Ghana

Two years goes quickly. It feels like only yesterday that Hannah and I landed at Kotoka airport in Accra, late in the night, wondering what life in Ghana would be like.

It wasn’t yesterday, of course; yesterday I was sipping a coffee in a trendy Berlin café, just around the corner from our new flat. The summer air was crisp compared to

Accra’s humid cloak; the pavement consisted of neatly arranged slabs, rather than an open sewer; the waitress came straight over to serve me, without having to be prodded awake first.

And yet I was missing Ghana. Berlin seems too calm, too organised. I miss the chaos: hawkers coming up to sell bead necklaces and phone credit; goats eating plastic bags and chickens pecking for seeds; the constant sounds of car horns and music; children playing in the streets; everyone smiling, whatever they’re doing.

Ghana was a wonderful home for two years. We visited a lot of the country – the geography geek in me was pleased that we spent time in all ten of Ghana’s regions – and were rewarded with some truly memorable experiences.

One highlight was Mole National Park, which compensates for its lack of big cats or migrating herds by getting visitors up close to its elephants. If you’ve never watched elephants mix up a mud bath before coating skin or playing together in a water hole, or had one look you directly in the eye from just a few metres away, then it’s worth visiting Ghana for this alone.

The bird walk and afternoon game drives were also rewarding. Our guides always managed to spot something special: a roan antelope through the dense bush or a colourful fruit pigeon hidden in the higher branches. Mole has plans to develop a luxury lodge, and the road from Tamale is being improved. Hopefully the park will maintain its understated charm despite these new developments.

Ghana’s main attraction is its tropical beaches. We explored much of the coast, from Beyin near the Cote D’Ivoire border to Keta Lagoon in the southeast. My favourite place was Green Turtle Lodge, a backpacker resort near Akwidaa – the perfect place to lie back in a hammock, drink beer with other travellers and wish you had thought of writing ‘The Beach’ first. Hannah’s pick was the more upmarket Fanta’s Folly near Butre, where the eponymous Nigerian owner serves delicious food flavoured with herbs picked from her husband’s garden. We also saw our one and only turtle in Ghana here. Closer to Accra, Till’s No.1 resort provided a quick weekend getaway from city life.

One of my motivations for moving to Ghana was to see the lesser-known parts of a country, something not always possible with shorter visits. The main outlet for this was the Ghana Mountaineers, a group of like-minded hikers gathered from across the world in Accra. We climbed Ghana's highest peak; we camped out under a full moon on Verandah Mountain; we completed Ghana’s own three peaks, Krobo, Iogaga and Osoduku; and we beat our own tracks through the hills of the Volta Region and beyond, literally in places: while many people visit Boti Falls, very few hack their way up the river to do it, battling snakes (OK, one sleeping snake), storms and the jungle on the route. Ghana has huge potential as a hiking destination; nothing too high or challenging, but fantastic views and a good infrastructure to get around easily.

If Ghana is easy to fall for, Accra takes a little longer to love. It’s a fast-developing city, with high-rise buildings going up on every spare corner of land, clearing the last few green spaces and trees as they go. Half-built concrete shells dominate the city’s skyline and as flats, hotels, offices and shopping malls come to life. Many of these changed little in two years, as the developers’ money runs out or they become mired in land disputes. Painted warnings claiming ‘land not for sale’ are a common sight, and anyone passing through Cantoments will see the red warnings on land: ‘Property of E.B. Tibboh – keep off’, although he never seemed to actually build anything.

Next to our flat in East Legon, an entire block of flats was constructed from scratch during our stay. As the bright orange outer panels coloured our neighbourhood and the vast satellite dishes were screwed on, the family living across the road sold simple meals of fufu and sauce to workers from the nearby repair yard and farms from their ramshackle wooden hut. The children, who worked there late into the night, sold me beer and tomato puree, insisting that I returned the bottles so they could get their deposits back. Every few pesawas counts for Accra’s poorer residents. And their simple business was a step up from those found in the poorest quarters, such as Jamestown.

