Sandema | SAN-da-ma |

Here's a little post I wrote a while back and never got around to posting...

I'm on the highway when I hear my bike begin to squeak with every rotation of the pedal. As I decide to detour to town to go to the mechanic there's a loud honk, followed by a whoosh, and a bus races past me. I swerve to the right to dodge the goat that has just dodged the bus, and continue. The rules of the road are different here, but fairly simple: avoid potholes, avoid farm animals, stay to the side so bigger vehicles can pass, and be careful around motos. There are no stop signs, or traffic lights, just open road and waving neighbours. 

Once in town I coast past the bank towards the big tree behind where my mechanic, Small, sits. 

"I just got off the bus." He says after we make our way through the formal greetings. "I passed you on the road." If I say something back to this I don't pay attention, I'm too busy laughing to myself about how all of Sandema knows what I am doing at all times just because I stand out. 

When I finish describing the problem with my bike to him Small hands me a towel wrapped around a plastic pouch. "Hold this." he says, as he hops on my bicycle saying something about oil. Moments later he disappears around the bend in the road, and I am clasping his towel. I turn to my roommate and jokingly mutter "And that is the story of how Brittany's bicycle was stolen." Of course, I know this is not the case. I sit down, and begin to wait for Small to return.  

"What's in the pouch?" Katie asks. I peel the towel back and see I am holding Small's passport. Resisting the urge to open it and learn his real name, I hold it up to show her.

"I think he's coming back with my bike." And after few minutes he does. He has borrowed my bike to ride home and fetch his tools, and proudly pulls them out to show me.  

"Your bike rides SMOOOOOOTH." he says and he climbs off, flips it over and greases the hub. 

I'm on my way again shortly: off to the grocery store and in search of water. I park my bike, and pass by some children in the market. There's a girl no older than 18 months, perched on a market table, an adult nowhere in sight. I stop and shake her hand. It's not uncommon to find a child "unattended" here, but even then the older kids watch out for the younger ones, and there's never an adult far away. The girl cracks a smile. I pat her head and keep walking. 

I'm making my way past the bank again when a police officer calls me over. 

"What are you doing?!" he says sternly. 

"Drinking water." I say, gesturing to the bag in my hand. 

"Drinking water AND walking." he says accusingly. "Why?" 

"I'm a multitasker." I reply. "Sometimes I walk and drink water and talk. I even drink and talk while riding my bike." 

He laughs. I'm clearly not in trouble: he's just razzing me. "I'm Osman." he says "What's your name?" 

These are the funny, harmless, kind of small-town Ghana days. Not every day is like this, but there's a beauty to be found in the days that are.