A Trip to Togo - Full of Chaos & Corruption!

The tumultuous journey began on a Saturday afternoon in April amidst the chaos of Accra’s Tudu station. Hawkers selling everything from pure water sachets to fake gold watches trampled upon trash, huddling around the air-conditioned, Ford minivan, that my Ghanaian traveling mate and I were lucky enough to board as soon as we stepped out from a taxi.

We were Togo bound, via the Aflao border, to update my one-year, multiple-entry Ghanaian visa, and I was feeling confident that since we had found comfortable means of travel so easily the journey would go smoothly. Even the music selection, a Lucky Dube cassette, was to our liking. I bought chocolate milk, sat back, sipped and smiled. The mini-van even filled to capacity with other passengers quite quickly, and we were heading across Greater Accra within forty-five minutes of leaving home in Labadi.

As we flew along the traffic-free Accra-Tema motorway, I quadruple checked that I had all potentially required documents. Passport, check, Visa Extension receipts, check, copy of Journalist for Human Rights (JHR) contract (the Canadian organization I work for) check, proof of Yellow Fever vaccination, check ... I think that just about covers it.

All was going as expected - with ease -that is until we reached the outskirts of Sege –about half way between Accra and Aflao. Coming up ahead of us was a motorbike carrying two passengers, zooming along the middle of the lane, instead of to one side, as is typically practised here in Ghana. The minivan honked, once than twice, but the motorbike didn’t budge to the right. In haste, our driver began to overtake, and despite having a clear oncoming lane, he left mere inches between the motorbike and minivan. I looked right through the passenger window, and my belly flipped when I saw how close those two humans aboard the bike were to our vehicle. Thump, my heart jumped to my throat, and nausea set in as I swiveled my head around to see the moto swerve onto the shoulder and both men tumble off the bike onto the gravel.

Our minivan came to an abrupt halt, but only after passengers in the back began yelling at the driver to do so. We returned to the accident scene to find one badly scratched up driver, his arms and legs stripped of skin, oozing blood. The other rider was in worse shape. He sat crumpled in a ball on the ground, shaking. Palms bloody, hopping on his slightly twisted right leg, somehow he made it, with assistance, into the minivan’s front seat.

The plan was for our driver and all passengers to travel with the injured to the nearest hospital. There was no calling for the police and ambulance or waiting around for a report and investigation to take place, as is standard and the legal way in my home country, Canada. Instead, my friend, who is an experienced moto driver, and I hopped on the bike and followed the minivan onwards.

This part of the journey ended about 10 minutes later along a dirt road in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. My friend and I pulled over to where the minivan had stopped, hopped off the bike, and entered into an argument between the driver, passengers and the injured, as to what to do next. It was only then that I realized my friend had been wearing a helmet splattered with blood.

Finally the passengers, including ourselves, were given a partial refund for our fare and left on the side of the road to find our way back to Sege, to find alternate transportation to Aflao. The minivan driver was left to get the injured to the hospital; that is if they didn’t pursue a threat of stopping by the police station first.

After walking a few kilometres and being ignored by several passing cars, we were all snatched up by an empty tro-tro . The driver and mate delivered us to the main road and within an hour of the accident we were back on another tro-tro on our way to Aflao.

But the adventure had only begun. This driver had never traveled to Aflao before, so instead of taking the shortcut along a recently paved road, he took another pot-hole ridden route, which had the vehicle dodging and swerving at top speed, with the brakes slamming throwing use forward every so often. If that wasn’t nerve wracking enough, the ride that should have taken an hour-and-a-half took three hours, and there was a fear the border might close early on a Saturday.

Luckily, it didn’t, and our arrival at just before 6pm gave use plenty of time to get through before the gates closed at 10pm.If the rat race at Tumu station isn’t enough to challenge one’s sanity, the one at Aflao border certainly is. As soon as an ‘obruni’ steps out of a vehicle here, those “ready and willing” to offer advice, show you the ropes, help you exchange Ghana Cedis into CFA (Togo’s currency) are at your feet, grabbing your shoulders, pulling your shirt and yelling in your ear (for a small dash or two). So much for thinking having a local Ghanaian along for the ride would ease the hassle.

First stop was Ghana Immigration Service (GIS). Sounds simple, but try finding which gate to pass through, who to show your passport to first and what building to enter to get to the office, while pushing through a crowd of Togolese and Ghanaians, all trying to do the same thing at the exact same time. This in itself took about 10 minutes of, eventually abruptly, telling ‘guides’ were we fine on our own and following the correct directions of the official GIS men in uniform.

