I Take My First Tro-tro

Wendy has already taken the tro-tro a couple of times but today was my first time.

While Wendy worked I was supposed to make myself useful. A pretty simple goal. A few minor tasks, buy some beer that I could take home, (to do this you must first have an empty beer). Get our caretaker/guide to take me or direct me to a post-office for stamps, and then buy some fruit and cheese from the obruni supermarket.

I met up with Joseph, (our caretaker/guide) at the office of the organization that Wendy is volunteering for. He was there with Ato, the head of the organization in Ghana, and Mark our roommate who returns home to Vancouver in a couple of days.

I was given a Ghanaian greeting, and when Ato heard that I wanted to go to the post office, he offered to take me. Mark wanted to go to the bank and this way, Joseph could help us both out.

After the banking was done and I had posted my mail, Mark wanted to get some gifts for his wife and son. I didn’t mind; it seemed like a good way to see some more of the city and learn how to buy some gifts.

And so we took the tro-tro, we were going to go to Africa Market.



Think of a mini-van outfitted to take as many passengers as possible, imagine it is thirty-years old but some how not covered in graffiti or the seats all torn up maliciously, just worn out from constant use. Now stuff it full to capacity and charge everyone 15 cents. It’s rickety as all hell and maybe you can see rusty holes the road rush by beneath your feet. There is no suspension, but everyone, driver, mate and passengers are polite and respectful.

We never made it to the Africa Market. Instead Joseph took us somewhere else. Any discussion of this took place between Joseph and Mark. Joseph was laughing his head off and when I asked Mark where we were going he said that it was someplace where Joseph’s friends could tease us.

Mark has been here for a few months and had told me the night before that he trusts Joseph with his life and has in fact done so. I trusted that this was not one of those times and followed along. Besides, who needs fruit and cheese?

We cut through a parking lot and headed toward a line of shacks that were all facing away from us. They formed a sort of wall along the parking lot; I couldn’t see the far end very clearly through the cabs, trees and people, getting haircuts and just hanging around. At the close end there was an opening.

On the other side of the gate, I could see the ocean along ways off. Before the ocean there was red dirt bulldozed into huge piles. Before the bulldozed dirt was garbage. All manner of plastic and trash, and before that was a football pitch. The pitch was entirely dirt and (bull dozed?) pounded flat and hard. The nets were bamboo frames. Between us and the football pitch was a line of trees, palm? Coconut? I don’t know. When I turned right the trees were on my left, on my right the shacks. In each shack was a workshop. In each workshop there was anywhere between one and five people working. Underneath the trees there were more people working and everywhere the results.

Masks and drums were being carved by hammer and chisel. Goatskins were being dried and tanned. Statues were being carved and people tried to coax us into their shops. Mark wanted something antique to bring home so we walked down the row. Saying hello to some, being rude and ignoring others. A third of the way down the row we were at our destination.

This shop had a carver in the back and a young man came out and greeted Joseph. He explained that he was a carver but his father dealt in antiques. He showed us many things that looked very old, masks, statues, walking sticks, pots, statues, and amulets. Mark found something he liked, negotiated a price and began asking questions.

Siedi, the carver whose father was the antique dealer explained he didn’t know all that Mark wanted. We talked some; the mask was from Cote d’Ivorie. Mark took a picture of Siedi holding the mask. Suddenly Joseph became very animated and called out to someone to come in. It was the father, the antique dealer.

The father came in and sat on a stool, Mark sat and unwrapped his prize and they talked about the mask, it’s importance and where it came from.
This took a long while. The father spoke better French than English so his son and Joseph acted as translators and the questions went around and around for quite awhile. Siedi saw me standing, (doing my very best impression of a man hit upside the head with a bat. The way my mouth hangs open here, I don’t know how I don’t catch fly’s.) He offered me the stool he was sitting on.

Stools in Ghana are very important, and the ones Siedi and his father were sitting on looked very old. They were carved in the likeness of a giraffe, the neck being to lean back on. Siedi insisted that I loosen up and make myself at home. I was with his “brother” Joseph, and I should sit on his stool.

I insisted that I was all right. It seemed intimidating to sit on such a thing. I didn’t doubt that I would somehow find a way to break it. “Ah.” He said. “I know you should sit on the chiefs chair.”

“Ahhh, no I don’t think…” To late, he was outside and bringing in a chair covered in a goatskin, worn out in places.

I shut up and sat down.

Siedi’s father chewed on some sort of nut. I will learn the name soon; they were all through the market, (and apparently an aphrodisiac, vroom-vroom). He bit open the shell, chewed up the meat and spit it out. As he did this he explained that he had taken some cloth from Togo to a village in Cote d’Ivorie. It was a gift and he did not expect pay for it, however, a man offered him one of his belongings in exchange, so Siedi’s father chose the mask.

Now the mask was made at the request of the man’s father. These style of mask were made as replica’s of an individual, so that the family could remember them after they died. Sort of like a photograph. They were very commonly made for men before they went to war, in case they didn’t come back. This particular mask was made as a replica of this mans father. And this man gave it over to Siedi’s father in exchange for the gift of this cloth.

We left and went on down the row. We looked in at shops as we passed by. Joseph said hello to those that he knew and we continued to be rude to people he didn’t know.

Many people complimented me on my earrings, which is very unusual, mostly they bring derision and sometimes the waving of breasts in attempt to embarrass me. Mostly it’s Rastafarian’s or people with ritual scarring that compliment me.

We went by the textile market but didn’t go in. We cut in behind it where there were other shops and were called over to a stall by some of Joseph’s friends.

Joseph yelled at them, “They don’t want to buy anything!” He told us they didn’t believe him, and that we should go over but that we would have to be strong. No problem for me, I didn’t bring money for anything other than fruit and cheese.

This shop had statues, drums and paintings. Were we interested? No not today. Okay. Introductions were made. The guy who seemed in charge was Rah-Man. He made the drums.

How do they know?

You want to buy a drum? No not today. Okay, I teach drums, you want to learn I teach you African rhythms. I teach them so good you go back to Canada and teach them, make lots of money. Send people here to me for drums and lessons.

It’s like I walk around with a blazing neon sign above my head. Or maybe every obruni who ends up there wants to buy a drum. Probably that’s it.

So he told me his price for lessons. 100,000 Cides for one hour, if I want one lesson. Lessons weekly or monthly can be negotiated. I don’t even have to buy a drum for the lessons. As if. Maybe one day I’ll find that blazing neon sign.

The three of us took another tro-tro home, and me cheese less and fruitless.