Saying “Thank You” In Three Languages
Hopping out of the cab at the Paga taxi station and walking on the main road, there was no little clue that I was heading towards Burkina Faso. Life on both sides of the border looked the same. From what I could see, the streets — Burkinabé and Ghanaian — were lined with the same small shops selling minerals (“sodas”), Mentos and vegetables. People seemed to walk across without any hassle or impediment. Large trucks noisily trudged by and were stopped like they were at the many arbitrarily placed Ghanaian customs checkpoints that line the freeways of the north. Other than a sign decorated by the colors and star of the flag and reading “Burkina Faso”, one could believe they were on a road that would continue well within Ghana’s borders.
In one of the site-specific predeparture meetings, the Practicum Abroad Coordinator explained that the Ghanaian visa expires after 60 days of being in country. It sounds more serious than it really is. Ghana isn’t too big into hunting down people who overstay their visa, as the gentleman at the embassy in D.C. from who I picked my visa up from joked. But as serious or not as the procedure may be, it was of course better to be safe and have a plan for renewing it.
While most people, I presume, would just go to an immigration office in order to avoid the deportation-that-wouldn’t-happen, Georgetown had a better idea. Given that those of us going to Navrongo had to get a Burkinabé visa, where the closest international airport is two and a half hours away rather than 13–14 hours and would be used as a get-out-of-dodge point, we were instructed to just step over the border and back. The somewhat sketchy procedure of entering another country for five minutes where I would get a Ghanaian exit and entry stamp would suffice as a visit to the hassle-loaded immigration office.
Besides, the closest immigration office is 30 minutes away where as the next country is only about seven minutes. Those extra 23 minutes are all too precious.
I was kind of excited though. I have always oddly romanticized the crossing of two borders, be it the perimeters of two American or sovereign states.
Growing up in the Northeast, where the states are on the smaller side and interstate travel is subsequently easy, I always got excited when I would cross state lines into New Hampshire where my godfather exploited the lack of a sales tax or into Vermont with my middle school’s ski and snowboard club. Seeing the “Welcome to X State” or the “Y State Welcomes You” signs always got me giddy. It was a sign (no pun intended) of adventure, of a new, foreign land for me to explore from the comfort of the backseat of my godfather’s car.
Well, reality always has a way of rearing its unidealized head, for my expectations of adventure have never been met. For anyone that knows the Northeast, they are aware that there isn’t any noticeable difference between two states at the questionably existing border. One is able to find the same trees, automobiles, and adverts for chain restaurants in the new state as they would back home.
The country lines of Burkina Faso and Ghana, were by no means any different.
I don’t know exactly why I thought there would be a difference. Perhaps I was hoping to come out of the experience with a cool story about Burkina Faso without having to step more than a couple meters into the country. Or maybe I was looking for some kind of excitement, perhaps in the form of a visa issue (I know, I’m an idiot) or a drug bust on one of the many large trucks and their ambiguous cargo.
Neither of my ideas of a good time came to be, which is lucky for me given that visa issues can be concerning and “correcting” them can be costly in this part of the world. As for a drug bust, the coast is the strategic point in Ghana for transporting drugs from South America into Europe, so I doubt that this cargo would find its way up north. Besides, drugs busts have a large potential for getting messy.
All in all, everything was calm and anticlimactic although given my idea of excitement at a border, I think that’s for the best.
Despite the slight let down, I was still able to chuckle. The uniforms at the border wasted no time in flagging me down to check my papers whilst everyone else seemed to walked back and forth without interruption. Just goes to show that no matter what kind of dashiki I wear, my complexion and maybe even the way I walk will always give my Americaness away.
On the Thursday before I partook in one of the shortest trips to Burkina Faso in history, I had a conversation with a few of the researchers here at The Center during the campus wide lunch break. This wasn’t new as I usually eat lunch with some of my colleagues — if I, the measly intern, am really allowed to call them that — trying to convince myself that I can understand Kasem and sharing in their laughter when they speak English. One of the topics that came up during this meal was Ghana’s neighbors, specifically around the topic of trade and language.
The majority of omnipresent large trucks on the freeways and main roads of Ghana all appear to head in one direction: north. According to my mates at the table, the reason for this is because natural resources and means of production up north are limited so the ability to produce is limited. Being without a coastline or a large river flowing through the country also means that trade with the outside world, is similarly limited.
For the most part, the trade is unilateral given that there aren’t a whole lot of things that Burkina Faso produces that Ghana wants or needs. However, my buddies at the table got into an interesting and humor-filled debate when trying to figure out what we (have I been in the country long enough to start using “we”?) import from the north. The consensus is anywhere between vegetables — with cabbage in particular — and cattle.
In addition to commerce, we also spoke about Ghana’s linguistic position within West Africa. Ghana is a country surrounded by three members — Cote d’Ivoire, Burkina Faso, and Togo — of La Francophonie, an organization of sovereign nations where French is the official language and where the systems of governmental and societal organization have French influence. You know, because colonialism, lest we forget.
While the colonial history that determined this make up of the map is actually really interesting, what I find to be more fascinating is that many Ghanaians — according to the encyclopedia that is my lunch table — don’t make an effort to learn French. This in it of itself isn’t that unique as I’m sure many people along the American-Mexican or the very short American-Québécois border don’t go out of their way to learn Spanish and French, unless they were mandated to so in school. No, what makes this fact interesting is that according to my informal sources, Burkinabés make a greater effort to learn English than Ghanainas do French. In a way, it is an unreciprocated cultural exchange.
Both of these topics of discussion were noticeable here at the border. Most of the trucks I saw were crossing into Burkina Faso; I only saw one heading in Ghana’s direction, though I didn’t get a chance to check out the license plate so I couldn’t tell you the exact nationality of the truck.
In addition to the trucks, the change in language was also notable, to a limited extent. I will admit, the change wasn’t that dramatic: I was able to have a fluid conversation with the Burkinabé customs agent in English. His friend, who was carefully watching a football match while resting his hand on his sidearm, on the other hand spoke to me in French. It wasn’t a real conversation tough as he only asked a stern “ça va?” and waited for my response before returning his attention to the fanciful footwork of Lionel Messi.
Despite knowing the change in languages, there were a couple times where I would spew out “thank you” in all three major languages — English, French, and Kasem — for this area, briefly forgetting which one was appropriate. I just did my best not to laugh at myself and at the puzzled and mildly agitated expression of the Burkinabé official as he handed me my passport, reverting his eyes back to the football match.
