I'm HELLSA Bike-Havin

Friday Jan. 16

Bell… Basket …Kickstand…LUCKY! Oh yeah, I got me a BIKE yesterday! A locally made (I think) black single speed with a 1950’s style frame, a basket in front, and a shiny label, “Passport” along the frame. It has a bell (I made SURE the one I got had a bell), plus, to my delight, the mechanic who “greased” my bike hooked me up with a headlight on the front that is powered by the front wheel. It is awesome. The guy I bought it from even “dashed” me a lock, a contraption that hooks onto the bottom of the seat tube and has a clamp that goes around the rear wheel so it doesn’t roll. I am a bit concerned though that someone could just carry my bike away.
Toward the end of my second day at work, Rashid, one of the drivers, took me in to town to help me the bike. Thomas had told me the day before that I would probably pay between $30 and $50 for a bike. Sounded good to me. He also told me that Rashid would be good at bargaining for me and getting a good deal. Well when we got to the dirt lot with the bikes and accompanying shed of parts, Rashid seemed to know the guys there, and he told me that this is where the NGO gets all their bikes. This sounded bad. I looked at a few bikes (they were all basically the same, so I tried to find the one with the least wobbly rims and firmest brakes) and eventually chose one. Rashid told me that they were all $75, but since I was with him, I would get it for $70…Wait, who am I bargaining against here? $5 off isn’t a deal, and that Rashid is basically translating for me to his friends, I have NO leverage! I should have come alone. I know I could have gotten this for much cheaper, but I really had no choice. I said I would take it for $50 because of the wobbly wheels, but I was told that either way I would have to take it to a mechanic to get it road-ready, and they would fix them. I managed to get it for $65, and had them include a bell. They turned out to be good people though, who did want me to get a good bike, because when we took it to the nearby mechanic, they salesman brought a couple of the other bikes to swap out their good parts for my bad ones (like a less wobbly rim).
The mechanic told me it would be done in 2 hours, so Rashid drove me back to my guesthouse, where I changed clothes, and almost immediately started walking back to pick up the bike. The walk is a couple km. plus I hadn’t been into town on my own, and doubted I would find the mechanic in his obscure location on my first try.
As I strolled along the main road toward town it got more and more crowded the closer I got. Soon after the sun dipped below the horizon I watched as men gathered in front of homes, shops, inside mosques, arranging their prayer mats eastward, and slightly north toward Mecca. Eventually crackled cries of call to prayer started to burst out from the Mosques’ dilapidated speaker system, “Allaaaaah, Akbaaaar…” For the next ½ hour I meandered through streets and alleys past groups of men, and sometimes women behind them, performing their evening prayers. During this there was a very slight lull in the chaos of the street.
At one point I thought I knew where I was, thought I might be near the mechanic, or at least near the bike shop. Then, no, dead end. Just when I thought I was going to have to backtrack for about 20 min. I was there. I don’t know how it happened, but all of a sudden I was literally standing within ten feet of my bike, about to turn around and go back home. I gave the mechanic about $4 for parts (of which I know include that fancy light contraption, a basket, oil, and maybe new rims) and labor. Then I went back to the bike shop to settle up my $65 balance. I had to wait for everyone in front of the shop to finish up prayers before I could pay. The owner, Alhaji (his name implying that he has made his pilgrimage to Mecca) gave me a free lock. Sweet. Although I was annoyed with the high price I was forced into, everyone ended up to be good people.
On the way back, I stopped various times to collect food in my basket. My first stop was to buy a giant hunk of watermelon from a bunch of giggly girls. One of the girls, who was with her sister selling oranges, says, “dada, give me 10,000”, or about a dollar. I just smiled, and sat down to eat my watermelon. Luckily most interaction here is very lighthearted and it does not feel rude (unlike India) to brush off poor begging attempts by just smiling and saying no. She eventually sat next to me and kept asking me, “dada, 5,000”, and then “1,000”. I told her to sell more oranges and they laughed. After more harassing, I told her I would buy an orange from her for 1,000. She took the coin, then just sat there, looking satisfied. Apparently she did not understand that I wanted an orange, but her sister eventually gave me the hook up. After more begging came the marriage proposal, and I’m like, Cue to exit! Peace! I dinged my bell and went to get some street meat to take home.
The sausage, something I hadn’t seen in Ghana yet, was the real deal kinda sausage, like whatever chunks of whatever they could scrape together, chop up, and shove into an intestine. It had good flavor, but due to a lack of a quality grinding method it was very chunky, many of the chunks being far too rubbery and impossible to chew. I also got some fried dough, one kind covered in sugar, the other in a spicy spice. I got a few more oranges, and headed back with a full basket.
The next day at work, Thomas spoke with me about his time in America (he is there quite often to promote the NGO and speak at churches). He was telling me how great Americans are and how hospitable they are. He said that when Americans come to Ghana, anything he has is automatically theirs, as that is how he is treated when he is in America. This was refreshing. I get down on Americans so often, especially on our attitudes toward foreigners (particularly when it comes to illegal immigrants). It is good to hear of someone being welcomed so warmly by my people, especially as I have received such warm hospitality during my time here in Ghana so far.
That night I took my bike out for another spin. I rode into town and just wandered about for a few hours, occasionally stopping for oranges. It was so relaxing. Actually that does not make any sense. Riding through town is incredibly nerve wracking. I was raised on a bike, road biking up steep grades, mountain biking down technical trails, yet I felt paralyzed trying to navigate through the crowd of taxis, motorbikes, bicycles, goats, pedestrians, vendors, women with ungodly amounts of anything on their head. I am a menace to Ghanaian society on my bike. But still, there was something fun and soothing about making my way through town on two wheels. As much as I try to escape the worst aspects of American culture, sometimes it is impossible. Yep, I saw not one, but two, groups of people surrounding a TV, watching…American Idol…COME ON! What is this!!! As much as I hate that show, though, I was tempted in pulling up to watch, just to see what other people thought of it. I resisted though, somehow.
Eventually I got hungry and got out of busy streets and found some people serving a food. Figuring out their eating options was tricky due to a language barrier, but I managed to get a phat plate of rice and beans with “sheeto”, a spicy sauce, and a chunk of “guinea fowl”, some kind of bird. After washing my hands in the bowl on the table, I dug in. The guinea fowl was slightly tough, but very tasty, and the sauce it was cooked in was great.
I rode around for a little longer, until I was thoroughly lost (kind of a goal, I guess), then found my way and headed back, stopping for more oranges and some fried dough with sugar.
And now it’s Friday, and I’m about to get off work (I didn’t have anything to do for the last hour of the day). No real plans, but I do know there are some soccer games on TV tomorrow, so I might ride my bike around till I find some people watching.