Arrive late, sleep on the roof, part 1

It’s about three hours by tro tro from Tamale to Bolgatanga, the regional capital of the Upper East Region. We arrive at dusk, or perhaps it’s just the dust, which constantly roils above the ground in this dry, arid region like the orbit around Peanuts’ Pigpen. Some 20 hours closer to the Sahel now, sand that started in the distant Sahara is looking for a new home in our ears and eyes.

Our arrival in the station, as it does everywhere we go, creates something of a stir as we alight from the tro tro. A legion of taxi drivers immediately greets us with urgent appeals to take us wherever we want to go.

“The Four Seasons, please,” I say. This stalls them a minute. “OK, the Fifth Avenue Suites. But the one on the marina not the other one.”

“Where are you going?” the most enterprising of the group says, stepping forward. “You go to Navrongo?”

We explain that we’re not going to Navrongo, wherever the hell that is. We tell him we’re staying in Bolgatanga, but will heading out tomorrow for Burkina Faso. This piece of information ignites the men into a raucous round of auctioneering.

“You will miss the bus,” the one man says. “You should stay at the border.” He has large, protuberant eyes that give him the distinct impression of being incredibly interested in our situation.

“What do you mean we’ll miss the bus?” Jeanne asks.

“Yes, the bus to Burkina leaves at 7:30. You must wake at 5. You should stay in Paga. There is a guesthouse right on the border. Very nice. Come, I will take you.” Believing his case sufficiently made, he makes a confident move toward his car.

This early bus business is news to us as we had assumed there must be regular transport from Paga onward to Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso. We whisper among ourselves, a confused white bundle amid the mayhem of arriving and departing buses and tros and taxis.

“There is a hotel there?” I ask.

“Yes! Yes!” they all assure me.

The first man says, “Yes, you just walk from the guesthouse to the border and catch the bus. It’s no problem. Come.”

We take an accounting of each other’s feelings about pressing on to the border. We’ve all been in Ghana long enough to understand it’s something of a gamble. There may be plenty of buses. There may be no guesthouse. It may be less than nice. He may not be as interested as his eyes suggest.

“How far is it?” I ask.

“Thirty minutes, not far,” the man says. “Let’s go.”

After a couple of shared shrugs, we agree and follow the man to his car parked nearby. What seemed like the welcome conclusion to the conversation does in fact trigger a bona fide meltdown among the other drivers.

“We met him first,” we try to explain.

But the other drivers are seriously bent out of shape at these turn of events. They surround the man’s car, shouting as we place our bags in the trunk.

(Picture: Shawn on board our tro tro bound for Bolga)