Homeward bound

Amazingly, getting home from Ghana turned out to be more difficult than coming in.  We started off in Anomabu and first needed to get back to Cape Coast.  First thing in the morning, after we enjoyed complimentary breakfast, of course, we walked to the road to flag down a Tro Tro (shared van) into the city.  After waiting 5 or so minutes a taxi stopped. I was anxious about time so we took it despite the inflated price.  We told the taxi man we needed to catch a bus to Kumasi and he took us straight to a parking lot that serves as a bus station.  The first bus was full and we had to wait in line to buy tickets to the next.  For whatever reason, they don’t sell tickets for the next bus until it arrives.  It’s almost as if they are afraid it may never show. The next hour or so is spent waiting in line. 

We get to Kumasi late afternoon, as soon as we drop our bags at a hotel we head towards the STC bus station to buy tickets for tomorrow.  First I call the PC bureau to get the green light to come home; with the recent civil unrest we were told not to come back without clearance.  Everything has settled down and we’re clear to come back, however we should avoid going through Po, the main boarder between Ghana and Burkina.  Once at STC we ask the lady about the bus that runs from Kumasi to Zabre, the bus we see in Zabre every week, the bus we wanted to take from Zabre to Kumasi when coming into Ghana.  Yes, there is a STC bus that goes from Kumasi to Zabre.  We’d like 2 tickets on that bus, please.  No, you can’t get on the bus here.  Apparently the route is from Abidjan, Cote D’Ivoire, to our little neighboring village Zabre, Burkina Faso, with a stop in Kumasi, Ghana.  You may get on at either end of the route and get off wherever you please, but you can’t get on the bus along the route.  Hhhhmmmm, well that throws a kink in our plans.  The best we can do, and still avoid Po, is to take the bus to Bolgatanga and get onward transport from there. 

At first she tells us the bus to Bolga is full, but then sells us tickets anyways.  We’re weary of our sold out tickets, but the next morning everything goes smoothly, except the bus is several hours late .  After everyone, or almost everyone, has boarded there is a well-dressed lady next to the bus who making a big fuss, yelling at the STC men.  It appears that her and a younger woman, maybe another person, were suppose to be on that bus and the ticket collectors wouldn’t let them on.  She was furious.  I pray we weren’t given her seats.  Meanwhile, Josh is miserable.  He started to come down with a stomach bug the night before and today has a fever and is shitting as much as the surroundings allow.  The STC bus is air conditioned, and they are so proud of that fact they keep it on full blast.  We were both freezing.  At the one food break along the way we went in search of a sweater or blanket for him, but all we could find was a cheap towel.  The rest of the ride Josh was curled up in his towel trying not to poop himself.     

We arrive in Bolga very late that night, and after Josh has an emergency poop in a field, we head to a cheap hotel.  After asking around, the bus for Bawku leaves at 6 am in the morning, so we only have a few hours to get some sleep.  As to be expected, we had a little bit of a late start the next morning, plus we only had a vague idea of where the bus station was, so I was happy when the only car on the road we were walking on was a cab.  He drove us to the parking lot where all the metro busses left and we immediately got on the bus to Bawku.  Any later and we would have missed it.  The bus is a metro bus, and it’s exactly what you’d think of as a metro bus, in a big city.  There are 2 seats on one side and one seat on the other, with poles and lots of standing room in the middle. Perfect for fitting in a lot of people to get across town.  But we were taking this bus 2 or more hours across the country.  We were the last on, so we were standing.  

While still on the metro bus we start asking people about where to go to get a car to Zabre, so as soon as the bus is parked in Bawku a gentleman offers to take us to find a car.  Thank God for nice people all across the world! He takes us to a small little waiting area along the main road, really just a wooden bench and a bunch of people hanging around.  I hear a woman talking in Bissa and Moore and know we’re almost home.  Right away a man says “How are you, my friend?” and gives Josh a big hand shake.  It’s the driver who brought us into Ghana 2 weeks before.  His car is full, but he tells us to wait here and his brother, also a driver, is coming shortly.  The next vehicle that pulls up is a Camion, what the La Rousse dictionary translates as a lorry or a truck; think an open back semi that is mostly used to transport lumber.  Josh and I look at each other, then pile in with everyone else before there is no more room.  However, in Africa, there is always more room.  The bottom of the truck is filled, unevenly,with full rice sacks going  into Burkina, and on top is all the women, children and baggage, literally sitting on top of each other.  For a while I had a women sitting on my feet, supporting her back with my legs.  At another point a small girl was snuggled into me, as if I had my arm around her, all her weight being held up by my arm.  All the men sat along the sides, clinging to the bars that make up the open walls of the camion.  At one point I tried to count how many people were crammed in, about 40 men, 40 women, and 12 children/ babies.  Uncomfortable, to say the least.  We briefly stopped at a police checkpoint, probably on the Ghana side since the man spoke to us in English.  He asked where we were going, but didn’t care to see our papers.  I think he was just amused to see 2 white people traveling on a back road in such a manor.  We unloaded a few rice sacks for the officer, and then continued on.

This route into Burkina first stops in our closest neighbor PCV’s village, and we actually drove right past her house.  I was really hoping she’d be outside and see us, but she wasn’t.  I thought about yelling to her as we drove past her house, but decided that might be too weird for our fellow travelers.  The camion stopped in the marche and we all piled off.  That marche is pretty big and there is a lot of commerce between Ghana and Burkina there; that would be the final destination for most of the people until evening when they would return to Ghana.  From there we would take a normal bush taxi to Zabre, where our bikes were, and then bike home.  We had to wait for the car to fill before we could leave.  It was almost noon, and the marche was just heating up, so not many people ready to leave.  It felt ridiculous to be stuck in a village less then 10K from our house, waiting on a car for several hours, but at least we were in Burkina.  At least we were home.