Life in Accra had its moments, though. We enjoyed some fantastic food (none of it Ghanaian) in the capital’s many restaurants; I played football with former Ghana internationals at the British High Commission, and we watched the local derby, Hearts of Oak v Asante Kotoka, in the impressive national stadium; Hannah taught a former president’s grandson at Ghana International School; and on an unforgettable night at +233 jazz club, we joined our Canadian friends Andrew and Christie as part of a mass dance routine without being laughed off the floor by the more supple and rhythmic locals.

We also experienced an African election. After the build up, which saw the unexpected and widely mourned death of the president John Atta Mills, I had anticipated … what? Street riots? Tribal warfare? Perceptions of African democracy are probably tainted by those that make the news in the UK. But in the event, it was extremely quiet and democratic; there was more tension in the city during the two African Cup of Nations, in both of which Ghana made the semis. And lost.

There are many more memories: the primary school on Kpala island in Lake Volta powered by the playground roundabout; visiting the rice farmers in the Volta Region and hearing about the complexities of land acquisitions; experiencing the shrines and rituals of northern Ghana. Two years was long enough to enjoy the good things about the country, and we are leaving before the typically insignificant and indulgent expat frustrations – power cuts, heat stroke, traffic, bewilderment about the Ghanaian way of doing things –led to an even more unhealthy amount of Gulder beer being consumed.  

Hannah and I are both certain that we will return to Ghana, to visit friends, return to Mole and laze on the beach. But for now, as with half of the dishes listed on any Ghanaian menu … please, it is finished.

Togo

Nous jouons au babyfoot

Education experts claim that schoolchildren in the UK should spend more time learning languages to bring them up to European standards. Personally I think we should forget the whole thing; we only end up embarrassing ourselves.

A storm over Lomé

Having just crossed into Togo from Ghana, Hannah and I were instantly surrounded by moneychangers and taxi drivers, all yabbering away in French. Maybe due to the excitement of walking across a national border for the first time, the 50 words of French I learnt at school instantly flooded back. Where I didn’t know the French word, I chucked in random bits of German and the odd smattering of Spanish. The gathered Togolese looked thoroughly bemused, as if faced with a low-budget version of C3PO – fully incoherent in three languages. Luckily Hannah’s French course paid off and she managed to get us a taxi to the Hotel Napoléon Lagune.

Le petit dejeuner

A weekend is long enough to get a taste of Togo, and that taste is fresh cheese, crispy baguettes and freshly brewed Togolese coffee. I ordered for breakfast the next morning while waiting for Hannah: “Je voudrais mon petit dejeuner” – I was back in full flow after a good night’s sleep. Togolese breakfasts are a marked step up from Litpon tea, rubber omelettes and sugary stodgy bread served in Ghana’s hotels. It went down very well as we sat overlooking the Bé Lagoon in the hotel courtyard. Togo grows on you very quickly, especially at mealtimes.

"...and smile..."

Less appetizing was the city’s major attraction, the fetish market. If you visit a market where they sell animal parts for traditional medicine, you can’t really complain if that’s what you find. But while initially fascinating, the piles of monkey heads, dried chameleons, dead vultures and many more besides were fairly gruesome; the wicker basket of kitten heads was particularly stomach turning. The smell of the market was even more overwhelming; it’s hard to describe in words, but probably not that difficult to imagine the stench produced by hundreds of dead animals lying about in 35-degree heat.

Not sure what these cure...

Our guide assured us all the animals had died of natural causes – yeah, right – but Hannah and I were quickly going off the idea of a fetish market as a good day out. When he asked if we wanted to meet the fetish priest and be ‘cured’ with our choice of animal, ground and brewed with “over fifty traditional herbs”, it was our cue to leave. Quickly.

Some carving or other

La Musée International du Golfe de Guinée (that’s the international museum of the Gulf of Guinea, non-linguists) was a far more relaxed and less pungent affair. Located in a house on Lomé’s urban seafront, it contains statues and artefacts collected from across West Africa. A good selection of wooden penises was on show for fans of the genre, as well as some particularly ugly carvings.

