God's Time Is Best; On The Road In Ghana
By Suzanne Geudeke

In its first life it probably delivered flowers throughout Holland, or washing machines in Germany. Then it got rejected, stolen, or was simply too old to work and got sent to Ghana to start a new life. Proudly displaying its new slogan, “God’s Time is Best” on its back window, it was now ready to serve out its golden years as a trotro.

I am patiently waiting for it to fill up. That is, I am trying to remain calm while I am sitting in the back of an incredibly hot and uncomfortable minibus. Legs folded in an unnatural position, my backpack on my lap, and sweat streaming down my face, I try to open the window, which is stuck; but with a bit of violence I manage to open it; and a stream of hot air enters the bus.

You never know how long it will take for a trotro to fill up. Sometimes it takes an hour, sometimes several; all I know is that the journey requires patience. The driver and his helper, the ‘mate’, try to rally up more passengers by shouting the destination.  They lure passengers into their trap by yelling “Last seat! Last seat!” It’s a lie that most people see through. Filling the trotro seems like an impossible task, as we are out in the middle of nowhere; but bit by bit people start entering the bus. Their bags are professionally tied to the roof; mine are up there somewhere too; and they squeeze their way inside.

At least 8 more people fit in the bus, which seems to defy the laws of physics.  All three rows of seats face forward, and a seat in the middle can be lifted up for people to enter or leave the last row. Everybody is talking, eating, or buying food from the vendors that approach the window selling water, ice and pineapple. A lady dressed in colorful garments smiles at me while chewing her food. Her teeth are coated with a brown sauce, but she does not seem to mind.

We are still not moving.

 A boy comes up to the window. “Give me something”, he says.

“Why?”

“So I can remember you when you leave. Give me a soccer ball.” His eyes light up at the idea.

“I don’t have a soccer ball.”

“Then give me money. You are my friend!” He smiles his biggest smile. I shake my head. He lingers a bit longer and then runs off laughing with his friends.

All of a sudden there is a rush of passengers. Bags are thrown on the roof; people push into the bus and literally have to climb over other passengers to get to an empty seat.  A tall man squeezes into the seat next to me; the ‘mate’ finds a place on the rooftop; and we set off. When I stick my head out of the window and look up, I can see him; big glasses, the kind you use in a laboratory, cover half his face. He smiles and waves at me.

The road we travel is unpaved with an incredible amount of potholes. It is only a couple of kilometers to the junction, but the trip will take around 2 hours. Fine red dust enters the window, which does not seem to close anymore, settles on my skin and mixes with the sweat. I put on my sunglasses to protect my eyes and hold on tightly to the seat in front of me as we bounce down the road.

We pass small villages with no electricity. Girls can be seen at every pump jumping up and down to get the water flowing. They balance big jerry cans full of water on their heads as they walk back to their huts.

Animals everywhere: dogs, goats, chickens, cats. The goats seem to have suicidal tendencies. They sleep in the middle of the road or suddenly decide to cross just when the trotro is about to pass. The driver honks ferociously, and this usually does the trick. The goats grudgingly get up and hobble to the side of the road.

The trotro is the only affordable means of transport between the villages, and every now and then we stop to let passengers in or out.   It is not the safest way to travel. There are old, wires hanging from the dashboard. The vehicles huff and puff, squealing in protest as the drivers try to rush to their destinations, but most of the time the trotros manage to arrive safely, or with minor damage. Once, I waited hours for a trotro to fill up, only to have it swerve into a roadblock within minutes of departing.  No serious harm was done, and we continued on as if nothing happened. However, not everyone is as lucky; pictures of trotro’s reduced to scrap metal can often be seen on the front page of the daily newspapers.  I do not want to imagine the fate of the passengers.

This is one of the reasons why the trotro is not always the preferred way to travel for ‘obruni’s (foreigners), many of which prefer the security of private 4x4’s to waiting for hours, getting dirty and putting their lives in the hands of a stranger.  However risky and at times frustrating, there is just something about the unique Ghanaian experience that I enjoy.

It looks like I have reached the junction. I scramble out of the trotro, stiff from sitting in the same position for 2 hours. The ‘mate’ throws my bag down from the roof; it is just as dusty as I am. I drink some water and wash my hands and face. Probably another 3 hours to my final destination, where a bucket shower and a bed await me. But then again, it could be 5. “God’s time is best”. The slogan crosses my mind as I raise my hand to flag down another trotro.

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