"Le huit." That's the bus we need to catch to the Ghanaian embassy, which is supposed to be 400 meters from the airport. #8. It is supposed to stop across from the cathedral downtown. After twenty minutes of waiting, I see it coming only to turn right a block before it reaches us. I run it down at the next stop, Annette following, as we sprint and weave through traffic. By the time I make it, it is packed full. So, I let it go.
We wait what will be another 80 minutes for the next one. Meanwhile vendors wander by with various wares. One has shaving razors. Another pencil kits. Another fancy office pens on display. 25 cl bags of water and juices of all colors. Sunglasses. Watches. Cardboard display case. Tissue. Senegal tourist t-shirts. Neon colored children's sunglasses. A large clock. A larger mirror. Fabrics displayed between two young men who walk six feet apart from each other. Aprons. Phone cards. More phone cards. Tampico juice and sodas in a cart. Coffee. Q-tips. Cologne. Shampoo. Knee and ankle braces. Rodent killer. Hannah Montana backpacks. A mani/pedicure set. Nuts. Costume jewelry. Hair picks and combs. The water is the only thing I see anybody buy. And the teenage girl pushing an older man in a wheelchair with a baby on his lap gets the change.
When the bus finally comes, it is hot and crowded. More people cram on at each stop while pools of sweat form on foreheads and the tops of hands gripping the bars for balance. I mistakenly only buy one ticket, thinking I have bought two. This becomes obvious when a badge-carrying inspector boards the bus and starts checking tickets. After much arguing involving several other passengers in translating, defending and attacking, we pay a fine for not having a ticket. Duex mille. 2,000 cfa. About $4. The bus ticket was 175 cfa each (about 35 cents). I chalk it up to karma for all the turnstyle-less European subways we rode without paying. Some of those fines would have been as high as 100 Euros.
Two hours later, we arrive at the airport with no embassy in sight. We ask several people, important-looking people like security guards and police officers, but nobody knows. Finally, a guy who works in the offices of a rental car agency sends us in a taxi unknowingly past the embassy to the Hotel Meridien, a sprucy resort with a gated entrance and an oceanfront view. The hotel staff set us straight, equipping us with a map and the correct number for the Ghana embassy (the one I had from the 2010 guidebook apparently was incorrect or outdated). One more round of negotiations and a taxi ride and we are there. We enter an air-conditioned room filled with papers and a water cooler in the corner. The receptionist informs us we must complete four copies of the application, provide an invitation letter or a hotel reservation, four photos and 60,000 cfa. So, we plan to turn the application in tomorrow.
"It's Annette's birthday. Where can we eat a nice lunch around here?" This question, posed to the English-speaking receptionist at the Ghanaian embassy leads us to Virage, one kilometer away. We soon find ourselves eating sandwiches on the beach and drinking 64 cl cold Gazelle beers while listening and watching the waves lap at smooth sand before our outstretched naked toes. And just like that, once again, the ocean provides peace. The peace my brother-in-law promised.
Beachfront lunch
Children welcome us in Yuembuel
Public transit
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