Road to Wechiau

There comes a point when complaining doesn’t make one feel any better. Waiting for our chariot in the town of Larabanga I had to start thinking of things to be thankful for. Among the list generated: not having a UTI, no robbery, fried eggs with rice & noodles.

Our truck pulled up, and I was stoked. It was beat up, rusty, headlights like googly eyes, windshield shattered, and sitting high above its center of gravity atop bald Firestone tires. I threw my bag in the bed of the truck and settled in on the splintered bench under the home-welded roll bars covered with a tarp. The novelty of rough adventure wore off after the first hour.

As we headed down the rough dirt road I had vivid illusions of the pickup rolling into the ditch.
“62 perish in two accidents”
(The first headline I read upon returning to Accra)

I wondered again whether my neck pillow could serve as a neck brace and spent the entire ride imagining every worst-case scenario, planning what to do in each case.
See Mom, I did bring an extra light bulb –in my head.
(Reference to The Last Lecture)

Observing those walking along the destination-less road relieved my anxiety:
There was a man with severely bowed right leg, a violent limp from being a foot shorter on that side. I cringed watching each lumbering step imagining the ultimate snap. He had been walking for miles (and many more km), but he continued ahead undaunted by the horizon.

Young girls carried huge basins atop their heads, filled to the brim with water from a pump in a distant village. The metal bowls were twice as wide as their bodies, but they carried them as effortlessly as they carried on their gossiping, without spilling a drop; the sway of the water countered by the sway of their hips.

How can a nation thrive when survival is a full day’s work for most of its people?

My reference to land pirates was not taken well by the group, despite saving it until the man on the motorbike with a large gun was out of sight in a cloud of dust.

Perched standing over the pickup cabin I felt like a beauty queen waving to the villages at a standstill. I can assure you they saw no beauty - hair wind-whipped and matted with sweat, dirt & bugs, bandana over my face like a bandit for protection against the dirt.

Battered but spirited we arrived in Wechiau. Driving into the village we were welcomed by jumping children and genuine smiles. We weren’t followed or harassed with tourist services. The kids taught us their version of hopscotch ‘fela’ and wouldn’t have thought to ask us for handouts.
Here everyone was in it together – a communal community. Interestingly, the division of wealth was much more obvious in Larabanga, the town asking for the most donations for community development.

We stocked up on bread & water to have for dinner and breakfast since that was all that was available. I bought a can of tomato paste as a surprise; that won me some cool points.

Off to the hippo sanctuary.