The Thing About Game Day....

Sorry for yet another post about border days but it seems as though, no matter how hard we try, things don't go smoothly.

Leaving the town of hot Tamale in northern Ghana, we decide, based on African Time and previous experience, that arriving at 0715 for the 0700 bus would give us only two hours of wait time. Plus, with only 240km to cross into Togo and get to the nearest town, even a Cote d'Ivoire fiasco-like crossing would still leave us with time to catch the blockbuster 1400 match between Argentina and Germany. We pulled into the station at 0704 to find that our bus had left four minutes ago. Dang.

Luckily, the 0800 bus was only forty minutes late and we arrived in the town of Yendi with plenty of time to spare. Only 70km to the border, the timeline looked good - we were still hopeful. With decent directions in hand, we start the walk from one station to the next and are told, 'it'll be on your left, you can't miss it.' Trudging past an empty lot filled with garbage, peeing children, and pregnant goats, our focus is diverted by the unfortunately common attention-grabbing kissy noise and we turn to find a man gesturing to the adjacent lot. This is the station. Oh sweet.

We take a seat in the small hut 'station' and play the waiting game. We're good at that game. "The bus will be here any minute. Don't stray too far. Don't eat any meals. Don't explore the town. Don't go to the bathroom. Okay pee on that goat. He deserved it." We're paraphrasing a bit but FOUR HOURS! This wouldn't have been so bad had we been expecting it but the constant reassurance that the bus was seconds away made the situation far more aggravating. Finally a rumbling off in the distance signified the approach of our converted-cargo-van bus and nearby women frantically grab our daypacks, aggressively toss them into the back window and motion for us to do the same. Clambering up the side of the bus, Pete's shorts come out of the exchange the worse for wear. He is now permanently flying low. A pair of inconspicuous boxers he does not own.

The sun is low in the sky as we arrive in the 'border' town of Tatale just in time to find out Germany has trounced a Messi Argentine squad 4-0. Dang. Asking around, reports as to the actual proximity of this town to the border vary widely from one mile to twenty miles, taking between five minutes and two hours to walk, depending on who we talk to. Polling the audience was always the worst lifeline. What the hell? Seriously? You live there! If we can't trust you then who can we trust? Ourselves? We opt for the latter, and decide it's within walking distance. Tough break. A crusty, dusty, blusty hour later we still haven't made it. Double dang.

Now in these parts, there's a local expression: when the going gets tough, Mohammed gets going and the man himself appears as if on a cloud. Okay that was just black smoke from his trusty taxi-moto, the Obamacycle. Now we know what you may be thinking: three boys, three bags, one Mohammed, and only one motorcycle. The above expression held true and we all mount Obama. Four in a row and bags on the side. No problem. Let's just say we haven't been that close since that time in Freetown.

The actual border festivities were surprisingly smooth and decidedly less cramped than our ride. As the sun set over the beautiful jungle hills of Togo, we sped off down the road, dodging potholes and chowing on bugs. Our arrival in Kara at 2100 was a triumph of human spirit and endurance. Ultimately, we watched neither match that day. Dang.

The thing about game day is you win some, you lose some, and sometimes they take forever.