By Lisa BoglerAt the crocodile pond in Paga at the border to Burkina Faso, crocodiles wait to be fed with living chicken, ready to pose for pictures.
The road to Bolgatanga is a good road and the Trotro is supposed to take only two hours but the ride seems endless to me. The landscape is interesting, though. We cross a river, an arm of the Volta river and see some hills, almost mountains compared to the otherwise flat land. The further we get, the more donkeys we see. They graze next to the road and pull lorries. We arrive at Bolgatanga and take a taxi to Paga, another hour‘s drive. Our driver is more interested in his teeth than in the other cars on the road. The rearview mirror is broken from the windscreen and is now used as a hand mirror.
When we reach Chief Pond, the sacred crocodile pond and reason for our visit, the taxi driver directly hands us over to a smiling man who is in charge of a ,museum‘ opposite to the pond. He shows us some huts gathered around a compound and talks about how this is all made by his ancestors. One of the huts, he says, is still in use. Women deliver their babies behind the old walls. The small humps on the ground are where his ancestors are buried and where he is going to be buried when he passes away. We are led in a room with dusty masks and handcrafts where we are supposed to buy purses or necklaces, made by the man and his family of course.
Then we are shown to the crocodile pond where some boys are already waiting, eager to collect the entrance fee, camera fee and the cost for the crocodiles‘ food. With the chicken the boys call the biggest crocodile out of the water. When it is calmly crouching at the edge of the water, the boys direct each of us, one after another in three different positions. I imagine how each tourist shows exactly the same picture to his friends to prove the (staged) encounter with the crocodile. One picture with the hand touching the crocodiles back, another one holding its tail and a last one sitting on the animal. The hen is given to one of the smaller crocodiles as the big one already had enough for the day and then the show is over. On our way back along to Bolgatanga, we pass a big MTN sign welcoming visitors to the Upper East Region. The picture shows the man who showed us around the museum next to the big crocodile, holding its tail and touching its back.
When we reach Chief Pond, the sacred crocodile pond and reason for our visit, the taxi driver directly hands us over to a smiling man who is in charge of a ,museum‘ opposite to the pond. He shows us some huts gathered around a compound and talks about how this is all made by his ancestors. One of the huts, he says, is still in use. Women deliver their babies behind the old walls. The small humps on the ground are where his ancestors are buried and where he is going to be buried when he passes away. We are led in a room with dusty masks and handcrafts where we are supposed to buy purses or necklaces, made by the man and his family of course. 
Then we are shown to the crocodile pond where some boys are already waiting, eager to collect the entrance fee, camera fee and the cost for the crocodiles‘ food. With the chicken the boys call the biggest crocodile out of the water. When it is calmly crouching at the edge of the water, the boys direct each of us, one after another in three different positions. I imagine how each tourist shows exactly the same picture to his friends to prove the (staged) encounter with the crocodile. One picture with the hand touching the crocodiles back, another one holding its tail and a last one sitting on the animal. The hen is given to one of the smaller crocodiles as the big one already had enough for the day and then the show is over. On our way back along to Bolgatanga, we pass a big MTN sign welcoming visitors to the Upper East Region. The picture shows the man who showed us around the museum next to the big crocodile, holding its tail and touching its back. 
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