A long day of driving and police checks, although far fewer stops than we had expected.
We stopped for lunch stop near a tiny walled village and while Bob and I made lunch everyone else went exploring. We were soon working to singing and the earthy rhythm of drums. The villagers had put on an impromptu dancing and drumming concert and everyone returned for lunch raving about the music and the gorgeous village. Bob and I went to investigate but with most of the villages now standing around the truck watching us, the village was almost deserted.
The village was of a circular design, with storage "jars" made out of woven mats and wood topped with darker straw witches' hat roofs around a central communal area. In shaded areas we came upon several men weaving on primitive looms, using their feet to move the threads and producing 20cm-wide lengths of fine white cotton cloth, the supporting threads strung 3m across the yard area. They continued working as we watched and smiled when I went up to touch the cloth. Nearby, a woman with a wide-eyed youngster was hand spinning a tuft of cotton with a spindle, producing fine thread; she pointed out articles of clothing nearby made from spun cotton. Cotton is obviously THE local crop and it was wonderful seeing it worked on a village scale after passing mud-walled bulk containers of the crop.
Elsewhere were jars of millet stalks and crop grass tied into golden brown sheafs, and gourds, pottery containers and metal cooking pots blackened with use littered the ground. The welcome here was a wonderful contrast to the hassles of Burkina Faso so far.
Continuing our journey, we reached the first of many indistinguishable Burkina Faso-Togo "border" posts, a compound with a bar belting out Abba and then reggae and a large market. In an aisle at the rear of the market we came upon a circle of vertical sticks topped with a large stone and pottery shard from which a cord stretched to the top of a metre-long pole, halfway up which was tied a grey but distinguishable dead toad. Up top was a pottery bowl plastered with chicken feathers and what appeared to be dried blood. Had we already entered voodoo territory? The women who gathered around to watch us examining this contraption spoke no French and their few hand signals suggested rain drops and food. So maybe it was a sacrificial altar to the gods for a good harvest.
A wonderful surprise awaited us when we finally reached the Togo side of the border: after a week of surly and aggressive encounters with officialdom, the Togo officials were charming and welcoming. They shook our hands, joked, bopped to the loud music and just chatted with us. While thorough, even the search, by three huge men, was done with good humour, one of them playing up his impressive musculature. And, so, we entered Togo feeling very positive about this new country, our welcome having cleansed the bitter taste of Burkina Faso.
Camped quite close to a native hut on work-beaten gravel and I enjoyed a hot wash after my last dinner of this shift.
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