Run for the border

When we arrived at the border, we walked across as usual, then ran into problems. The bureaucrat behind the desk told me my visa was invalid and there was nothing he could do about it, as he can’t issue visas at that border crossing. At one point, he put my passport behind the desk, which just enraged me. If you can’t do anything for me, don’t act like a big man with the authority to confiscate my passport. I was about ready to hit someone or something but Rhonda was totally cool about it. We ended up getting back into the tro-tro, where the driver told us he was heading that night to Lome and we could go with him. Something got lost in the translation because we thought we were only going to be a few hours, but in fact, we spent a few hours waiting at a small town with a car park. We never really figured out what the hold up was, but about two hours after we arrived, we started to get worried and went to find the tro-tro, which was just heading out to pick up some betes sauvages, so we sent along too, figuring it would be quieter and more comfortable than sitting in town, where we’d attracted the attention of some local boys. It was certainly educational! At the barn, the tro-tro backed up and several boys began carting out sheep and goats with two hooves tied together who screamed their displeasure in transit, but sat rather quietly in a huddle on the ground while the boys placed a tarp over the luggage and baggage, then handed the sheep and goats up one at a time, where they were then tied down, screaming the whole time. And when I say screaming, I mean screaming like little children searching for their mothers. It was incredible. And it lasted for the whole seven hours it took to work our way south. We arrived at Lome just after 6 a.m., completely exhausted and feeling like we’d just come out of the pretzel factory. We decided just to go buy another visa at the border, after a small rest and shower at a nearby hotel. Unbelievably, the hotels in Lome rent by the hour, chambers a repose, they’re called, and we were quite happy to sleep for a couple hours and get more than a day’s worth of dust and dirt out of our hair, skin and ears. It was just gross.

When we emerged from the room to pay our bill, a Rasta approached and told us he could easily get a visa in a day at the Ghana embassy, where he had a friend. We hopped on a zemidjan and headed for the embassy, where our Rasta talked me through the surprisingly officious paperwork and negotiated a 5,000 CFA bribe for the woman taking the paperwork, who arranged for me to meet with the consular officer and get my visa within the hour. I had only American dollars left, but it was enough and the guy was kind enough to upgrade me to a multiple entry, so I dashed him a Canadian pen.

Outside, the Rasta was telling Rhonda that he hoped one day she could love him as much as he loved her and she was explaining about her very big boyfriend. We needed to get to an Internet café so Rhonda could sort her RRSP donations, and Rasta boy decided to accompany us, telling the zemidjan drivers in the local language to take us to a different place where he was known. He told me he’d paid, although I never saw money change hands and he refused to take my money when I offered it. We were a bit annoyed with the guy, as he just kept hanging around and talking about coming with us to Ghana and showing us around. When we left the café to get something to eat, he came with us, despite our best efforts to dissuade him, Rhonda even telling him she wasn’t happy he’d brought us somewhere different as there was a reason we had chosen the other place. So we walked to the grocery store – conveniently near the Artists Market, where I think he was hoping to take us so he could “earn” a commission – and Rasta boy followed, offering to hold onto the basket, etc. although I told him to go, as we didn’t need him anymore. Outside the store, we told him we were going to the border, thanks and goodbye and he told me: “You should pay Rasta Man for his work this morning.” I told him I agreed he deserved something for his help at the embassy and offered him 2,000 CFA. He refused it, saying he expected 5,000 CFA. Rhonda and I just looked at each other and laughed. I told him it wasn’t up for negotiation, offered it again, then walked away with it in my pocket when he refused it again. We got on zemidjans headed for the border and he got on another and followed us. I felt a little scared, actually, watching him weave in and out of traffic around Rhonda and her huge pack. One shove or grab and she would be pushed into traffic. Other than that, I knew he couldn’t do a thing. At the border, we got down, paid our drivers then squared off with Rastaboy who told us we owed him for the five hours he spent with us. Rhonda looked at her watch. It had been about 2-1/2 hours since we left the hotel. I reminded him I’d already paid for all his rides and that other than the embassy, we neither wanted nor needed his help. In the end I paid him 3,000 CFA just to get rid of him.

We walked across the border as usual, a guard stopping Rhonda to flirt. We both felt insanely better about being in an English speaking country with a cheap currency. After 10 days we’d each spent about $300 and had only a ripped 5,000 CFA note left.

We hopped in another car and made the bumpy ride back to Accra, where I did such a stellar job negotiating for a taxi, I actually felt bad for the guy and added 5,000 cedis to it, having not realized the Takoradi station was all the way over by Kaneshie.

We bought tickets for a Neoplan bus and waited for it to arrive and fill up. As we waited, Rhonda told me she doesn’t know how I’ve managed, that she took public transport only while her mom and I visited, and that otherwise she rode the bus provided by her company or waited for friends to offer her a ride.

The bus to Takoradi was a nightmare, pure and simple. It was full, but the seating arrangement was terrible, with three on one side and two on the other, although there was really only room for two on each side. I ended up standing for several hours, as it was just more comfortable. The road was under construction nearly the whole way and the bus moved at a snail’s pace. At one point, when I stood, I felt a really painful bump on my foot and by the end of the trip, it was so swollen and purple, it hurt to put any weight on it.

We abandoned all plans to go all the way to Axim and instead checked into a hotel recommended by the guidebook that was pretty foul. We both showered – another insanely grimy day – and I slathered on the polysporin and headed for bed, on a mattress so thin I could feel the boards.

In the morning we went hunting for a bank machine, an Internet connection and some breakfast, finding all three rather easily. I had a couple emails from Schiller, which were quite nice, actually, and sent a quick note about getting out of Benin.

We headed to the tro-tro station and made our way to Axim, the only small delay being a flat tire conveniently near the rubber factory. Axim the town was not much, but Axim the resort was just what the doctor ordered. The rooms were expensive, but worth it, coming with TV (!!) and lots of room for us to spread out our laundry. By the end of the first day, it looked like a refugee camp.

We ate some lunch and headed for the beach, where the water is a little more “interactive” than usual, with the waves pushing and the current pulling. Each of us flaked out with books and snacks and generally felt quite contented. The saltwater seemed to be doing wonders for my foot, which was still purple, but not as swollen.

That night, as I was standing in the shower, the South African news reported there was a military coup in Togo, where the ailing president had died and the military had installed his son to finish the three years left in his term. Edemeya had been president for 40 years and had survived a plane crash and it was initially unclear whether he had simply died or been killed. Anyway, we missed it by two days, marveling at how different things would have been if we’d waited for my passport. Pretty crazy!