Okay, another manic post of enormous length. This one is about my trip out of Kumasi to visit Lake Bosumtwi, which involves a tro-tro ride out among other things. Again, only read if you have too much time on your hands. Hopefully next time I post I'll be back in the States. Enjoy!

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8:37 am. It's the first time I'm traveling alone and I'm making good time, but I guess that all depends on how long I wait--in the tro-tro, waiting for it to leave. You see, the tro-tro is the most common type of transportation here in Ghana--everybody but the upper class uses them. Given how the country is dependent on these things, it's amazing how backward the whole system is. For one, the tro-tro leaves when full--which I guess could be both a plus and a minus. I just don't know how anybody could ever plan their day, or guarantee punctuality--but wait--nobody does that here anyway. There was a time when we waited over 2 hours for a tro-tro to fill--and I think the time could have potentially been much longer--before we left. Another time we only waited 47 minutes, but that time it was in the blazing heat of the afternoon, and I overheard a girl from Holland trying to explain to one of the blacks what a sauna was.

On the way to the tro-tro lot a taxi driver yells for my attention. "Eh! Obruni! Obruni! (meaning white man)." I've never decided what to make of that label. Apparently it's not considered rude here. He wants to take me to the lake, my final destination, for what started out at 150,000 cedis (about $15) but surprisingly dropped to 80,000 as I slowly kept on ignoring and walking. I want to take the tro-tro, I tell him. It only costs 3,500. I tell him that I have no money, that back at home I am not only not making money but more than $100,000 in debt--a number I know he cannot fathom. We both laugh, and he tells me that a few of my brothers and sisters have already gone to the tro-tro station and to see if they would like to split the taxi fare. My brothers and sisters?

I soon find out what he means when I make my way to the chaotic station and spot white people--A German couple, the guy who is wearing a safari hat that makes me mistake him for being Australian, and 2 French girls. Other white people. As clueless as me. The German couple is extremely friendly--they'd only been in Ghana for 2 weeks, as tourists and not as volunteers, which is extremely rare. The French girls are also nice. One of them has this perpetually high voice, as if she was constantly excited, or maybe just out of breath from the fresh air generated from the trash fires.

I'm actually quite lucky with the tro-tro this time, as within 5 minutes of my locating the tro-tro we are ready to board and leave. This tro-tro is in average condition for a tro-tro, which of course is not that good. Tro-tro's had orignally been imported into Ghana most likely used, mainly from Germany (and hence many of them are ironically branded with the reputable name of Mercedes Benz) to transport cargo. And transport cargo they must have, as they look like they have transported a lot of cargo, on bad road. Over time random seats were inserted into these already variable vehicles, and walah, we have the passenger tro-tro, a true sign and representation of Ghanaian quality and reliability. As expected, these vehicles are highly unreliable and are subject to constant breakdowns--sometimes they require a Poosh Staht like a bobsled to get the engine going, and in my experience over the last 3 months of traveling on tro-tros the chance that one breaks down, at least once in the trip, is about 40%. And yet I've always gotten to the final destination eventually. The highly unreliable system in the end actually is reliable--and it's cheap--and maybe that's why there isn't any push for improvement.

The cargo on this short trip isn't that interesting--just a few bags of rice stuck under my--and everybody else's--feet. One longer trips the cargo gets much more in quantity--and in peculiarity. Some tro-tros have goats tied onto the roof, on top of a huge stack of irregular miscellaneous objects stacked so high that the height of the cargo is actually higher than the height of the actual tro-tro. I once, or rather on several occasions, was in a tro-tro when a man brought on 2 live chickens, bodies covered in a plastic bag, with heads popping out and pecking the owner. And though I've never seen it myself, my 34 year old covolunteer witnessed 2 full grown cows tied onto the roof of a tro-tro in Burkina Faso (the country north of Ghana). How 2 cows got onto the top of a tro tro is a big mystery, but certainly maximizing cargo transport on vehicles is what these people do best.

But no interesting cargo today. Just the German guy taking up a whole nother seat with his backpack, which he is willing to pay an extra fare for. But the driver wants to charge him 3x the passenger fare. An obvious scam, and after they duke it out and the German guy threatens to walk away (and thus stall our tro-tro as we wait for another 2 passengers to fill the tro-tro) he gets down the price to what it was supposed to be in the first place. He tells me he's been peeved by how the Ghanaians have tried to rip him off right and left. Every white person I've talked to think the same. It must be a national standard.

