Heat coming through the rusty floorboards of our dilapidated van burned the bottoms of my feet as we clattered through the crowded shantytowns of Ghana’s capital, Accra. We traveled up the poorly maintained, potholed streets and down a dirt road, stopping only to wait for the goats, chickens, and children to clear the road before heading to the office of the Ghanaian Chronicle . My in–country coordinator introduced me to the editor of the newspaper, a man I would answer to but rarely see for the next two months. When told I was a journalism student at USC, he was pleased to hear I had any training at all.

Marlowe Epstein in Ada Foah on the coast of Ghana I came to Ghana as a volunteer journalist to work for an independent newspaper in a part of the world where free speech is not a right and governments are known to shut down media outlets that challenge the status quo. The Chronicle earned its reputation in the West African nation under the previous government, when J. J. Rawlings was the president, and the country was rife with corruption. The paper reports a circulation of 150,000, but my experience in Ghana has led me to believe that most statistics are fairly unreliable.

Boarding the tro–tro The Chronicle is said to cater to the range of social classes in Accra, but the poverty in West Africa is so great the lower classes spend most of their time finding food, water, and shelter. The average income in Ghana is about $1 a day, so buying newspapers is not a priority or even a possibility for most of them.

When Mr. Ohene, the editor, asked me about the stories I was interested in writing, I told him I wanted to be a travel writer. He raised an eyebrow to indicate a more serious journalistic endeavor would have been a more appropriate response. I quickly recovered, if only momentarily, by telling him my minor is international studies, and I am interested in politics and social issues.

He fired a series of questions at me about local politics, and it became quickly apparent my knowledge of Ghanaian goings–on was woefully inadequate. He welcomed me aboard, nonetheless, and I was shown to the newsroom.

We walked outside and up a spiral staircase. The door was propped open to a small room with two metal desks, four computers and no air conditioning. The overhead fan provided the only respite from the heat as a dozen reporters perched on window sills and atop desks for lack of chairs. They were reading papers, writing stories, waiting for a computer, listening to the news on a small portable radio, and chatting in the local dialect. I introduced myself, spoke briefly with some of the reporters and told them I would start Monday morning.

Getting to work Monday proved to be an interesting start to a long and disorienting day. From the house I shared with other volunteers, I walked through the roundabout of Asylum Down, my new neighborhood, and followed a wide, open sewer down a street lined with market stalls to the main road, where I waited for a tro–tro, the primary mode of transportation in Ghana. The stripped– down minivans, usually with a rope holding the door on, can reasonably seat 12, but generally carry twice that many Ghanaians.

Everything nonessential to the operation of the vehicle usually has been sold, including interior panels, headrests, seat belts, and some windows. Fold–down jump seats in the aisle help accommodate the overflow of people.

The driver is assisted by a younger man who operates the door and leans out the window soliciting passengers and shouting the name of the tro–tro’s destination.

In Ghana, there are no addresses or postal codes, only landmarks. I was going to Kwame Nkrumah Circle, and I realized after taking the wrong tro–tro that my destination was called “Circle,” or was simply indicated by hand motion that resembles the action one takes to turn a sticky doorknob.

To board the tro–tro, you flag it down, pay eight cents and hope you are headed in the right direction. To alight, you shout “bus stop” ( baz stope with a Ghanaian accent, lest you be misunderstood), and 25 people with all their wares shift around to let you out.

(Continued next week)