I enter the madness of an Accra tro-tro station. I hear the crunch of tossed, empty, plastic water sachets as I walk, dragging my “travel” carry-on behind me. The suitcase tires, topples to it’s side, refusing to go further on the bumpy, unpaved station road. I pick her up and reluctantly carry her thinking: ‘did I really need that extra pair of shoes?’

“Can you please show me which tro-tro to take to Kokrobite?” I ask some man standing confidently, looking like he was just supposed to be there. He turns and looks at me. I simplify my question, tossing out all the frivolous verbage: “Please tro-tro to Kokrobite?”

“Take olpllaaschdss” is what I hear him say.
“Where to? Which tro-tro?” I ask again.

His hand points over there. I look up and see three big ratty tatty vehicles, resembling the offspring if a bus and mini-van mated. One is pink, almost full and ready to go. One is an empty space with a queue snaking to infinity. One has people packing themselves in, 6 trying to fit through that van door at the same time; “last one left is a rotten egg.”

We walk over and I try to convince him the pink one is it: “This one?”
“Olbraarreeerr” he responds.
And we repeat our lines of miscommunication.
Please, please don’t let it be the snake line one.
Eventually we narrow it down. It’s the snake line one.

A tro-tro pulls up into the empty space and the snake line comes alive, everyone still respecting the line, however simultaneously shoving to board. Since I am now boarding this tro-tro to “oldbrrararrreeerr,” I am on my toes without a clue where to go. My new best-friend, who I don’t understand, quickly tries to sweep me into the front seat. All I need to do is to piss off all the Ghanaians who have been waiting patiently in the snake queue; to become the asshole obruni. I drag my suitcase with me and we go to the back of the line. My new best friend instructs a young man standing in line in front of me to become my new, new best friend and relinquishes himself of his duty as my temporary caretaker.

The truth is that I don’t need to be taken care of. I just really needed to know which tro-tro to take. Now me and my new, new best friend stand awkwardly in line together.

“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Always tell them you are from India.” I hear my Ghanaian friend’s words of advise echo in my head. “Whenever Africans hear America they think money.”
“I’m from India,” I state matter of factly in my totally California drawl.

The conversation closes as I stare extremely interested in the chaos of the tro-tro station in front of me. Five minutes passes.

“But…your English, it’s different…” he hesitates.
Damnit, I’ve been caught. Why do I listen to bad advise?
“Oh well, I lived in India. Now I live in the US,” trying to breathe some confidence into my BS.

My gaze returns, extremely interested, to the chaos of the tro-tro station. I look atop the heads of passing vendors: “pure water,” “mentos & handkerchiefs,” “qtips,” “cotton-balls,” “chocolate.” With each one that passes I wonder if I need some. But I’ve never used a handkerchief before, why start now? Having to lug whatever you buy is a great deterrent to buying crap just cause it’s there, it’s cheap and you’re bored.

Alas, the tro-tro to “Old Barrier” (I clarified with my new, new best friend) pulls up, the snake line comes to life. I wrestle my bag to the back of the van and take a seat, by default, next to my new, new best friend.

“How long have you been in Ghana? Are you a tourist in Ghana?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m a tourist.” I say.
I suppose one lie, beseeches another.
“Did you just come to Accra from America?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, this is your first time in Africa?”
“Yes.”
“But how do you know about the buses and tro-tros so well?”
“I read it in my book and my friends told me.”

Am I on a bad date? It sure feels like one.
‘Mona, be patient,’ I tell myself. ‘He’s nice. ‘

“Wow, how is America?” he continues.
“It’s nice.” I respond.

My American norms of privacy are non-existent here. I am on their soil not mine. Yet the man to the other side of me chuckling signals that his incessant questioning is too much. Finally I say: “Please, I am going to listen to my music for some time.” With a guilty conscience, I breathe a big sigh of relief. After three months of being everyone’s point of fascination in the village I am ready to re-embrace my anonymity.