This tro-tro is crammed, but no to the max. I'm disappointed. We have about 26 people on board. Comfortably it would seat about 20. We could potentially fit 32. Tro-tro's usually have a fold down seat that folds into the center aisle (and before it does so serves to scrape everybody with its sharp rusty metal edges). This fold down seat essentially locks every passenger in and allows no way of excape in case of any emergency or bathroom urgency. This one actually has a permanent center aisle with no fold down seats. Granted, it's 6 inches wide. What a waste of space. We could have fit at least another 6 passengers in the wasted aisle space.

Everybody is now seated, and yet we're not going anywhere. I don't know why this happens, but it happens everytime. This sitting duck phenomenon renders the various sellers to come by and sell things from the top of their heads. Fried doughnuts--crackers--toothpaste--cheap flashlights from China that short out and melt and burn the user (personal experience)--bad tasting bread--umbrellas--oh wait, he's not selling umbrellas, he's only using it to hang the towels--it's the towels that are for sale--a combination of a toothbrush, toothpaste, pen, pencil, with a plastic bag thrown in!--plastic cups--shaving cream--toilet seats--???--toilet paper--oh wait, come back, I need toilet paper. The last place I stayed didn't provide any. How can any place deprive a person of something so essential--maybe that's what the left hand is for. I ask the lady how much through the tro-tro window, over the squashed woman sitting next two me. 2 for 6000. How much for 1? 3000. Then why did she tell me the price for 2? Do I look like somebody who needs 2 rolls of TP for the tro-tro ride? I don't argue, but get 1 roll. This is great. Why go shopping when shopping comes to you, in a tro-tro of all places?

After some unexplained commotion and shouting--this happens everytime too--I think commotion and shouting is a national pasttime--the tro-tro leaves the lot. Immediately the loud blaring radio is turned on. This is standard on every ride. Bad radio--in audio quality and in content. At a volume that the speakers cannot handle. The guy on the radio is already shouting at the top of his lungs--sounds like a charismatic preacher but probably isn't. Even though he's shouting we still find the need to turn the volume high. And I can't understand a word he's saying. Maybe the Ghanaians can. Or maybe they just like noise, as a Ghanaian once told me.

Throughout this journey we make many unexplained stops--passengers jumping off, passengers jumping on, plantains, yams, no chickens this time. Luckily we have an aisle to facilitate this passenger/cargo transfer, though I've seen this done without an aisle before. A big salute to efficiency. At one stop 3 men step on board. First one, average skinny male. Second one, average skinny male. Third one, woah mama! Or rather, papa! This guy is huge--how is he going to fit? It's rare for a Ghanaian male to be big. The majority of Ghanaian women over the age of 40 are big, if not huge, but not the men. I once got put in a row with 3 large Ghanaian women, in a row that could barely accomodate the 3 of them alone. This guy manages to fit. I guess we really have enough room to fit 6 more of him if we really wanted to.

Surprisingly, our tro-tro makes it to the final destination without breaking down. Immediately upon pulling into the lot 3 taxi drivers spot their prey through our tro-tro windows--5 white people. "White man, white man, where are you going, where are you going?" It's obvious where we are going, and they already know--there's only 1 tourist destination in this direction, and they get plenty of white people all the time. We're not even out of the tro-tro, and they're already claiming us. I feel so rushed. Strange in a country where there is never any sense of rush.

It's a shared taxi to the lake, 5000 cedis (50 cents) a head. That's fair. But the German guy thinks the guys are trying to scam us--he had heard that it was only supposed to be 2000. He dukes it out over 5 minutes, and gets it down to 4000 a head--a clear victory of saving a dime each.

Along the taxi ride we come across what looks like a checkpoint. Not 1, but 5 guys sitting at a wooden booth resembling an elementary school project, blocking the road with a length of rope. It's 5000 cedis a head to be entering the lake region, the guy says. 5000 a head? Nobody ever told us about this. The taxi driver remains silent. It's a holiday, and thus it should be 10,000 a head, the checkpoint guy tells us, but he's only going to charge us 5000. Oh, so he must be doing us a favor. What a good guy. I like good guys. As we remain incredulous he points us to the sign--situated behind us about 100 feet so we could barely read it--and indeed, it says 5000 a head. Does he have any receipts? He does! and he shows them to us. So we pay him, and get our generic "Market Ticket" receipts stamped 5000 cedis. Another obvious scam, this one so complicated it took 5 guys sitting around to pull it off. Probably 3 to paint the sign, 2 to stamp the receipts, I'm guessing. If only such hard work and persistence were channeled elsewhere. . .