Unfortunately, once you have visited the fetish market, nothing can distract you from the need for a shower. We headed back to the hotel and I threw away my fetid T-shirt, which still smelt of the elephant thighbone* I had been persuaded to pick up for a photo. Only after two scrubbings, a swim in the pool and a few Togolese beers did I start to feel clean again.

An elephant's thighbone. Heavy.

* The T-shirt was nearly 15 years old and regularly used for hiking, so the elephant cannot be held fully responsible for its aroma.

Obroni

Butre beach

Stirring myself from the sun lounger at Fanta’s Folly, I walk along the beach to Butre, one of Ghana’s popular coastal villages. Small, near-translucent crabs scuttle towards their holes in the sand as I pass; they pause on the edge, waiting to see how close I will get before disappearing from view.

Across the wooden bridge that spans the river between the beach and the village, I wave at a group of teenagers, anticipating a chorus of ‘obroni’. But they are too engrossed in their game of damii to notice me.

I look for a path to Fort Batenstein, which sits on a small hill overlooking the village. There is no obvious way up through the haphazard houses, and no one offers directions as I walk through the main street. But at a school on the edge of Butre, a man asks me where I’m going. I answer him; he tells me I need a guide to visit the fort. ‘It’s illegitimate to go without out one’, he smiles. I smile back, deciding not to correct his mistake.

Bridge

In the village, I soon find the simple wooden shack that acts as Butre’s tourist information centre. The teenage girl outside looks up at me impassively. I ask to visit the fort.

‘OK, let’s go.’

‘How much?’

‘Five cedis.’

‘Too much, I’m not paying that much.’

‘Then you’re not going.’

She grins broadly. I wonder whether she is pleased to have outwitted the sweaty white man, or simply to have avoided a walk in the searing sun.

Sandy

Instead, I head to the harbour. Men sit in groups mending their nets; they look up and nod curtly, not hostile but indifferent to yet another tourist with a camera trying to photograph their boats.

The children splashing in the water are more responsive. ‘Obroni, snap me’. They strut and pose for the camera, then crowd around to see themselves in the viewfinder. I take a deep breath as then sandy little hands grab at my expensive camera, reminding myself it can be cleaned. ‘Obroni, give me one cedi’ they then ask, an almost Pavlovian reaction to seeing a white person. They don’t seem to really expect a response, running back into the water, and I don’t give one.

Butre harbour

I walk back along the beach and notice that most of the fishermen have discarded their nets. I ponder why, then spot a chalk notice on a board outside a bar: ‘Rubin Kazan v Chelsea, 4pm’. The cheers from inside suggests Chelsea have scored already (I have yet to meet a Rubin Kazan fan in Ghana).

Back across the bridge, I stop for a drink at the Johannesburg bar. The couple that own it pause their argument to serve me a chilled Star beer. The toothless old man next to me starts talking in broken English. ‘Visit … photo … leave … drink.’ A hand gesture confirms he wants, or expects, me to buy him a beer too.

I consider whether buying him one would reinforce stereotypes of tourists as cash points, or be a kind gesture to a poor man on a hot day. Then realise I only have four cedis on me. I pretend that I don’t understand him, pay up and leave hurriedly.

On the beach outside, a young rasta leans over his shoulder, smiles and waves. ‘Hey, obroni, how are you?’ A small dark pool is forming on the beach in front of him. ‘Fine, how are you?’ I wave back, making a mental reminder that talking to people mid-piss won’t be normal when I move back to Germany in two months.

Boat

Sierra Leone part 3: Paradise

John Obey beach

Sierra Leone’s highest mountain is hard to reach, but its other star attractions are much easier to get to. Running south from Freetown are a string of stunningly beautiful beaches: dark green rain forest runs down steep mountains to meet golden beaches, with the surf crashing a few metres away. Add in a few lagoons, monkeys and palm trees and you have a taste of paradise; no wonder one of these beaches featured in a Bounty advert.

