Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Border Cross-ing

Filled with a spirit of discontent towards Ghana, my roommate, Emily, and me decided to skip the 50th anniversary celebrations and instead head north to Ouagadougou for the FESPACO film festival and then to Niger from there.

We caught the dreaded STC, which I'm increasingly convinced stands for "shite transportation company," and were nattering away about how, for all the frustrations I feel lately, the great thing about Ghana is the fact that there are no touts when you travel. It's all very systemmatic. You want to put your bags in the bus, then you get a baggage ticket and then you get on the bus. You don't want to put your bag on the bus, then you just get on the bus.

Seventeen hours later, the bus deposited us in Bolgatanga in the dead of night and we made our way to a little hotel on the edge of town. It's humid in the south but so dry in the north that our skin dried out pretty quickly and we were clamouring for lip gloss and moisturizer. A leisurely breakfast and then we were in a shared cab heading to the tro-tro station, where we caught a shared cab to Paga, the border city that's better known for the sacred crocodiles that are hand-fed sacrificial chickens by tourists looking for ghoulish photos.

We handed over 20,000 cedis each, expecting 10,000 in return. Instead, we were told it would cost us each 5,000 for our bags, which had ridden in the empty boot of the car. There are 8,000 cedis in a Cdn dollar, so that means we were being charged less than a dollar each, but more than a dollar in total. And it didn't matter anyway, because I will fight on principle and this, to me, was a principle worth fighting for.

So we fought. Much hand waving. Much clucking of tongues and indignant "ehs!"

But the driver had our money and therefore all the power and he just walked away. In the end, the boss told us that if we didn't like it, we could go complain at Customs. He underestimated my willingness to embarrass myself over 10,000 cedis. A principle is a principle.

So we went to Customs and they probably watched in disbelief. Small talk about the journey and how long we'd been in Ghana and where we were from and where we were going. And then the pitch: "We are having a problem and we're hoping you can help." And then the ace card: "This is not how Ghanaians treat their visitors." And then the save: Snap, snap and a small boy is sent to find the driver.

We trot out our Twi (Emily's is soooo much better than mine) and joke about my two words of Ga, "thank you" and "goat's ass," which are pretty much all I need, I've found.

And within minutes, the boy is back with a 10,000 cedi note. "In fact, they were talking about this issue when I arrived," he said.

And we were off to the border, where the guards noticed that Emily's entry stamp had run out about a month before. A month and three days to be precise. It costs a 200,000 cedi fine per month that the stamp is expired, but I've found that it's much easier to pay the fine than try to deal with Ghana Immigration in Accra. When I left at Christmas, I paid 600,000 cedis and it seemed a wise investment. I just nodded and tried to look innocent when the man asked whether I understood that a leave to stay for 60 days was, in fact, a leave to stay for 60 days.

But these guards were going to charge us an extra month for the three days. The pitch: "Oh my friend, isn't there anything we could do?" The ace card: the silent stare, the idea that we have lots of time to think it over and maybe negotiate. And again, the save: Emily's Twi. A small lecture followed up with a "Have you heard?" in Twi, to which she replied, in Twi, "Yes, I have heard."

And then we walked to Burkina Faso.

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