We arrive at the lake--it's beautiful--and attempt to walk to the shore. We are intercepted by the "caretaker of the lake" and 2 other guys that seem too friendly and enthusiastic to see white people. According to the caretaker, the lake is safe--no crocodiles--and clean--no schistosomiasis (the worm that buries into your skin and mates in your bloodstream, thereby laying eggs that lodge in your organs causing multiorgan failure), as confirmed by the University of Kumasi--We nod--The precious lake has been slowly destroyed thorugh erosion and they've been planting trees--oh boy, I see where this is going--and thus visitors are to give a small-small donation for the upkeep of the lake. Bingo. Why didn't he just get to the point? The French girls and I put up some resistance. The German guy goes on a rampage. Profanity is exchanged. I am called to moderate. Slowly the seemingly mandatory donation becomes optional to becoming unnecessary. The German couple storms off--amazing how you can become so angry after only 2 weeks in the country. The French girls walk away. I decide to take the opportunity, now that I am the good guy and the peacemaker, to educate George, the caretaker, about how asking for money like this is what the white people despise, that doing so would hurt their tourism in the long run, etc, etc. He assures me that he is no beggar, and I don't think he understands the concept of looking out into the future for the benefit of his descendants. At any rate we become friends, especially after I agree to exchange his 2 US dollars that he scammed from another white man (which would have been worthless in Ghana) into the local currency.

Next I befriend a Rasta dude--there are so many of them out here--who tells me that he'd like to house me, to take me hiking around the entire 72 km circumference of the lake, to take me fishing. . . He'd done this for some other tourists in the past, from Germany, from Belgium, from Holland--the resume is amazing. As I tell him I might come back for his services, for which he claimed he did not charge, he eventually shows me the road to the guesthouse, my final destination. And he doesn't ask me for any money. Amazing.

Along the 50 minute walk, I walk through many villages? "Obruni! Obruni!" chime some kids. "Hahlo? Hahlo?" chime some other kids. Apparently they think that every white person is named hello. I say hello back and they get excited. I think I've been the highlight of their day--I like being the highlight of the day. I pass by a guy who looks like he's on the way to farm. "Good morning," I say. "Fine" he answers in response. Fine? I didn't ask. But I guess that's the way it's translated.

I walk through another village and out of my side vision I see someone waving to me. Everybody is so friendly. I look over ready to wave back. Oh, it's actually just a goat wagging his tail. There are so many goats here, along with other animals. Man and beast live so closely side-by-side.

I stop and chat with another kid. Apparently he has the same skills and same resume as Rasta dude did in taking around tourists. I tell him I'll look for him tomorrow. I keep on walking and come across a 10 year old boy brandishing a rusty machete and a plastic jug of water. Is he going to mug me? I don't know what to do. I hope he's nice. We walk the same way, and out of nowhere asks me if I like coco. Sure, I said. He runs up to some trees that I don't think he owns, uses his machete and hacks off an unripe coco fruit. Now I am carrying a coco fruit in my left hand, unsure what I will do if somebody accuses me of stealing it. As we walk into the boy's village, I decide that maybe I should try to be nice (and try to avoid having him ask me for money) by sharing a granola bar with him. From the US, I say, trying to make the granola bar worth more than it actually is. Immediately  I attract a crowd of 5, all wanting a part of this granola bar. And then a girl comes up, evidently inspired by my holding of the coco fruit, with 2 almost rotten papayas. She wants to give them to me and have me dash or tip her in return. I guess what she actually wants to do is sell them to me. I don't know what to do. I offer here 1000 (10 cents) for 1 and she laughs. Why do people here always laugh at nonobligatory "tips"? I guess she wants 2000. So I give that to her, revealing that I have an extra 1000 in my wallet, and now the man standing by wants that one too. Eh! I exclaim in Ghanaian language, acting surprised by his request. He laughs, and I get on my way. I managed to foil his begging. I continue on now with hands full of 1 fruit each.

I finally reach my final destination--the Rainbow Village Garden guesthouse. It seems quiet--must be for being so far out of the way. I come across a Rasta dude--another one!--and he says "Welcome!" He smells like he's been drinking and smoking quite a bit. "This is Rainbow Village Garden. Our owner is a German man." Another plus to the resume, I guess. "We are the best among the equals," he emphasizes and repeats several times. I have no idea what that means, but smile and nod. "We are all brothers, yah mahn, one love." I keep on smiling and nodding. Yes, one love. Yah Mahn.