On a Road to No Where

I stand in line next to bus; it is Orange, dusty and has seen a few years on hard roads. I blink a few times, the sleep has yet to leave my eyes and I try to focus. Its dark still, all around is blackness except for a few lights in the parking lot and a few burning torches on vendors stalls. I look at my watch. It reads 5:23; I have been standing here for about half an hour since my friend Adrian dropped me of. Getting picked up at 4:30 on a scooter when you have a full-size backpack to take is something else, I was too sleepy to worry though and the journey was quick.

5:27, I look at the baby on the back of the woman in front of me, so cozy and warm against her back with the wrappings keeping her in place. I am about 7^th in line and there are another 15 people behind me, I breathe a sigh of relief since I will be able to get on the bus for sure, since it’s a first come first served system and you can’t buy your ticket beforehand, there is a bit of pushing and budging, but I know I will get on. The line consists of a variety of people, women on the way to market, a man in a suit, Muslim men in traditional garb, a nun, farmers, and others. It’s a normal line for a bus and I am used to them. The atmosphere is a quiet one, people sitting, sleeping, and not much movement anywhere. A dull thud can be heard in the distance, somewhere they are pounding Fufu. I look up and down the line to see if I know anyone, I don’t. I get the standard looks as I queue, I stand out, I am white, comments about me are said but I don’t care. The only way I know they are talking about me is they use the word Nansarla, which means “white person”. Two girls walk past me, and I hear Nansarla, I look, they giggle, standard and I am used to it, I don’t ever think it’s in a malicious way.

I look at my watch, 5:40, the bus is supposed to leave at 6:00 but they haven’t sold tickets, I remind myself that the departure time is 6:00 in African time which varies a lot. A man walks out of one of the few buildings near the bus and instantly the area starts to pulse with movement. This means that we are about to start the process of boarding a bus. The conductor reaches the front of the queue and starts to sell tickets. The line doesn’t move fast, and a few people have joined friends in front of me, so I am a bit further back but still not worried. Another man has come and is opening the sides of the bus to load the cargo. I turn and watch as I wait to move, the standard stuff goes in, boxes, bags of grain, mats, nothing to interesting today. Some men are trying to get a Mattress in and are arguing about the price to send it, I can’t understand what they are saying but it’s very interesting to watch and very animated as all arguments here are. It is sorted out and the mattress is loaded. I reach the front of the line. I’m greeted with a “where?”  and I reply “Bolgatanga”, “75,000 Cedi” comes the response. The currency changed 2 years ago, and they dropped 4 zeros, but a lot of people still talk in old numbers. I hand him 7 Cedi 50 Pesewas and I get a ticket with 12 written on it. Half way finished I think to myself, now to get my bag on. I walk back to the man who is loading the cargo and say I want to put my bag in. “2 Cedi” he says, and I say no it should only be “1 Cedi” we argue for a bit and I don’t budge so it goes on for 1 Cedi. I don’t like paying Nansarla price.

The sky is starting to get brighter; it is getting later, after 6 already for sure. My watch answers the questions with 6:17. The bus is not even half loaded yet. I walk to the bus door and decided to get on, it’s cool enough to sit in it while I wait for the however long it takes to finish the loading. I find seat 12, written in big black marker on the roof, I think I have a window, I smile, I’m very happy about that as the bus is not air conditioned. I sit down and get as comfortable as I can. My knees jam up against the seat in front as usual; I open the window and stare out at the scene below.

The familiar “Pure Water “It’s Pure”, “Its Cold”, “Bowl Fruit”, “eggs” and various other calls become louder and more frequent as more and more hawkers come out of the darkness to push the various goods onto the sleepy travelers. I think what I have eaten today, nothing, what have I drunk, about a glass of water. I know I will pay for the decision not to eat but it’s better than having to use the toilets at the rest stops. Dark, hot, humid, maggots, cockroaches and various other bugs, and the smell, I cannot describe the smell, a wall of hot foulness that saturates your nostrils. I need more water though, it’s getting hotter and sweat is already beginning to glisten on my forehead. “Pure Water” I say, a girl rushes over with a bowl of pure water. Pure water when you first get here seems weird, now they are a daily part of life for me. It is basically a 500ml sachet of clean water; you bite the tip of and drink. I take a sachet from the bowl and pass down 5 Pesewas to the girl who says thank you. I bite the tip of and down the sachet in one go, it’s cool and makes me feel better about the heat instantly.

The bus fills, and various arguments about the cargo and seating arguments go on around me but I’m too tired to pay much attention to them. I hear the engine start, 6:40, not bad at all; we should be on our way before 7:00. A girl about 20 in a black and white dress and shaved head sits down next’s to me and says “Ansoma” which is good morning in Wali, I reply “AE da Gyeye” which is the standard reply. The last few passengers get on and the driver and conductor get in. The conductor does a head count and ask as few questions in one of the many languages, I don’t understand anything, but he doesn’t talk to me.  The conductor gets back to the front of the bus, turns around and starts the prayer. It is a Muslim prayer because Wa is mostly Muslim; I bow my head and say my own prayer “Please god let the journey be safe, the driver drives fast and me not have to use the bathroom”. The Muslim prayer goes on for a few minutes with most of the people on the bus replying with something after each line said. The prayer finishes, and the bus starts to move. So, begins the 6-9-hour journey to Bolgatanga from Wa.

