Bye bye safe journey, part 2

The Burkina Faso border office makes the Ghanaian effort seem like the finely appointed, well-oiled working of a Swiss bank. Take the two border agents from their broken-down desks and you wouldn’t be crazy to have dismissed the entire place as abandoned.

In one dark corner sits a couple of mothballed fans, a discarded bicycle, a dust-covered scooter. On the walls of chipping plaster peels an old Burkina Faso tourism poster. It looks so old I wonder that it doesn’t bear the country’s former name, Upper Volta.

The man who first takes our passports is wearing green, military-issue pants, flip flops and a soiled white tank top. He scribbles something in a large, weathered ledger. We then move to a position before the second man. A taciturn older gentlemen in a disheveled uniform, sunglasses and a black beret, he’s straight from central casting: This is an African border agent. As if to seal the deal, once he’s completed stamping our passports he lights a cigarette and leans back in his creaky chair.

Just then the tall American enters, nods coolly at us and takes a seat. He is wearing a motorcycle jacket and carrying a helmet. Perfect, I think.

During the 20 minutes or so it has taken us to go through the process, we’ve discussed our waiting transportation and decided that we will break our arrangement with the bush taxi. Something about it just doesn’t feel right.

Jeanne and Maria, both French speakers (we’re out of the realm of English now), explain the situation to a couple of the uniformed guys lounging in the shade in front of the office. They point out the car on the off chance that the men might recognize the driver or Lumumba from some recent Interpol warning. We ask if there is a bus. The men point in the direction of the station a few hundred feet down the road.

We decide that I will give the bush taxi driver 2,000 ceefah (about US$4) for his trouble and then we will make a beeline for the bus station. Lumumba had earlier assured me that the morning bus for Ouaga had already gone and that the next one didn’t leave until noon. But it seemed worth a try.

“This is going to be ugly,” I say, thinking of the response we’re likely to get from the driver after all our earlier negotiations. “He is not going to be happy.”

“Nope,” Shawn says. “We just need to keep walking once we tell him. Just keep walking.”

We make a small huddle to focus our resolve. And then as if it had been our purpose all along we stride confidently toward the driver who, seeing us, moves to open the trunk of the car for our bags.

Once beside him, I say, “We’ve decided that we’re actually going to take the bus. But thank you very much.” I tuck the 2,000 bill in his shirt pocket.

He is totally and completely dumbstruck by this turn of events and stands frozen and speechless. This gives us the window we need in which to escape and we quickly start moving up the empty street toward the bus.

When after about 20 feet nothing has happened, I say, “Well, that was easy,” wiping my sweaty palms on my shorts.

But in another 30 feet, I hear his car engine kick into action. In another second, I hear him charging up the road toward us.

(Picture: A shot of roadside near the Burkina Faso border)