Making the crossing

We’re up with the sun. And the caterwauling of the roosters. And the complaining of the donkeys. Some of these sad, forlorn beasts we discover, with the benefit of light, live just behind our hut. They are common in the northern region, used to pull simple carts heaped with all manner of things. This is one of the many differences from the south, where the only place you could encounter a donkey is on your dinner plate.

Though none of us slept especially well, it having been much colder than we expected or were dressed for, it’s nice to be up early. From our rooftop we can look out over the broad expanse of land behind our hut. Everything is cast in a bluish morning glow as we watch a farmer and his family prepare for the day.

On the other side we see for the first time in the light of day the compound into which we wandered blind last night. It’s an unusual feeling to see a place for the first time 10 hours after arriving there. I’m pleased to find that it’s not as bad as I’d feared.

Sapotay and his family are already up as well. One daughter is sweeping the compound, another stoking the morning cooking fire. Sapotay and his sons, meanwhile, are collecting and displaying on a patch of ground everything they have that we could possibly be interested in buying. It’s a motley assortment of items. There are a few baskets, a couple of leather pouches, a wooden walking stick, some colorful things I can’t identify and a helmet decorated with bull horns. Unfortunately, none of it goes with what I’m wearing.

We thank him for his rooftop hospitality, especially the mattresses, which we learn were purloined from his children’s beds for our use. The light of day has revealed that Achala Village, the name of the place, does not see many visitors, or at least has not for some time. I wonder if each driver out of Bolgatanga “knows” a different guesthouse in Paga.

Moving to the road for the short walk to the border, we step over the blockade of sticks at the entrance to Sapotay’s place. This we’re told is intended to keep out any wandering crocodiles from the lake across the street.

By this early hour, perhaps 6:30, the street is already alive with people. A pair of men pedals by on bikes. A woman stares from her seat behind a clip-clopping donkey. A man steps from his house to wash his face from the bowl he is carrying. A naked child watches us pass, mouth hanging open in wonder, one hand covering her delicate bits.

As everywhere in Ghana, the looks an obroni is likely to get can seem severe: pinched brow, narrowed gaze. But this is only shock, surprise, wonder that here you walk, just feet away. A simple wave, hello or good morning and the face is instantly transformed by a broad, toothy smile and a warm returned greeting. I fear that an African visitor to an all-white neighborhood in the U.S. would not be so generously welcomed.

It takes only 20 mins to walk to the border. Amassed off the road to the right is a platoon of semi-trucks waiting to cross in the early morning. Goats wander the street. The moneychangers see us coming and in moments we have half a dozen men asking to change our Ghanaian cedis to Burkinabé ceefahs.

As the negotiations proceed, I see over their heads the border gateway sign into what is the third poorest country on the planet: It reads “Bye Bye Safe Journey.” It occurs to me that without the comma after “safe” the message is much less encouraging.