7:02 I’m happy with that, I think about the last time, it was almost 10:00. We head north, up towards the Burkina Faso border, the road is still paved, I know it won’t last. The bus weaves from one side of the road to the other to avoid the pot holes. The horn sounds constantly to let anything in front of us know that we are passing. It is not used maliciously hear, more to tell that man on the bike that something is coming up faster behind him. The same happens whenever we pass a car, another bus, motorbike, person walking or any animal sleeping or walking on the road. I close my eyes and drift into semi sleep. I am jerked awake as the bus swings violently to the left to miss hitting a pothole and makes my head hit the window, I rub it and hope I don’t get a lump. We are on the dirt road now; the bus vibrates so thoroughly as if the roads main purpose was to make vehicles fall to pieces on it. Out the windows the scrubby grasslands pass buy, the grass and trees are still green, we are just at the end of the rainy season. The road, like a read scar through the lush green surroundings winds its way up north. I close my eyes but there is no sleeping now, only violent shakes and bumps. The heat has increased and when the bus slows, or the breeze disappears I am hit with a wall of heat and I sweat instantly.

The journey passes slowly as they always do, but 9 hours on a bus is nothing now. I drift into a semi consciousness, staring out the windows at nothing specifically. A small village passes, a few people signal they want the bus, but we are full. I feel bad but am glad at the same time as we don’t have to stop all the time to let people on and off. The bus plows ahead back into the bush to race towards the hours of trees, grass and many more villages that lie ahead. I close my eyes and lean against the window. Crack, my skull contacts the glass for a second time, that will teach me. Time seems to stop, I know we are getting somewhere but I feel like we have already passed that last village before. I lean forward and put my head on my arms on the back of the seat in front of me. Thud, my ribs contact the window frame, hurt a little but not enough to make me move. I’m always restless on buses, I feel sorry for the girl next to me, I move around a lot trying to find that perfect position that will bring me the comfort I am looking for, I know it doesn’t exist, but I can dream. It’s hot, the wind from the window is now warm and I have closed the window mostly as the dust that comes with it covers you in a fine orange dust and gets in your eyes and ears. My shirt is damp, and my skin is shiny and sticky, all I can do is think about the bucket shower at the end of the tunnel.

The next 4 hours pass like this, moving back and forth, various parts of my body hitting the side of the bus as it weaves from side to side. The horn sounds when we pass anything on the side of the road, man or beast, I don’t notice the horn anymore. Suddenly one big bump then the vibration eases. Back on a paved road, the half way point, Tumu. The bus pulls into a small square, packed with people will all manner of goods, small fish pilled high in baskets, various drinks, eggs, bread, fruit, and other foodstuffs. The bus unloads quickly and we all pile of into the chaos below. I weave through the hawkers and follow the line of people heading to the toilet. I go to the urinal, its outside, no roof, just a wall around a square patch of tiles with a gutter. I take a few deep breaths a few feet away and step into the walled area. I force myself to piss, I don’t know how long till the next stop. Not much comes out and its colour tells me I’m dehydrated. I walk out, instantly feeling better to be away from the heat and smell. I get a pure water, drink it and toss the bag on a large pile of empty bags. I don’t buy anything, still another 4 hours on the bus probably. I watch the scene around, people buying bread, a chicken, and oranges. About 10 minutes later the buses horn sounds and we all proceed to get back on the bus, another few blasts, the conductor checks, we are all on. The bus starts to move again. I look at my watch, 11:30, should be in Bolga around 15:00.

We stop at one of the many police check points along the way; this one decides to keep us for a few extra minutes. The bus is surrounded by hawkers and some fruit, bread and water is bought through the window, I get nothing. The heat saturates the bus, and everyone stars the glisten, handheld fans and handkerchiefs come out to control the rivers of sweat that wind the way down the traveler’s faces. Let’s Go! Let’s Go! Let’s Go! Let’s Go! Let’s Go! Is all I can think, the heat is consuming and is my only concern right now. Finally, we move and when the wind hits the sweat a lovely sensation of cool is delivered until the sweat is dried up.

The next 2 hours pass like the others, villages, grass, trees, villages grass tress pass by and all look the same. We hit paved road again, this is a good sign, we are close. The bus stops to let a few people off and once again surrounded by hawkers, I get a pure water and drink it, it’s very cold and makes feel a little better, my stomach rumbles but it will have to wait. The bus moves off, and the surroundings start to change, larger villages and not so much space in between them. 14:43, only 23km to Bolga, I feel relieved when I see the sign. The 23km pass slowly though as people are let off at various points and goods are unloaded.

We are coming in to Bolgatanga, I can tell because I see a two-story building, the traffic increases, the bus slows so the heat increases without the breeze. We finally pull into the bus station and everyone gets up, it is like whoever gets of the bus last loses some unspoken game. People push past and rush for the exit and there is no real order. My boots hit the dirt, 15:37, under 9 hours, not bad. As the only white face getting off the bus I am hit with a flurry of hisses and questions about where I am going and that I should come to his taxi. They will charge me a huge rate, I know where I am going, and I know I can get there in a shared taxi. I say no thank you many times, and that I am ok as I push past them to get my backpack. I swing my bag onto my back and push my way out of the crowd that has formed around the bus. I need to go to my friend’s house, but first I see a Red Red vendor and my stomach is in control now.