I am not making this up. (part 1)

Hello all,

Elena and I are currently in Kumasi, in central Ghana. We should have been in Burkina Faso for the last 2 days by this time, but sometimes the universe sends you signs, and sometimes you should just listen. The last 5 days have sent us many signs, and we (finally... and painfully) decided to listen. Let me continue.

On Tuesday, Jan. 12th, Elena and I left for Tamale in Northern Ghana with Sena, Anita's sister, who was returning to the north for university. We decided we would ride up with her to say goodbye, as we won't see her again during our visit. So we awake at 5am and pack our bags, making sure to remember tampons, bar soap for laundry and water purification tablets. We planned to be traveling for at least 3 weeks in Burkina Faso and Mali.

At 6 we boarded a taxi heading for Accra and Tema station where we had to arrive by 8 to buy our tickets for a 10am "Kufour" bus (the name of the former president, who implemented this bus system during his presidency) headed to Tamale. On the tro the adventure began when a "preacher" decided to first regale us with a praise song (in Twi) and then give us a sermon about staying on the right path and resisting the temptation to be friends with "evil doers" (ie: probably Elena and I...) for at least 30 minutes. While first hilariously ridiculous that I was literally shaking with my silent laughter, then absolutely irritating and then finally just monotonous as he said basically the same thing repeatedly, I was very nearly almost impressed with the conviction he had in his faith to share his concerns even in the face of white girls laughing at him. But then, he asked for money. I very nearly turned around to ask what the hell service he had provided me, other than this very story, but decided to pretend I had fallen asleep to avoid being pressured into parting with precious coins. Conviction my ass.

So, we eventually arrive at the station, and Sena has to pay 2 cedis ($1.50) for a woman to put her gigantic bag in a large metal tub and then carry it through the station (at lightning speed I might add) to where our bus was leaving from. We arrived at about 8:30. The bus was sold out. I would have been much more incredulous about the whole situation if this hadn't happened to me at nearly every attempt to buy a bus ticket I have ever made in this country. We were instructed to sit and wait... and what? I asked the ticket seller what exactly we needed to wait for and he just ushered us over to a bench to wait. And, lo and behold, about an hour later, he had procured us tickets. Absolutely incredible.

So, we load the bus, and it is uncomfortable and crowded and hot, and I get a sunburn through the window and it takes 12 hours. Awful, but fairly uneventful.

We part with Sena there, who goes to her father's house, and we load into a taxi and pay way to much to go the "Fucking Catholic Guest House." I call it the "Fucking Catholic Guest House" because it is literally the only hotel in Tamale that any cab driver ever knows, and it is also always, always full. Additionally, Elena and I, invariably always go there and are disappointed and then wander the streets of Tamale looking for a different place to say. Tuesday night was no different.

We eventually find a room at a different guesthouse, where we shower and sleep and wake up the next morning to catch a tro to Bolgatanga, north of Tamale, where we were told (by our increasingly unhelpful guidebook) we can catch a car to Hamale and on to Burkina Faso. The car was very cramped, so we each paid 1 cedi to load our packs into the back of the tro. Elena watched to make sure they actually make it into the car, as a friend of ours had a bag just not get loaded into her tro and it had to be delivered the next day. Again, we had a long, hot and uncomfortable ride, although this one only took 2 and-a-half hours.

We arrive in Bolga in the heat of the day, at about 3:30, proud of our foresight to reserve a room in a guest house in town. However, when the bags were unloaded, Elena's backpack was mysteriously absent.

We both stood there in mild shock for a few moments waiting for it to materialize from the empty boot, or the now vacant rack on top of the car, before we finally ask where the hell it was. We are met with resistance and the attempt to claim it as our fault. I was pissed. I began to talk quite forcefully to some poor young man, who ended up being only a passer-by trying to help, but who I assumed worked at the station saying something like: "We had two bags, and we paid 2 Ghana Cedi to get them here safely. There was no room inside the car, so this is not our fucking fault! This is yours!" Super fine moment for all. My irritation was increased exponentially when neither the mate (the man who takes money and also loads and unloads bags at stops) the driver nor the station director when talk to me (or Elena) or even look us in the eye. It got to a point that I began to rely on the general curiosity of the crowded station by saying things like "Someone needs to figure this out!" or "Where the fuck is he going now?" as these men continued to scurry around my rage and Elena's shock not communicating anything at all. I wanted to shoot someone. Multiple times.

Eventually, Mustafa (I kid you not) the driver, who did not speak English, but who was technically responsible, as it was his tro, attempted to communicate to us that they were calling the Tamale station to see if the bag had been left, and to get it to Bolga to us. There was a brief attempt to get us to go back to Tamale to claim it, which was met with a firm and loud no from me. I mean, seriously, Who the hell are you? We were told to come back in 2 hours (too bad it is at least a 2 and-a-half hour trip...) to get the bag (by Mustafa, who does not speak English). We had no idea that it was all about to get so much more insane.

I love you.