That tro-tro ride home (I)
This weekend I took a shot at washing my own clothes. I asked Cynthia, Dominic and Ester's house girl (though technically, she is Ester's cousin) to show me which buckets to use. As I started to soak my first pair of pants into the soapy water, she laughed and yelled ''wash!'' I looked at her quizzically. I thought I was doing just that. She grabbed the pants from my hands, and showed me how it's done, scrubbing every single inch of fabric together with fervor, soaking and scrubbing and soaking and scrubbing. This was not going to be the pleasant hour of clothes-washing at sunset that I had envisioned. I observed Cynthia, then tried to emulate her strength and skill, but she only laughed disapprovingly. ''Wash,'' she yelled, ''wash!'' My pride was slightly wounded and I remembered my advisor's warning that fieldwork would be the most humbling experience in every possible way. I'm not sure he had laundry-time in mind when he said this to me, but his words helped nonetheless. I tried to imagine him washing his own clothes in a bucket of soapy water and I laughed.
My first full work-week in Accra has been one of adjustments: waking up before six every morning to beat traffic and rush to every corner of the metropolis to meet my first few research subjects; catching a cold when all I've been doing is sweating; calling it a day at 9 p.m. when Dominic and Ester's two and five-year-olds are still running around in hyper-activity; introducing my taste buds to the savors of fufu and tz, the country's maize, yam, cassava and corn staples - when I really miss those Harvest salads at Bytes Cafe; and for the first time in my life, washing my own clothes in two buckets of water when I really miss laundromats... I am adjusting.
But I've decided I should always give myself two weeks to do just that. After an intense week of logistical frustration, I was afforded a friday evening gift. My tro-tro picked me up at the university main gate, and I was given one of the front seats - the best seats in the entire vehicle if you ask me - from which one enjoys an almost-panoramic view of Medina market winding down on a friday evening. In the tro-tro, no one can accost me in an attempt to make a sale; nobody realizes I'm an obruni (well, sometimes they do but by the time it hits them, I'm already gone). With the windows down, I am a part of the scenery yet removed just enough to observe and absorb in peace. This tro-tro blasted local music rather than Christian preaching (it's usually one or the other), and the traffic was surprisingly fluid. We were cruising home. The music, the breeze, the market. It was one of those moments, and I caught myself breaking into a goofy grin. We stopped at a light. A ten-year-old school girl got out of the tro-tro with her mother. She looked back at me. I waved and smiled. She broke into the biggest smile and waved back, turning her head to see if her mother had noticed. She hadn't, so the moment remained between her and me. The light turned green and my tro-tro drove away. Hesitantly, she waved again. I smiled and waved back and she jumped in excitement. I did not really understand why this moved her so, but it moved me too so I stopped wondering. I arrived at ''housin' down, block seventy nine,'' shouted out ''BASSTOWOP'' (bus stop) the way the locals do, hopped off, and walked the rest of the way home. The regular kids ran out into the path to greet me with an 'obruni!' My friend at the car shop invited me over to gather around a small TV screen with a dozen others to watch the next football game on Sunday (which I unfortunately had to miss as my research duties called). The candy lady across the street shouted ''You are welcome!'' as I walked by. And I arrived home after a long week of commuting and interviewing and bargaining and navigating crowds, happy to put it behind me as I orient myself clumsily through this new city.
Not all tro-tro rides are like that. In fact, most are crowded and stuffy. All you can see are a dozen heads bobbing up and down. All you can smell is petrol. All you can feel is the drip of sweat running down your temple, and that one dripping off your nose, and that other one racing along your stomach. One evening a lady refused to take our tro-tro because I was in it. She spoke in Twi, so I had to venture a guess. But watching her approach the van, notice me, and walk away as she muttered some Twi and an ''obruni'' was enough for anyone to interpret. I was, after all, the only white person in the car.
Last night, Dominic and Ester's boys, the hyper-active ones, Datame and Geybem, practiced their good-byes. Good-bye, Aunty Cleh!
Today, I am moving to East Legon to be closer to the University and Accra. I will have shorter tro-tro rides, running water and access to a washing machine. Not to mention a brand new obruni partner in crime to share all of it with. I have a lot to look forward to.
My first full work-week in Accra has been one of adjustments: waking up before six every morning to beat traffic and rush to every corner of the metropolis to meet my first few research subjects; catching a cold when all I've been doing is sweating; calling it a day at 9 p.m. when Dominic and Ester's two and five-year-olds are still running around in hyper-activity; introducing my taste buds to the savors of fufu and tz, the country's maize, yam, cassava and corn staples - when I really miss those Harvest salads at Bytes Cafe; and for the first time in my life, washing my own clothes in two buckets of water when I really miss laundromats... I am adjusting.
But I've decided I should always give myself two weeks to do just that. After an intense week of logistical frustration, I was afforded a friday evening gift. My tro-tro picked me up at the university main gate, and I was given one of the front seats - the best seats in the entire vehicle if you ask me - from which one enjoys an almost-panoramic view of Medina market winding down on a friday evening. In the tro-tro, no one can accost me in an attempt to make a sale; nobody realizes I'm an obruni (well, sometimes they do but by the time it hits them, I'm already gone). With the windows down, I am a part of the scenery yet removed just enough to observe and absorb in peace. This tro-tro blasted local music rather than Christian preaching (it's usually one or the other), and the traffic was surprisingly fluid. We were cruising home. The music, the breeze, the market. It was one of those moments, and I caught myself breaking into a goofy grin. We stopped at a light. A ten-year-old school girl got out of the tro-tro with her mother. She looked back at me. I waved and smiled. She broke into the biggest smile and waved back, turning her head to see if her mother had noticed. She hadn't, so the moment remained between her and me. The light turned green and my tro-tro drove away. Hesitantly, she waved again. I smiled and waved back and she jumped in excitement. I did not really understand why this moved her so, but it moved me too so I stopped wondering. I arrived at ''housin' down, block seventy nine,'' shouted out ''BASSTOWOP'' (bus stop) the way the locals do, hopped off, and walked the rest of the way home. The regular kids ran out into the path to greet me with an 'obruni!' My friend at the car shop invited me over to gather around a small TV screen with a dozen others to watch the next football game on Sunday (which I unfortunately had to miss as my research duties called). The candy lady across the street shouted ''You are welcome!'' as I walked by. And I arrived home after a long week of commuting and interviewing and bargaining and navigating crowds, happy to put it behind me as I orient myself clumsily through this new city.
Not all tro-tro rides are like that. In fact, most are crowded and stuffy. All you can see are a dozen heads bobbing up and down. All you can smell is petrol. All you can feel is the drip of sweat running down your temple, and that one dripping off your nose, and that other one racing along your stomach. One evening a lady refused to take our tro-tro because I was in it. She spoke in Twi, so I had to venture a guess. But watching her approach the van, notice me, and walk away as she muttered some Twi and an ''obruni'' was enough for anyone to interpret. I was, after all, the only white person in the car.
Last night, Dominic and Ester's boys, the hyper-active ones, Datame and Geybem, practiced their good-byes. Good-bye, Aunty Cleh!
Today, I am moving to East Legon to be closer to the University and Accra. I will have shorter tro-tro rides, running water and access to a washing machine. Not to mention a brand new obruni partner in crime to share all of it with. I have a lot to look forward to.
posted by cla at 2:11 AM
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