Another week has passed here in sunny Accra and everything is delicious here on Saturday morning outside on the porch. My legs are sweating but a lazy breeze wanders my way sometimes. Relief! One way or another my body is adapting to the weather here and I find myself sweating less and less when I walk the streets with the National Service Personnel, defining markets in the midday heat throughout the workweek. “Less and less” is a good ways from “not at all” though, and still everyday I look forward to the evening ritual of peeling off the clingy skin of soaked shirt and pants stuck to my shins and thighs. For reference, the Ghanaians I’ve been working with this week, George and Mavis, don’t seem to sweat at all. Maybe week three will bring complete adjustment? I’m not counting on it.

The sweating problem was compounded on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of this week when Oti, my driver, had car trouble.

On Wednesday he showed up at the office later than usual. We try to leave downtown by 4:30 so as to beat the worst of the traffic. If we make our target we can complete the 5km drive in under 30 minutes. Otherwise it can take an hour or even more. Sitting in traffic with Oti isn’t so bad, though: he’s great to talk to and I’ve learned a lot from him about growing up Ghanaian. It’s significantly less enjoyable to make the hour-long trek in a compact car piloted by Oti’s friend Kwame who has 5 elementary school kids in the backseat. Oti had gotten a flat on the way to pick me up and Kwame, who happened to be passing by, offered to help him out. So when I walked out of the office Wednesday around 5pm (peak traffic time!) I was whisked into this miniature-circus-kinderwagon-mobile and we puttered off down the road towards home. Just 75 minutes later came the second-to-last stop: the VA house!

On Thursday Oti had his car back, and he drove up in front of the office just a few minutes behind schedule. When he started the car it was belching thick acrid white smoke from the tailpipe and he was revving it to beat the band. The problem here was that anytime he took his foot off the gas pedal (which, in a stick shift car, is quite a regular occurrence) the car would turn off, or worse, stall and violently lurch to a stop. So the game was to drive without letting the engine rev below 2,000rpm. This means a delicate two-footed approach with limited clutch and liberal use of the emergency break. Of course it doesn’t help that a large portion of the drive is spent inching along in traffic. So the car didn’t last very long under this regime. Within a half a km we were pulled to the side of the road and Oti was taking a taxi to the nearest filling station to get some gas.

When he returned with a full gas-can and an eager taxi driver cum mechanic they had some ideas: first, was it just out of gas? No. Second, was it the gas line? Here they yanked one end of the hose out of the starter motor and the taxi driver sucked on it until he had a mouthful of unleaded gas, which he proceeded to spit out on the starter (“to be sure the petrol is everywhere inside”). Again, no dice. Now came the time for a rolling start. The taxi driver and I pushed together while Oti kept the car in neutral and successfully started it and kept it revving high. Then they popped the hood and, with the engine whining proceeded to attack it with finger, screwdriver, and stone. They banged on the battery terminals with rocks from the ground, poked at the starter motor and belt with a screwdriver, and even thrust hands with reckless abandon into the squealing mechanical hurricane. At some point it was determined that she runs good, and with a lurch we waved goodbye to the taxi driver and lurched on down the road.

A few minutes later we were stalled again and it was determined that, whenever we lurched to a halt, I should hop out and give us a push while Oti desperately pumped the gas pedal and urged the starter. This actually worked for the most part (only a few more stalls), and it also produced one stand-out encounter that was, without a doubt, this week’s high point: here we stalled in the middle of a busy three-way intersection and the pressure was on. Honking and yelling coming immediately from all directions and out steps the well-dressed Obruni from the passenger seat, beginning to push the car. I was immediately joined by some locals who were standing by the roadside; but they had barely laid hands on the car when Oti got it started and I hopped in the passenger door, sweating profusely, and we began to roll down the road. Then, for no more than two seconds, I was rewarded with the pure comedy of this man running alongside the car by the open passenger window with his hand out. He said “A little something for the guys!” It sounded like “A leedle sum-tin fo’ deh’ gize!” and he was smiling like a bellhop at Club Med, showing some local color for the big tip. Oti was laughing and then it hit me too and we were laughing so hysterically the car almost stalled again. But after that we made it all the way to the repair shop where we coasted in and Oti’s friend fixed the car completely, for free, in less than five minutes. I got home just over two hours.

Finally Friday afternoon rolls around and it’s so nice to get a clean, quick ride home at the end of the week. And it’s not so nice to step out of the office and see Oti standing there without a car, but with an empty gas-can; and to know that, wherever the car is, the nearest filling station is a 20-minute walk. But it’s better to carry gas to a car than to push a car through rush hour in Accra. So even though it was a fairly long detour (about an hour) it was easy and punctuated by a beer we bought at the filling station and drank on the way back to the car and, ultimately, not so bad. I was back home in about an hour and a half.

So transportation is “consistently variable” and, with Oti at the helm, even that is pretty fun.

Last night (Friday) I had a taste of home when I went with Justin and some other friends to Jazz Tone, Accra’s leading (only) jazz club. We heard real, and really good, jazz; we sat in front of the air-conditioning vent; and I had a Tanqueray and tonic with two slices of lime. I could have died right there…Heard some blues with killer harmonica player sitting in, some Duke, Miles, Gilberto, and even a version of “St. Thomas” that was cooler than the A/C and the G&T put together. It was a great night.

Now it’s lazy Saturday, the day of rest and email and maybe some music. Tonight Oti has invited me to go with him and his friends to their favorite beach spot and “take some beers.”

And how’s everything in your respective habitats? Let me know! Love, Jake.