I am not making this up. (part 2)

Hello again.

The story continues.

So, after being assured that the pack would be at the station in a time-defying 2 hours, Elena and I set off to find our hotel, drop off my pack and go get food. We find ourselves at the lovely Swap Fast Food, which sounds awful, but is actually one of the few places in the country to get pizza. Which we did. And a lot of beer, which in retrospect was probably super stupid, as we were both dehydrated and needed to be able to fight to the death over this backpack in about 2 hours. Oh well.

We left the restaurant at around 6:45 (We knew there was no way that thing was coming at 6) and then attempted to get a taxi down to the tro yard. Fortunately for the environment, but not so fortunate for us at the moment, Bolgatanga is a city with few cars but LOTS of bikes. So, we were having a little trouble grabbing a cab and were starting to consider hopping on the handlebars of some Ghanaian teen's 10-speed.

Enter Duncan. Duncan pulled over in his Datsun pick-up truck and we gratefully told him where we were heading and jumped in. Duncan is probably in his early to mid 40s, with a gold front tooth and works at a local school. He also owns one of many craft shops in the city of Bolga as well as having a restaurant and bar at his house. Duncan also lived for a few years in Brooklyn, New York. He was a miracle.

We told him why we needed to go to the tro yard and he was shocked about the bag being lost and decided that he would help us get it back. It was shortly after we arrived that Elena and I began to realize that Duncan was kind of a big man in this town. Everyone listened to him, and he was good friends with one of the station managers. This turned out to be very helpful as the bag was (shockingly) not there. He was an invaluable translator, telling the 6-or-so men now involved that all of Elena's everything was in that bag, including all her clothes, all of our toothpaste, her passport, her id, her credit cards... etc, etc. This mention of documents seemed to peak the interest (and perhaps panic) of all these men, who then told us to come back at 10 the next morning and "we will know the next steps to take." That is precisely what they told us, and I found it wholly unsatisfying. So I asked one of the older men if she would be compensated for everything that was lost, and I was of course looked at like a witch. Oh well. I think it scared them a little that I was ready to fight.

So, the next morning, without Duncan, who was at work, Elena and I went back to the station where we were quickly becoming entertaining gossip as the Oboruni whose bag was lost and her evil friend. We got to the office, and were again completely ignored by the now 12 to 15 men (and one woman) who were "on the case."

After awkwardly waiting for any of these people to make eye contact with us, we were ushered inside by the one person not in possession of a penis. We take seats on a bench and are then... ignored some more. As this was going on, we noticed that all of these people were passing some things around. We then realized that an American passport was among them. As well as a plastic card with Elena's picture on it. Okaaaaaay. The men eventually decided to take notice of us by holding these documents up and comparing Elena to them and then conferencing in a language neither of us understood.

Finally, someone addressed us. And they tell us that Elena's backpack is in the village of Bulungu. The obvious response is "why?" but we did not ask, we just listened. It turned out that the son of the chief of Bulungu found the backpack and Elena's presence was needed in the village to prove that it was hers. Never mind that her picture was on a multitude of the documents found in the bag, no, she must prove that the bag is hers.

So, Elena and I climbed into a tro with 5 men from the village of Bulungu, some who work at the tro yard and others who do not, and one man who may or may not have actually been the chief's son... this was never made clear. At least two of these men offered marriage to me at some point from the tro station to arrival in the village. But that is neither here nor there.

We get to Bulungu, which is about 20 km south of Bolga, and are stared at with interest as we walk to the chief's palace (a house) and await the arrival of all the village elders. They eventually come, and they are old, super, duper, old. At some point during the waiting, a man appeared, carrying the backpack, and then put it behind a curtain, even though Elena and I both exclaimed, "that's it!" the moment we saw it... that was apparently not enough proof.

Basically, it was required to explain the whole situation--that being that a backpack was lost by this white woman, that contained all of her documents, her clothes, her money, etc, and that a backpack had been found by the chief's son that matched the description given, and now we were all together to figure out what needed to be done. This was of course explained in the local dialect, and then translated for Elena and I.

Elena then had to describe what was in the backpack... in ridiculous detail in my opinion. She talked about her clothes, her toiletries, her money, her cell phone from home, her handkerchiefs... etc.

The bag then... appeared (from behind the curtain) and Elena was allowed to go through it. Everything was there except her cell phone and her wallet which were instantaneously produced from the pocket of the man sitting next to her. Her wallet was, however, missing approximately 70 cedis which is about equivalent to $50. We told the elders this, who were distressed, but, what was there really to do? Elena told them it was alright, she was glad the bag was back, and they were happy she was happy.

Then they asked for an offering to the spirits of the village for getting the bag back to her safely. Okay. I offered 10 cedis. Who am I to argue with spirits? The men were satisfied with our offering, and then we shook hands with everyone, and I was again proposed to, by a very, very old man who spoke enough English to tell me I was beautiful about 6 times while clutching my hand until I broke away. I guess it's nice to be appreciated sometimes...

We rode back to Bolga, where one of my other potential fiances insisted on sitting between Elena and I... and then went back to the station to tell everyone else that the bag had been returned safely (save a convenient 70 cedis...) this made everyone glad and we thanked the woman and the station manager, who had refused to even look at us during the whole ordeal but who was able to come out of his snobbery for enough time to propose to me also. Four in one day may be an all-time record.

Upon return to our hotel, Elena discovered that about half her clothes, her Nalgene bottle and the book she had been reading (and was almost done with) were all gone. We were temporarily tempted to go back to Bulungu and see just who the hell was wearing her Indiana Hoosiers t-shirt while reading her book and drinking Fanta from her Nalgene, but we decided against it. I guess you need to be satisfied with the bones the universe throws your way. Even if they are the spit-covered remains of your stolen backpack.

I love you.