strangers on a train

Here Seth and I are, sitting in the sparsely furnished car of the newly refurbished Accra-Tema shuttle. A porter ambles along and serves us cold Fanta and Coke. We’re among the few who get to take a ride on the shuttle or the “Golden Jubilee Line” as it’s been recently christened before its official launch the next day. This is a big deal, a fun event. It’s funny, then, that all I want to do is throw myself out the window, onto the ground that whizzes by us, and escape the conflicted thoughts that cast a pallour over the smiles of the Ghanaians both on board and on the ground waving at the cars.

The shuttle has been under repair since 2004 as part of a government initiative to breathe new life into the decrepit railway line. I’m told it stopped being used about twenty years ago. It’s a historic day and earlier at the press conference launching the line, I can tell the railway company employees – all clad in identical green hats and shirts – are proud of their work. One knows it’s a particularly important occasion because President John Kufuor himself made an appearance and will be boarding the first run of the newly restored shuttle.

The president arrives in a huge convoy. After his car was involved in an accident about a month ago, his cronies now stop traffic when the convoy is approaching. The car arrives and Kufuor leads his band through the usual pomp and circumstance of a Ghanaian press conference. A brass band trumpets out some grandiose marching tune as the president and his entourage – a group of about twelve extremely large men – race around the compound, shaking hands and waving at the assemblage of parliament members, reporters and railway employees. There’s a prayer. I bow my head dutifully and nearly doze off from the heat of the noon sun.

There are speeches, more music, a traditional dance performance, more music, and then everyone is ushered to the train for its takeoff.

We pop our heads out and let the wind blow against our damp faces. As the train passes by, people in their backyards wave and yell at us. I’m surprised how many sites are stating to look familiar after three months in this country – the barbed wire atop the walls surrounding the airport, for example, and the vegetable gardens hidden behind the urban exteriors of houses along the road.

As we get closer to the city, the reception becomes a little more frantic, and people get a bit louder and more excited. In a rather typical moment of obruni solipsism, I assume they’re reacting the way some Ghanaians do when they see a white face like mine, all curious smiles and waving. But no – I realize it’s definitely their brief glimpses of the President – or JAK, as he’s commonly referred to in the media here - inspiring this ardour. I sit back and sip on my drink, feeling like a jerk.

Meanwhile Seth, in usual exuberant fashion, is bounding up and down the aisles of the train interviewing everyone he can. He’s exchanging jovial words with a minister when we draw closer to Achimota and a first stop. Before I can process what’s happening, a massive herd of people gathers seemingly out of nowhere on the dusty street corner, apparently tipped off in advance that the President would be stepping out in their neighbourhood. And step out he does – in a rapid succession of events, the entourage pours from the car, forming a sort of large muscular man-cushion around the President as he walks quickly past the train’s cars waving to thrilled members of the crowd. Everyone runs to the opposite end of the car to get a glimpse except me – I stick my head out the window and wipe dust from my eyes, watching the last few kids trailing behind the herd going wild for JAK.

Again the entourage piles back onto the car and we zip off to the final stop in Accra.

The scenery changes markedly, and I get a palpable sense that we are entering the city at last. The landscape becomes clotted with potholes filled with dirty water. The houses become smaller and are squashed closer together. I wince as we pass the back lot of an area that for all intents and purposes, looks like a slum dwelling. There is literally a river of sewage overwhelming the area, and everywhere there are children with bare feet. That familiar stink of the city fills the car. Welcome home.

The interesting part is the more the landscape deteriorates as we go deeper into Accra, the more people are animated by the sight of Kufuor. People crowd through the doorways and windows of their houses, shoving their hands and faces through to get a glimpse of JAK. The smiles are bigger, wider and brighter here. Women have unwrapped scarves from around their heads and waists and fan them frantically in the air – flames of batik and print vainly licking at the sky. Everyone is singing and dancing. At one point we pass something that looks like a shed where a bunch of people, unable to get outside in time, slide their hands between the top of the shed and a cluster of barbed wire at the top, waving and wriggling their fingers at the President. For some reason this sends a lump to my throat.

I wonder – what is the President seeing right now? Does he see the conditions the people live in in his country? Does he wish he had done more after two terms in office? And yet the love for him – even if it’s merely superficial – is so strong, so fervent. Later that night, as I recount the story to my roommates, we ruminate that the excitement may also be partially due to the fact that this country has only enjoyed democratic elections since 2000. This is the man they elected and at this time next year, he won’t be there anymore. He is the physical embodiment of Ghanaian democracy. For all the country’s endemic problems, he represents something good. I feel horrible for my cynicism.

Finally we arrive at the last stop. Seth grabs me. “I’m going to try to speak with Kufuor!” he yells at me. I force a smile and say something positive that will allay my terrible mood, shoving him off into the crowd. Once again, a mass flood of people empty the car as Kufuor departs. I lag behind, feeling quite honestly like hell. I see Seth leaping around, holding his minidisk recorder aloft, and wish his excitement could be mine. I trudge over to the sidewalk in my ridiculous work shoes. I think about how futile everything feels right now, how unequipped I am to be working here, how much I want to go home.

I comb the crowd for Seth after awhile and glimpse him pushing back through the crowd. He is beaming. “I got him!” he shouts. “I got the only interview with Kufuor!” He throws his arms around me and we jump around. He tells me the minister took a liking to him and brought him straight to the President. The entire time he was interviewing him (for all of three minutes) Kufuor’s guards were pinching his arms trying to get him to leave. He shows me the bruises. I laugh my ass off and we run away from the hordes of people chasing Kufuor’s motorcade trying to get back to the office.

Seth keeps grinning all the way back as we are squashed between bodies of those still trying to get one last look at the President. I know he is enjoying that wonderful feeling you get as a journalist when you make that first big coup. He penetrated the President’s circle, even briefly. It’s a big deal when you’re a 23-year-old Ghanaian journalist still finishing your national service, getting paid peanuts, and rarely receiving praise or props for your efforts. We keep yelling about his victory all the way home. And I realize I’ve experienced yet another one of the ridiculous, melodramatic highs and lows that have so far characterized my experience in this country. The contrasts between wealth and poverty here make me sick. The differences in communication and interaction often make me furious. The sincerity and goodwill of everyone here makes me cry. And the people I work with make me smile like an idiot on a daily basis. Why the hell does anyone stay here? How the hell can I ever leave?