An Unbelievable Bus Ride, Part II – Event Time

9:15 – Two hours into our trip, they are playing Military Zone for the second time and the digital clock at the font of the bus has either fallen out or been removed leaving a branch of capped electrical wires, bobbing gently, waving at us. A gentle reminder that we are on event time.

Event time, according to The Geography of Time, differs from clock time in that events begin and end without regard to clock time. In event time a meeting, for example, begins when all participants arrive, sometimes not at all or even perhaps not on the same day as proposed. The event is over when everyone is satisfied or has lost interest. Countries with hot climates, low levels of industrialization and sluggish economies tend to run on event time. Clearly, Ghana satisfies all these parameters.

I put together a small zip-locked bag of dried fruit, almonds and a bar of chocolate for Jeremy. Bob asks the man behind us to pass it back. Jeremy becomes the envy of the back seat passengers. The baby next to Amy sits on her mother’s lap watching the trees float by.

9:45 – The bus sits on the side of the road. The driver has gotten out. We suspect bus trouble. Passengers are taking advantage of the stop to ‘let themselves free.’ We first heard this euphemism for relieving oneself two days ago from a man in the desolate Tamale airport parking lot as we sat in the shade of a tree after finding out the flights had been canceled. Weighing our options, we discussed the bus and I asked whether any of the buses had toilets. “No,” the man chuckled, “But all you have to do is tell the driver and he will stop the bus so you can set yourself free.” “And why wouldn’t he?” I laughed, “Better to stop the bus than have you set yourself free in the aisle.”

11:11 We’re moving again. The four of us also took advantage of the stop to set ourselves free and followed up with a picnic of chips, chocolate and peanuts. Trying to remember to eat with our unsoiled left hands while being careful not to let the Ghanaians see us eating with our ‘toilet hand.’

After a lifetime of wiping with our right, we are hard pressed to retrain our left hand for that purpose. In Ghana, they wipe with their left and conduct all person-to-person business (shaking hands, making change, accepting parcels) with their right. Since we generally toilet in private and have running water to wash our hands we use our right hand to toilet AND shake, but out here there is no water, we have no soap and are unwilling to waste any of our precious drinking water. So we masquerade as left-handed wipers.

During the past hour or so the driver cooled down the engine with water and replaced a belt. As we milled around the bus, we noticed the words “Still Believers” painted across the top of the windshield. At this point, we had no other option but to believe that the bus would run again.

After letting themselves free behind an un-roofed masonry block building, the women filed back toward the bus and seated themselves on the shaded asphalt . Most of the men stood in a tight group behind the bus, watching the driver work on the engine. Several others drifted out onto the Savannah and each had chosen a tree to sit in or lean against. A mother nursed her baby. A V.I.P bus rolled by on its way to Kumasi.

We picnicked under our own tree, keeping our eyes open for Fulani herdsmen. People who travel through this part of the country after dark are required to queue up for an armed escort. The Fulanis, cattle rich and cash poor, are notorious bandits. And they are armed. No one approached us from beyond the road. Bob wondered if we would end up sleeping in our tree.

A man in bright orange flip flops walked up the road towards us from another broken down bus to join the men and see what was going on. A truck pulled over onto the shoulder up ahead and some of the men ran up the road with empty gallon cans which they filled with water for cooling the engine.

The driver started the engine and closed the compartment. We got in line to re-board. We examined the decals on the front of the bus which included my very favorite “Rasta Baby.” No announcements were made by the driver regarding the stop or re-boarding. None was necessary.

Back on the bus, the broken clock’s wires wave at the passengers. The baby naps. Slow conversations murmur through the bus, The air blows through the open windows. Event time is made of timeless moments.

At a junction, the bus is engulfed in vendors. “Here wat aah!” “Here wat aah!” calls the woman behind me out her window. A young girl with a pan of sachets on her head hurries over. Cedies are handed through the windows for bananas, buns and roasted yam. The floor begins to look like a Chinese train. We move on, the bus smelling sweetly of roasted yam and fried buns.

Originally published in Once Upon An Expat – An Anthology.

See Part III Believers No More