THE ROAD FROM GHANA TO BURKINA FASO

As we make our way through rural Ghana to its northern border into Burkina Faso, the long distances over hard-packed dirt roads in this typically dry season, make for dusty, hot drives with only open windows for relief.   At the end of each day our clothes are filthy and when we can shower, towels are encased in black dirt as we rub the grime from our bodies.

But I got to visit a monkey cemetery!

In a stellar example of communities working together to benefit the local monkey population, two rural villages along our route joined together some years ago to protect the resident monkeys in the forest which separates them.   The monkeys are sacred and, the residents claim, wander into the villages when they are going to die so that the residents can give them a proper burial.    Funerals for the monkeys are solemn events and are well attended by the residents of the villages.  (I don't think surviving monkeys attend!)   We had a walk through the forest and close encounters with the monkeys.  

Crossing into Burkina Faso was pleasantly uneventful.   A lone shed at the border told us we had arrived.    With our visas stamped and the guardrail lifted, we were in and found a field to camp before twilight turned to total darkness.

The next day a small group of us decided to take a side trip to a troglodyte village several hours away and planned to meet up with the larger group in two days.

It did not start off very well.    We were told that the vehicle we hired would hold 9 of us.   When it arrived,  there was only room for 5.   The guide insisted that 9 could fit, as the vehicle doubled as a taxi and regularly transported 11.  I explained that perhaps there was room for 11 Africans but that only 5 westerners (plus the African guide and driver) could squeeze in.   Somehow, we managed to get 8 of us in.  One in the group (wisely) decided to bow out.

Ten minutes on the open road and the side door blew open – an apparently common occurrence.  One bungee cord later we were on our way.  Then there was a flat tire.  These were not good omens. 

Troglodytes, we learn, are cave dwellers, and these particular caves were first inhabited 300 years ago by those trying to escape the marauding muslim invaders.  The troglodytes  found their haven in the high rocky outcrops hidden in the surrounding mountains.  

What I didn’t realize was that we would have to climb the almost sheer rocky face of the mountain for 1 ½ hours to reach the dwellings without benefit of steps built for tourists or snack bars along the way.   Filthy after not showering for 3 days and hot, we started the ascent easily enough.   But soon the incline got steeper, my pack back and camera gear got heavier and the granite surface had fewer and fewer ridges to grip with our hands and feet.    I began to loose it when my flip-flop ripped about ¾ of the way up.  (Our guide, also in flip-flops, had given no indication when we met him, of the unsuitability of my footwear).   There was no turning back as we were close to the summit and the dwellings it hid.  My water bottle was nearly empty and I was scratched up and miserable. 

Before the ascent, we had met the Chief of the village located at the bottom of the mountain.    He is the last survivor of the cave dwellers and came down from the mountain only 45 years ago at the age of 20.   We sat with him under a tree as our guide translated his stories about life on the edge of the mountain and how it compared to life in the dusty, dry village where descendants of the troglodyte dwellers now live.

I managed to make it to the top and back down the mountain when someone in the group with far more foresight than I, extracted tape from her backpack and bandaged the flip flop to my foot.   We wandered among the dwellings, many of which still contained pottery used by the former residents.   The view to the Cote d’Ivoire and Mali, 8 and 10 kms away, respectively, was spectacular.   Coming down was much easier, and was mostly done on my rear end.