The question is: how long will it remain unspoilt? The Government of Sierra Leone recently reversed a law banning sand mining along the peninsula. Up to 200 trucks a day now leave the beaches loaded with their golden treasure, which is used in the building industry. This is already having a negative impact: one beach has already lost the sand bank that attracted surfers, and others are also under threat.

River Number Two beach

Perhaps a bigger concern is the tourism industry itself. The country’s civil war no doubt affected the country’s popularity as a destination (a small concern amid such atrocities, of course) but as the country develops, it seems inevitable that tourism will increase. Sierra Leone could soon rival the Gambia and Senegal as a West African winter sun hotspot, which will doubtless lead to more roads, more hotels, more people. The forested hills around Freetown are already being felled indiscriminately as the city expands. How long before the hills behind the beaches follow suit?

And yet there are signs that Sierra Leone may be choosing a different path to the mass tourism that has blighted other coastal regions. The few operations that have established themselves already are small-scale, community-run operations rather than ugly tower-block hotels. At River Number Two, the beach halfway along the coast that starred in the Bounty advert, the local community has established small lodges, a bar and restaurant, supported by a German charity, Welthungerhilfe. The development is low-key and does little to affect the scenery. While the pricing is a little ambitious - $60 for a 2-hour canoe trip seems pretty high in this poor country – the community are rightly proud of their achievements.

Tribewanted

Another interesting project is Tribewanted, a volun-tourism camp recently established at John Obey beach, a little further south along the peninsula. The camp was set up by Ben Keene, an Englishman, following a successful project in Fiji. The Tribewanted approach is to use the Internet, particularly social networking, to establish a ‘tribe’ of travellers looking for something different. Rather than just laze on the beach, ‘tribe members’ help with community projects, work alongside local people in the garden and kitchen. In short, they share the lifestyle of the local people rather than just popping in as tourists.

Tribewanted's kitchen

In principle at least. It’s perhaps unfair to judge a project based on one night’s stay, but there was little integration during my brief visit. At lunch, a Sierra Leonean woman cooked and served the food, which the (all white) tribe members ate and cleared away. During the day, most visitors sat in the hammocks or swam in the lagoon while the locals worked in the garden. And in the evening, the Leoneans drank and sang in their bar (a few metres away in the village) while the tourists – mostly NGO workers from Freetown who stay at weekends – drank and chatted in theirs.

Maybe that’s how it should be. The villagers of John Obey are happy with the extra income the project has brought to their lives, and probably don’t want to spend their evenings discussing the power cuts in Freetown or where else to visit in ‘Salone’. Maybe not all visitors want to drink palm wine or listen to reggae played on a slowly dying cassette player. And if Sierra Leone can establish more of these community-run, low-impact beach resorts before the chain hotels clear the forest (or the sand miners clear the beaches), then so much the better.

Lagoon

Tudu station

A long journey by tro-tro – the clunky minibuses that serve as Ghana’s bus network – can be viewed in two ways. It can be a window into typical Ghanaian life: the chatter among the passengers; the sights along the way, such as the hawkers that crowd the windows at every stop; or the radio programmes, which could be anything from vibrant highlife music to a phone-in testing Bible knowledge.

Or it can be a complete pain in the arse. Literally; the cushions on most seats lost any sense of padding years ago. Our trip to Keta Lagoon started firmly in the latter camp. Forty-five minutes through Accra’s horrendous traffic to Tudu bus station; an hour waiting for the tro-tro to fill up; then another trip back across the city. Sweaty, cramped and irritable, we passed our flat on the outskirts of Accra nearly three hours after leaving it.

Guinea pigs

Ultimately, the pay-off in these journeys lies in the destination. And Meet Me There ecolodge, near Keta Lagoon in Ghana’s southeast corner, made the stiff backs worthwhile. The lodge’s main attraction is its small saltwater lagoon for swimming, and the menagerie in the grounds: guinea pigs, rock pythons, two dwarf crocodiles and several dogs, including three very playful puppies. The resident goats had given birth that day, and their kid stumbled about while they carried on eating. Bright red fire finches and seedcrackers competed for the seeds in the sand. I even had a crab nip my little toe, something I didn’t think happened outside of Beano cartoons.

