-organize) and that, despite the number of pit stops you will probably make, someone will request to stop the car five minutes away from your final destination. Stay strong.

I'm sure it's fairly obvious that bad roads and broken vehicles are a bad combination; getting into a vehicle in Africa comes with the guarantee of one free viewing of your life flashing before your eyes. What you may not be prepared for is the risk of bodily harm from other passengers. I'm not saying Ghanians are violent, unfriendly travel companions, but when it's a Sunday and cars are scarce, that sweet old lady and her giant purse will maul your face if it's between you and the last seat in a car. It doesn't matter if you've been talking to her for forty minutes about her grandchildren - you're in Africa now and Grandma's about to teach you a lesson in natural selection.

At least one preacher will try to save you, at least one tire will pop, and at least one engine will over-heat. You will fully appreciate air conditioning, finally figure out how to travel light and the goat strapped to the roof will receive little more than a glance from you when it slips off the edge and is boosted back up by the passenger nearest the window. Travel in Ghana will try your patience, but it will also teach you what you can and cannot possibly hope to control. You will find that it's easier to  adopt Africa Time, that you're not above a plastic stool in the aisle and that the most important thing is getting there eventually.

If you can handle this, you can handle anything. And, just maybe, your fondest memories might involve watching that beautiful landscape slip past you because, really, you learned the most about Ghana when you traveled it.

xx