Yesterday we set out at 6.30am for Cotonou aiming to sort out the bus issue before l leave. As we came into the city during the morning peak hour I was impressed by the number of motorbikes. At a guess I would say they outnumbered cars at least ten to one, and even that is probably being conservative. However there is none of the three or four or more on a bike that is a normal site in the East African countries. In fact many of the bikes had just single riders, suggesting that they are privately owned.
When we arrived at the bus company, the guy there absolutely assured us that my luggage would fit on the mini-bus. I was still cynical, particularly given that I assumed there would be other passengers who would also have luggage. So I said we’ll wait and see.
We waited. The bus was supposed to board at 12, but there was no sign of it. Still no sign of it by 1. Now I was starting to think, If this goes too late we might not have time to get another bus if we need to. So I said to the guy, “If this bus is not here by 2, I want our money back so that we can go and book a real bus.” He must have known that the bus was actually not going to come, because even though he had earlier refused to even consider a refund he now gave it to us straight away.
So we went off and booked a seat on a big bus. A big, comfortable bus. With air cond. And plenty of room for baggage. The fare on the big bus was 20,000CFA (approximately $50AUD). The fare for the little squeezy mini-bus was 32,000CFA (approximately $80AUD). Couldn’t help thinking, In what universe is the latter even remotely justifiable?
Anyway, I was happy. Big bus, air cond, pleasant trip. Easy peasy!
I could not have been more wrong. When we arrived at the border with Togo, immigration officials came through the bus checking passports. They looked at mine and pulled me off the bus to go to the office. Now, I have travelled to a number of countries using an e-visa – in fact for many countries these days it is the only way to get a visa. The process has always been, you present the e-visa when you arrive, immigration stamps your passport to say they have seen the visa, and when you leave they stamp your passport again. I have never before been required to present the e-visa again on leaving the country. But Benin immigration wanted to see the bit of paper before they would let me go. The piece of paper was in my case on the bus. I kept pointing out to them the stamp in my passport, but that wasn’t enough for them. At one point I looked across for the bus – it had moved and I couldn’t see it, and I thought it had gone on without me. I was getting more and more upset. Then the guy from the bus came over, probably to see why his bus was being held up. He took me over to the bus and pulled out my case so I could get the bit of paper and show it to them, which satisfied them. Lesson learned: if travelling on an e-visa, always keep the bit of paper with the passport until you leave the country.
Next step was Togo immigration. I knew that I would need a visa, and had been told I could get it at the border. I assumed that Togo immigration, like any civilised organization, would accept a credit card. Wrong. Problem was, in Benin I had not been able to find an ATM that would accept my card to get out cash to give Pastor Roland for my expenses there, so I had given him the US currency that I had. I did not have any other cash, and the immigration would not accept a card. I was already stressed out from the encounter with Benin immigration, and now I could see myself being trapped at the border with no money, no phone (I had given my Benin sim card back to Roland, and would not get another till I reached Ghana) and not speaking the language. At that point I lost it and became totally hysterical. I am not proud of this, it was a total failure of faith, but it’s what happened. The people from the bus were also there, and got into a huge argument (almost a physical fight) with someone else who made some comment which of course I could not understand. That made me even worse. Then the bus driver came and offered me some money, saying when we got into Togo I could go to an ATM and get the money to repay him. He went ahead and sorted out the visa for me. I was such a mess that I don’t think I even got around to thanking him properly, but I pray that the Lord will pour overflowing blessings on him for his kindness. Mind you, at 25,000CFA the visa cost more than the bus fare, which I thought was a bit steep for a couple of hours travelling through the country on a bus. Lesson learned: always carry a couple of hundred dollars in US currency.
Anyway, we were on our way. When we got into the city, the conductor of the bus took me to an ATM. However, we had to walk, and it was at least half a kilometre. When we arrived, the ATM would not accept my card. So we walked further to another bank. The ATM there would not accept my card. By now I was totally exhausted, and I said, “I can’t walk any further.” After lengthy discussion between the conductor and a security guard and several other people who just happened to be around, all in a language I could not understand, the conductor hailed a tuk-tuk, which took us to yet another bank where the ATM refused my card. By now I was getting desperate. I gave him Pastor George’s number and said to call him and ask if he could send the money through, and I would repay him when I arrived. No, we will try one more bank. Praise God, this one accepted the card and I was able to get the money, plus enough to pay for the tuk-tuk.
Back to the tuk-tuk to head back to the bus. Except that the bus was not there, and we kept going. By now I was totally strung out and not thinking at all rationally, and I was afraid that I was being kidnapped. I kept asking, “Where are we going? Where is the bus?” He kept answering me in French, which made me even more frustrated.
It turned out that the bus had gone on to the border with Ghana, and the other passengers had gone through immigration and were waiting for me to do so. OK, at least this would not be a problem, I had my “Visa on Arrival” organized and paid for, all I had to do was collect it and the receipt. Wrong again. Ghana immigration didn’t want to accept my bit of paper. They said it had me arriving by plane, even though I had told those organizing it that I was coming by bus. Then they wanted proof of payment. The piece of paper was marked “paid” but they wanted a receipt. No, I didn’t have a receipt. I was supposed to collect it with the visa. Fortunately by now I had calmed down and was able to think more clearly, and I remembered that I had asked Pastor George to give me the name of the lady (a high official in immigration) who had organized it. A quick scroll through the phone and showed them her name, and things changed. The visa was issued and my passport stamped, along with a polite question about whether this was my first time in Africa. (“No, my seventh time in Africa, but my first in West Africa.”)
Back on the bus. Now I can relax. Well, not quite. As we came into Ghana we had to pass through a number of police checks. At one of them, a guy in uniform (I don’t know whether he was a policeman, soldier, security guard or what) came on looking at passports. He took mine and said that he would be back in a minute. I thought, Oh no, here we go again. What now? But he was true to his word and came back quickly. Then he started talking to me. “I want to go to Australia. Will you take me to Australia with you?” He told me he had a farm as well as this job. He even wanted to exchange phone numbers with me. I thought, Really? You are trying to chat up a 73 year woman who must look an absolute wreck after what I have been through on this trip. How desperate are you? He kept saying I should take him to Australia with me. How do you tell a man in uniform that even if it were possible (which it is not) there is no way on earth it would be happening? At least it added a little humour to my nightmare trip.
Now, surely there could be no more problems. Wrong again. The bus company had given me a piece of paper with the name of the bus stop where I was to get off, where Pastor George would be waiting for me, but for some reason they let me off at the wrong one. A group of young street sellers was there, and pointed out the error, but the bus still left me there with my bags and went off. These kids were marvellous. They quickly found a chair for me, took George’s number and called him to tell him where I was, and encouraged me that everything was ok and he would be here soon. They kept assuring me that they would not leave until I had been picked up. I pray God’s richest blessings for all of them.
Finally George arrived. But of course there had to be one last little drama before the end of the night. Apparently the driver did something wrong as he was turning to pick me up, and a policeman saw it. So we had to follow the said policeman to the police station for the driver to be booked before we could be on our way.
With that sorted we were off, and at 4.30am I came to the place where I am staying and was able to fall into bed, but not before some earnest repentance about my reactions and behaviour during the night.