A West African dwarf crocodile

The only sad note was the vervet monkey, which is kept chained up in the corner. The future for this creature, and all the other animals, should be release in a nature reserve, which the owners are trying to create nearby. This is, naturally, taking a long time to negotiate with local people and landowners. Hopefully for the monkey’s sake, it won’t take much longer.

*****

After spending most of Saturday lazing by the lagoon and playing with the puppies, Hannah and I decided to explore the local area that afternoon. I had an urge to see the Volta Estuary; it must be something to do with studying geography.

We caught a tro-tro for the (mercifully short) distance to Atetite, a small town by the river. As we stood, wondering which way to head, a man came over and introduced himself as Prospect – many Ghanaians have wonderfully descriptive names like this; maybe it’s where the Spice Girls got the idea. Having just finished his shift as a taxi driver, Prospect offered to show us around.

Atetite beach

The next two hours were probably the best tour we have had in Ghana. Prospect showed us the stunning beach by the estuary, an expanse of bright white sand completely devoid of litter, beach huts, anything except a few fishermen. Just behind the beach was a series of small lagoons, similar to the one at Meet Me There and dotted with wading birds and lined with palm trees. We wandered slowly, soaking up the serenity of this unspoilt corner of Ghana.

It’s perhaps surprising that the beach is so unspoilt, but two factors preserve its underdeveloped nature. The region hard to reach, being several miles off the Keta loop road, which itself lies some distance of the Accra–Togo road.

The other factor is the severe coastal erosion in this part of Ghana. The thin strip of land that separates the vast Keta Lagoon from the sea is being rapidly eaten away and is threatened by sea level rise, despite the efforts to reinforce the land. Maybe that is also deterring investors. But, for now at least, it is one of Ghana’s finest coastal destinations.

Smoking fish

After leaving the beach, Prospect introduced us to the people in his village and the nearby farms. A group of women showed us how they smoke the small fish caught nearby, and children ran out of their huts, smilingly demanding to be photographed. This informal tour was a stark contrast to the organised tour to Nzulezo; there, the daily stream of tourists has understandably made people resentful of people poking around their homes, or indifferent at least. In Atetite, every person we met waved, smiled or stopped to shake hands.

Only on our tro-tro journey back to Meet Me There did we find someone not pleased to see us. A small baby, wrapped tightly to her mother’s back, took one glimpse at my white face and started howling, a petrified look in her eyes. The wailing got louder, much to the amusement of the other passengers. “She doesn’t like you because you are white”, explained an old man, laughing racistly and smelling strongly of palm wine. But given the warmth of our welcome elsewhere, it was hard to feel too offended.

In Atetite

Rastas

Kokrobite beach

Arriving from the calm of Barbara’s Village, Big Milly’s was a jolt to the senses. The drumming workshop could be heard before we entered the gates: no surprise, considering the large group of rastas banging away, surrounded by a crowd of white backpackers all playing at being a rasta. Dreadlocks, tie-die t-shirts and fisherman’s pants: the familiar uniform of the gap year student.     

The courtyard was overflowing with market stalls and sellers, people walking through to the beach, and 4x4s – evidence of its glowing reputation among expats. As we were shown to the reception, we passed a big screen showing the English Premier League. A big cheer went up as Man Utd scored a last-minute winner against City – I was beginning to think that Big Milly’s wasn’t my kind of place. 

Lobsters

Amid all the commotion, Hannah and I did what all sensible creatures do – we hid. Our small room in the gardens, set back from the action, had two chairs and a table outside, so we sat and read our books. I felt a little middle-aged for not embracing the vibe and whipping out the bongos, but I would have stood out like Prince Charles at a rave.

A stall at Big Milly's

As dusk fell, though, the weekend crowds drifted away and the attraction of the award-winning resort became clear. A terrace bar overlooks the beach, where the souvenirs stall owners were packing up while the fishermen tidied up their nets for the day. Peace descended, and as the candles lit up the resort’s restaurant, Big Milly’s assumed a renewed charm. It may not have been the ‘love at first sight’ that many reviews insist is unavoidable, but the place was growing on me.

