Today I thought I had successfully avoided having to take a trotro because my cousin came round. Nice 4×4, smooth drive, AC. I thought for a second I was living the life as he drove me down to the British High Commission to register, so that if need be, they know I’m here. Turns out they don’t want you to register and that Yorkshire lass I spoke to on the phone when I was in London lied to me, but I won’t hold it against her because the journey wasn’t rough.
But then my cousin dropped me and my mother back home, instead of taking us to Kasoa (a town west of the capital). So we took the trotro for an hour to Kasoa and an hour back after completing our mission. Can I explain the sweaty, stuffy, more-anti-social-than-the-underground atmosphere of a trotro? Let’s just say I’m going to start playing the lottery, hopefully I win enough money to buy a car and hire a full time driver. Apparently it’s not all bad. There’s a blog I came across when starting this post called TroTro Diaries and a hashtag and twitter handle dedicated to the experience. Yes. It requires this much documentation, for it is no ordinary method of transportation.
Tomorrow I’m taking a taxi.
p.s. the “o” in trotro has the same vowel quality as the “o” in hot.