In the end, we don't know which memory to cherish: the endless stretch of
terracotta, the deep bumps that felt like the terrace of hell, the frivolous
urge to quit buying waakye and embark on a 7 hour journey on a sandwich served
on a departure flight; pushing a car through mud or a flat tyre in Yipila at 2 A.M.
with no sign of life around.
After our taxi broke down the third time - the third seeing us break one wheel
as we had set off at 10 P.M. for the Tamale airport to catch an 8.30 A.M.
flight - it was a rickety bus that saved us. Public transport, not a private
four-wheel drive, stopped to take us to Tamale. We missed our flight, but we
were in Tamale and that counted for something.
It all was clear, the issues we've discussed but which remained in fine print with
no action: Energy, Roads and Transportation. The stark reality of the bitter
joke is that a little commitment and supervision is all there is for the right
thing to be done.
To get a vehicle from Tamale to Bole, some 7 hours distance because of the horrible
road, was a huge problem. The Metro Mass Transit would make the trip once early
in the morning and after 1 P.M. because it breaks down after trips. Taxis would
charge you GhC300 because the road is bad and the amount certainly is a surety
they intend to keep. Rental is a GhC50 more.
Our taxi driver was a fine gentleman. We met him at the waakye seller's by
sheer co-incidence. He was buying waakye just like us, and he overhead us
talking about vehicular troubles to Bole. He made calls for us to make sure we
got the Metro. When that failed, cum our own search, we called on him, and Ibn
showed. He filled his gas tank and we sped.
Like everyone in Tamale told us, the road was no road for saloon cars and they
all knew the problem except that a people in this circumstance cannot fix
kilometres of road. The absurd thought occurred to me then: the politicians,
especially those from the region who live in Accra, also knew of the bad roads
because they came here every four years - only in Toyota V8s.
That kind of beast can motor the mess of a road and only a few - politicians -
have it.
What I remembered was the kindness that little boy showed our Project
Assistant, as he held on to the weak door of the bus, to protect her from the
splash of water trapped in the gigantic potholes on the Damongo road. What I
remembered was the willingness and fondness with which the old woman offered to
hold to my bag, seeing in me a tired traveller. What would people in four-wheel
drives know about that?