The restaurant

The attraction became yet stronger that night when Hannah called from the outdoor shower: a large fruit bat, eating a banana just behind our hut. We watched her feast until she flew off into the night.

Early Monday morning, Kokrobite beach looked similar to any other fishing resort along Ghana’s coast, a gentle hum of activity as people began their days. I walked down to the water, which was remarkably free of litter for such a popular beach. I made my way to the rocks further on – despite being 35, I still can’t resist looking for crabs in rock pools.

Sunset

A man squatted on the rocks above me. I waved, and was surprised when he frowned at me; not a typically Ghanaian response. At that point I realised this part of the beach doubled as the al fresco toilet. I left him to it and headed for breakfast (after washing my hands very thoroughly).

While Big Milly’s dominates the beach scene in Kokrobite, there is a village just behind. That afternoon, we wandered up the steep track to explore. Tourism has certainly made its mark: every other building was a restaurant or guesthouse, in varying states of repair and completion, but they are all overshadowed by the glitz of the star attraction.

Thirsty in the afternoon heat, we called in at a small shack. The overpowering scent of dope should have warned us what to expect: a rasta bar, and we were the only ones without the ubiquitous dreads-and-vest look. The smiling owner took our drink orders, and a man wearing a Bob Marley t-shirt and smoking a massive joint stumbled over.

“Hi”, he drawled, sitting next to us. “I am the King of Tanzania, but have left my kingdom to see more of my homeland, Africaaah!”

I smiled and nodded awkwardly, the standard British response in such situations. By the time we had finished, he was asleep in the corner, joint still smoking away. It was a fitting image to take away from Kokrobite. 

Football on the beach

Langma

Hannah birdwatching

After a fraught couple of days battling to get our passports back from the Ghana immigration office, Hannah and I needed some peace and quiet. And few places around Accra are quieter or more peaceful than Barbara’s Village, tucked away behind Langma beach. 

The ‘village’ is a circle of huts and stilt rooms modelled on Nzulezo village in western Ghana. On arrival, the resort was deserted apart from the eponymous Barbara and Moses, the barman/manager/handyman. The beach resorts in Langma probably lose many potential customers to the bright lights of Kokrobite, chiefly Big Milly’s, which are nearer Accra and better known. Barbara’s village also sits away from the beach, which is likely to put some off. But others’ loss was our gain; we dropped our bags in our hut and headed for the empty chairs around the bar.

Some sort of cactus

One of the many attributes of Barbara’s Village is the garden. The circular bar is surrounded by overhanging trees and an array of brightly coloured flowers and shrubs. These in turn attract the birds and I got out the binoculars to watch the weavers, shrikes and sparrows going about their business. Hannah joined in for once. “There’s a red one over there,” she nodded, barely looking up from her book as a Barbary shrike bounced about beneath the trees.

A barbary shrike

People head to the beaches around Accra to escape the city and enjoy some nature. So you cannot then complain if nature then surrounds you. But there are limits, even for ardent nature lovers like myself. The grass roofs of the huts match the traditional style for this part of Africa, but they also provide an ideal residence for mice. And the ones in our roof seemed to be indulging in a Led Zeppelin-style orgy, given the amount of banging and squeaking that went on.

A bronze mannekin

The rodents continued into the early hours, so with little chance of sleep I got up at dawn. The resort was louder at 6.00am than in the afternoon, with the birdlife in full song. I sat and watched the morning routines, as sparrows and bronze mannekins tended their nests in the rafters of the bar, and weavers flew across with more grass for their nests.

One of the legacies of the many foreign-owned beach bars along Ghana’s coast is the spread of proper coffee, in place of the filth that is Nescafe instant. When Moses appeared, I ordered a pot with which to enjoy the early morning activity. Barbara’s might be too quiet for some, but at that hour, it was perfect.

The bar

* Don't let the mice put you off visiting Barbara's Village. They have, according to Moses, been "dealt with".