The Sounds of Ghana

“Ssssssssssss,” it sounds like the forked tongue of a snake flittering about its mouth. Or a dragonfly zooming by. In America, it would be rude. But here it is a customary communication, a way of getting somebody's attention, usually a vendor.

The tro tro driver has another tool at his disposal: the horn. He uses it to grab the attention of the pure water lady in response to her purrs and meows of “puuuuur whaaaatter.” For that, it is just enough of a “meep” to get her attention. Half of the road runner's call to Wily Coyote.

But, as we ride across Ghana, I have come to recognize that there is a whole language in car horns here. Honks of existence and identity. As if to say, “I am here.” “Greetings.” “How are you?” “Hey there. It's been a while!” They honk back and forth at each other as they pass in opposite lanes. And they honk between each other warnings of what's ahead, permission to pass, notification that they are stopping or going. I am convinced there is an entire language here. Different inflections with different meanings. A morse code of a vocabulary that I don't understand.

I have come to understand one small piece of the tro tro driver's language. It is the bang on the metal side of the vehicle. I cannot do it with the rhythm and grace of the money collecting touts that ride in the fold down seat on the side. But it tells him when to stop and when to go. That or a shrill “bus stop” hollered from the back. But even the words take on the intonations of songs. The pastor who speaks in tongues, speaks rhythms not words. And the children's chants of “obruni” are as much of a nursery rhyme as a recognition of a white man walking by.

The rhythm of this country is contained everywhere. It is in the children banging on buckets on their way home from school. The women pounding fufu. The crickets that sound like they are tapping bottles. The man cutting into a coconut with a machete. The rattling of the plantains frying in a big bowl of oil. The hiss of the opening of a cold glass bottle of Fanta. The woman grazing the edge of an orange peel off with a small knife before arranging it on display on her stand. The big metal bowls that clunk and bang everywhere. The home made drums and xylophones. Talking drums. Roaring drums. Summoning drums. Thumping drums.