Road Safety
He had a face like a donkey. I’m not trying to say he was ugly or anything. He didn’t have a long, flat nose, or big teeth. It was more in his expression. His slightly sad, deliberate, searching eyes. The sort of pensive set of the lips that showed he was thinking about what he was doing. Each move was carefully plotted, not rashly done. He would not act out of anger, hastily. He had the patience of a donkey, and it shone through his face. His was the sort of expression you hope for from a driver.
The greatest danger to safety in this country doesn’t come from disease or politics, weather or crime. It’s all about the roads. And as I pulled out of Bolga on the trotro this morning I said a little prayer to arrive safely. I don’t think I’ve prayed since I was about ten, but the beginning of a trip is definitely an appropriate time to pray. The road to Tamale is pretty good; it’s paved, there are no major curves or huge hills. It’s about the safest place to drive, I suppose. But with the trucks bombing back and forth from Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso to Accra in the south, with the trotro roofs sometimes stacked as high as the vehicles themselves, crammed full of people, animals, luggage, the roads are something to reckon with. There was only one overturned truck on the road out this morning, and the usual dozen or so broken down on the 2 hour trip. It’s the charred skeletons of buses and trotros that really freak me out. I have seen them before, being worked over for scrap hopefully long enough after the incident not to upset any ghosts.
He had a face I trusted. And I arrived safe.