I remained calm. I didn’t know better. The driver’s knuckles whitened, passengers’ heads hit the ceiling, we left a wheel in a pothole – and still I shrugged.

I won’t die, I thought. Not here. Not on vacation.

And then I saw a car hurtling towards us.

And I realized -- it could happen.

Who thought it was possible to miss the MTA?

Ghana can do that. The former Gold Coast has an economy that’s shit, an ex-dictator hovering threateningly on the sidelines. Villagers need electricity, running water, a stable currency, and paved roads that don’t disappear in the rainy season. Subways? Fugghedaboutit.

I get so used to the first world, you know. It’s easy when you’re bound by vacation time, and don’t even have the Discovery Channel to take you places. Maybe that’s why it came as such a shock to me, something I already knew, that I take a lot for granted -- like, say, transport. Sure, you can die on the street here, get hit by a cabbie or a cell-phone space cadet with Firestone tires. But for the most part, when you get in a car of any sort, you have a plan.

Funny how that works.

Getting around Ghana is funny, too, if you’re blissfully ignorant to the terrors of West Africa. It took stamina, not to mention knowhow thankfully provided by my Peace Corps friend. It was a lesson learned, thus a lesson shared. So just in case you end up there (which I recommend, a story for another day), here’s a quick how-to:

First off, the options. Taxi (think 7 people, one car), tro-tro (think Dollar Van) or bus (Greyhound, Ghana style.)

Second, whatever the vehicle, its engine starts when every seat is filled. Bring a book. It could take hours. It helps that you’re not in a hurry (you’re not, don’t be) because you’ll get there when you get there. Truth be told, you’ll be lucky to get there at all.

Next, there is no such thing as an aisle. When all “traditional” seats have been filled, that’s when more flip down to make use of all available space. Like fuel, which shot up in price 40 percent in one day, space is precious; not to be wasted.

Fourth commandment: love thy neighbor -- because you’ll soon be well acquainted. One person gets one seat, no matter how big he or she may be. If your neighbor is a large man in a small seat, sorry to hear it. If his neighbor is also a large man in a small seat, god help you all. You’ll be happy to know that chickens and goats don’t get their own seats – although you may find it more comfortable to join them and the sacks of yams in the cargo space.

Five: Pay your friendly customs agent. This rule’s not legal, surely, but it makes the trip faster when you just offer up whatever bribe the official stopped the bus looking for. After all, the bankrupt government doesn’t pay his salary. Someone has to. Not that you can’t stand to wait til he’s done nosing around. It’s not as though you’re in a hurry to get anywhere.

Rules change as fast as bus fares – which, given the rampant inflation, move a hell of a lot faster than the buses themselves. But it’s safe to say that snotty, shrieking babies ride free. You bag, though, that’ll be extra. (Was that a rule for everyone, or just me?)

And if your vehicle breaks down, stranding you on the side of a road in the hot, hot sun, don’t ask for a refund. Just wait… be patient… the driver’s under the bus, which is balanced precariously on rocks because the jack wouldn’t work… the bus is rocking dangerously as hopeless passengers unload their luggage… but he’s fixing it… it’s being worked on…It’s in the mail…

Soon it’s dark.

In fairness, I should temper the sturm and drang. After all, I chose to take public transit of my own will and volition. I was not forced. And it has its redeeming features. It’s a good place to be if you’re hungry. If you ever need an egg, it’s very likely in a girl’s headpan outside your window. Water? Doughnut? Yam? Fried fish to chew on? It’s all an arm’s length away.

Public transit is a great way to see Ghana. To hear the myriad of local languages as they’re all rapidly spoken to fare-collecting “mate.” To see the women and their fantastic garments – black and red means they’re on their way to a funeral, anything else is simply too nice to be subjected to such dust.

It’s kind of fun to ride as a tourist, not knowing what’s around the next bend. It’s like taking a roller coaster. A little bit scary. The car goes up and down a lot. There’s wind blowing in your face. Some screaming involved. I just pity the poor Ghanaians who rely on public transportation to actually get them places.

That said, don’t get too comfortable MTA, if you’re reading. Have you taken the 4 train on a weekday morning, especially in the summer? Were you herded like cattle, then made to stand for 40 long, underground minutes smashed between a wannabe rap star and a perfume-drenched wannabe Wall Streeter? OK, our economy has its own troubles and our city has its own dictator -- who’s still in office, no less.

And for whatever reason, there's less B.O. in Ghana.

You think about it. While I sign up for the straphanger campaign.

Email: davidr@lifeingotham.com

Next Update: 3 March