I don’t care what anyone says, travel is not glamorous. Destinations may be, and certain legs of the journey can be, depending on the mode of transportation and the views. But travel itself involves queues, cramped spaces, and long hours of sitting. Travel demands humility, patience, resistance to heat and cold, and excellent bowel and bladder control.
The digital clock at the front of the bus reads 1:15am. It’s 7:15 according to my cell phone and we’re already leaving Tamale for Kumasi. Inching forward through the crowded yard, squeezing past vendors, chickens and taxis in the early morning light. The bus is full and it’s time to go. Obviously we’re on event time, not clock time.
We are elated – congratulating ourselves for arriving early and deciding not to wait for the V.I.P. or STC (State Transport Company) buses to fill with passengers. In Ghana, you buy your tickets as you board the bus and the buses sit until they are full. This morning we chose the first bus we came to, one nearly full and nearly ready to depart. We drew seats 24, 26, 27 and 53 which put Jeremy in the back.
I make a mental note: When the clock in the front of the bus reads 7:11, we should be in Kumasi. 1:00 our time. 711. One of our favorite numbers. The address of our first home together was 711 and thereafter the number continued to show up fortuitously. I’m thinking “This is a lucky day.” Although we had reservations to fly home and avoid the brutal 6-hour drive, the airport was still out of fuel (we were forced to drive up to Tamale a week ago) and so had no choice but board a bus.
We didn’t draw seats together but the man beside me, wearing a bright yellow shirt and a blue plastic rosary around his neck, offered to trade seats with Bob and we were able to sit together. It looks like we are the only white people on the bus.
This isn’t the air conditioned V.I.P bus but it’s the first bus to leave Tamale. The windows are open. People sit on unanchored plastic stools in the aisle. Our big blue duffle bag sits atop a motorcycle in the cargo compartment beside a stack of crisp goat skins.
A radio behind us plays a chanting song that reminds us of Muslim call to prayer. The man in the yellow tee shirt is reading the Catholic Edition of the Good News Bible. A woman a couple of seats forward barks into her cell phone. Amy looks serene. Jeremy sits with his ear bud in the wide back seat with six or seven Ghanaians. The sun rises steadily into the white sky. We pass the Asempa Lodge where we stayed our first night in Tamale and then we sit at the first police checkpoint for a while.
“Military Zone,” a stellar example of Nollywood cinema, begins to play at 1:48 bus time. The actors are already yelling and pushing each other around. Mercifully, the King Long Flatscreen above our heads refuses to show more than a series of flickering blue and yellow lines.
Originally published in Once Upon An Expat – An Anthology.
Discover more from Plastic Farm Animals
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
