We are crammed into the back of the taxi. I'm clinging to the door, trying to keep it closed as we break land speed records. My colleagues are perched on the knees of two Ghanaian men. The baby tied to her mother's back beside me looks at me in fear, not quite sure why my skin is so pale. Honestly, I feel like saying, I don't know why either. I've been in Ghana for five months.
The blistering Ghanaian sun is already beginning to set and the mosquito’s have descended, flittering through the windows as we speed along. I scratch a raw, infected bite guiltily. Nobody is safe once the sun goes down. Dusk is my favourite time in Ghana. Especially on “Prisons Road”. The vastness of that tiny stretch of road is louder than any city and the half-finished, concrete flats people call home are a stark contrast to the open fields and tiny villages surrounding.
“Prisons Road” is unlike any other. It is home to three prisons, each as aggressively mysterious as the next. Our taxi whizzes past the Communal Diseases prison; a cluster of hastily thrown together shacks surrounded by a chain link fence. The locals avoid eye contact with the prisoners mashed against the fence, wailing for help. I cannot. The blurred image of a man in rags with one leg leaning against the fence will remain with me for the night.
A hundred metres beyond that stands the oppressive, red brick monstrosity that is the maximum security facility. It is a beacon in the African wasteland, so out of place amongst the strangling poverty.
The taxi shudders to a halt and we hand over our crumpled Cedi notes and step onto the dirt track. Children are screeching and playing recklessly, while their mothers amble aimlessly trying to sell water and fried Plantain chips.
It’s then that I spot them. The boys in blue. The inmates of the third and final prison. They wear the dark blue uniform of minimum security, machetes tucked into their belts, as they barter for bagged water from a woman with a basket balanced precariously on her head. Beads of sweat dot her brow as she struggles to deal with the amassed crowd of men. The village has been without water for two weeks.
These men roam the surrounding villages from dawn until dusk, carrying out manual labour. I wonder if their freedom is worth the price. These men do not flee during the hours of freedom, because life is easier in prison.
“Obruni!” an inmate shouts. It’s local slang for foreigner. A guard, watching passively, shoves the young man and they are herded back to prison.
I hoist my backpack higher and begin walking with the others. We split two small bags of water between us and discuss how we’re going to ration our limited supply for the next few days.
Entries to The Irish Times Travel Writer competition, in association with Travel Department, are now closed. The winning writer will be announced on October 29th in The Irish Times Magazine. See irishtimes.com/travelwriter