As is standard, a lengthy form had to be filled out at the GIS office by both myself and my Ghanaian counterpart. Only problem was, he didn’t have his passport on him and was now unable to find his I.D. card. After a few minutes in panic, there it was tucked and zipped inside his money belt. Sigh of relief and roll of the eyes from me as crossing the border on my own was simply not an option at this point. Though asked why he did not have a passport, my friend’s I.D. card seemed to prove sufficient, for the GIS anyway. With forms filled I approached the GIS desk, only to be reprimanded by one officer for the fact that I had over-stayed my stay in Ghana by 15 days since my last extension.

“You have violated the state of Ghana” said one guard to me in an authoritative voice.

“Yes, I know” I responded squeamishly.

"Are you prepared to accept the penalty?” he added.“I have to do, what I have to do.” I responded hesitantly.

After being reprimanded a second time by another officer and realizing my innocent, wide-eyed, clueless expression wasn’t working, I accepted the financial consequences paying a month plus a month penalty fee (40 GHC for Canadians). We were then free to move on to step two - crossing the Togolese border.

Back into the rat-race we scurried, once again to be harassed by ‘guides’ who pulled us this way and that towards the final GIC barrier. My friend and I were split up into two separate lines. I passed by with ease as there were no other foreigners; the guard simply looking at my passport and waving me through. My friend, however, had a longer line to contend with ... a mix of Togolese and Ghanaians pushing each other aggressively forward to see who could make it through first. He made it but not before arguing with the guard as to why he had to pay 1 GHC to do so. Resentfully, he gave in when he saw everyone else was paying. This was the beginning of corruption at its best.

Part B of step two - getting my visa for Toga (my friend being Ghanaian did not need one) – created more confusion. We didn’t know which way to turn next and were completely ignoring anyone who tried to assist us. Plus my friend was still angry about having to tip off the guard. So angry, that he approached some other GIS guards to ask them about it only to be told they had nothing to do with it, refusing to admit whether the request was right or wrong.

"You must deal with the guard you gave the money to," one guard responded.

At this point I was exhausted, sweaty and bewildered, leaving me to contemplate whether hopping back across the Ghanaian border and heading back to Accra might be the best option. But, I had to get the Togo visa before even thinking about doing so.

There was yet another barrier to pass through and my friend and I were divided again, me passing with ease, he having to wait in a chaotic line-up, as another Togolese guard demanded money from Ghanaians and his fellow citizens. This time, however, the fee was in CFA; 1,000 CFA to be exact, which is about 2.4 GHC. Standing on the other side of this barrier waiting for my friend, I had no idea what was going on, nor where to go to get my visa. So, I returned to him, only to find out how much more he had to pay. An argument ensued and yet another barrier presented itself. The Togolese guard would only speak French, ignoring any phrases or questions asked in English. My ‘working knowledge’ of French as a Canadian wasn’t going to cut it and my Ghanaian friend was, to put it simply, lost in translation.

We stared at each other eyes wide, knowing there was nothing left to do, but pay this guy off. Using a 10 GHC bill, we struggled to get exact change, forgetting that we had exchanged 100 GHC to CFA in Accra. Managing to get back 8 GHC change we moved onto the Togo Immigration Service; which was not an office but rather a sole desk placed off to the side of the chaos and monitored by two guards, who at the very least agreed to speak English.

We approached to find there was another detailed form to fill out, including the full name of my mother and father, as well as another 20,000 CFA fee to pay for the visa. This works out to about 50 GHC. My mind raced counting up the amount of money spent. After 20 minutes of contemplation and two cigarettes, I gave in, filled the form out, paid for the visa (despite my friend’s profound efforts to convince the guard to wave the fee) and watched the rest of the process unfold. My name and information were hand-written into a book with pages and pages of others who had crossed the border that day, week, month, who knows. Then my passport stamped, signed and handed back to me. I was left wondering what they will do with my mother and father’s full names.

Dusk had come and gone by the time we completed this task. We herded through the final barrier with a crooked line of others, showing our identification one last time, and entered into Lome, Togo, where we would pass the night. The idea of heading back across that border to Accra was long abandoned.

Stumbling along a bumpy, dirt path, passed Togolese market women and currency exchangers, we grabbed the first taxi, knowing - thanks to the advice of a Togolese guard - that we should pay no more than 1,500 CFA to get to the closest hotel. We reached Le Galion Hotel just after 7pm – about eight hours from the time we left Accra earlier that day – and after a quick meal crashed for the night.

Our Togo trip was to be short and sweet, as most of the money was gone and inspiration to see more diminished. I only hoped that one; returning to Ghana the next day would not be as hectic or as costly and two; that I would never have to cross the Aflao border into Togo again.