Crash

Returning with a newly programmed and localized phone we met Dacosta, another of David's many close friends. Dacosta is an anti-trafficking air force officer who hopes to save enough money to marry his girlfriend in the near future. He (or David) assigned himself as our permanent bodyguard, and he has the muscles (but no weaponry) to back it up. "Ghanaian military are forbidden to carry arms off-duty," he told us. Dacosta saw us safely to Patrick's already beat up sedan and somehow our bags had already been transported to its trunk.

Things like that just seem to happen for us here, though not always quickly. We stopped on the outskirts of town (where we now live) for a segregated lunch - Canadians in an air-conditioned fried food joint and locals eating Fufu (pounded cassava and corn) at a street stall. This was presumably to protect us from an unfamiliar dish but I suspect David, who has been a bit Canadianized, enjoyed the air conditioning as well. Only in the village did we start eating some of the local specialties and most of them are delicious. The street stall eaters' lunch lasted long enough for me to buy new sandals (having carried mine across three continents before forgetting them in Japan) and wander around with Miia pricing furniture in case we got our own place. Patrick and Henry finally returned, apparently having had a spot of car trouble (and perhaps an argument with Patrick's wife, who lives in the same area).

Our early morning trip to the country faded into a hazy afternoon, punctuated by a gloriously rainy dusk with the windows open and the relief of birth of the cool. All was well, then a little scary as the pandemonium of Ghana's wet night-time roads sunk in with the stray raindrops on our skin. Miia, from my left, grabbed my arm and said, "Just in case there's an accident I'll keep you from going through the window." No seatbelts in the back (as is the norm here and in most countries I've visited).

You know what happens next, I've more than foreshadowed here, but as David's scream echoed through the little car and the lights hit the unlit reversing logging truck I thought Miia's words about the windshield were to become prophesy, that I would find myself on the wrong side and all I could think was "shit, it's over."

In reality the crash wasn't that bad, though bad enough. The front end of the car was wrecked and Henry was in bad shape. The rest of us had pains, creaks, stiffness, and we were freaked. The hospital was Dantesque, slow moving and completely under-equipped. We followed the attendant as he pushed Henry via wheelchair into the overnight beds and saw sprawled humans four to a room (i.e. curtain enclosure) and looking none too lively. It was no place to be sick, or healthy. "And some people think aid money to Africa is a waste of resources," I said. There is no lack of need here, no abundance of any resource except the human variety.

After a few hours of waiting a pajama-clad policeman showed up with Patrick, who had waited with the vehicle to protect the evidence. He shook our hands and said, "Sorry this happened, but it's normal. I hope you had your seatbelt on."

"What seatbelt?" Oops. Didn't seem to make a difference.

We took a cab back to the scene and recovered our belongings, only to wait another half an hour for a ride with one of the villagers, who took us hellbent through dirtroads as David admonished in English and Twi, "Slow down we just had one accident already." The only slowdown we made was at the roadcheck: too many people in the car. Fortunately Dacosta had joined us and his military card got us through in almost no time.

Dacosta and Patrick hand-held us through the village to greet the elders and make our purpose known: to attend the funeral of Ama Mercy Firang, mother of our friend David. We were given Fanta Orange Drink, Fruitopia, tea, ice water, Twi lessons, eventually yams rice and fruit sauce with excellent service from the women, but no sleep, not yet. When it came, it hit us like a logging truck and knocked us out hot until 5:30 am.

Chris