Lighthouse

Accra is developing fast. Glass-fronted high-rises fill the city skyline, with the steel-and-concrete shells of many more growing daily. Shiny land cruisers pepper the traffic jams that choke the city, while expats and wealthy Ghanaians pack the smart restaurants that serve food from across the planet.

Jamestown lighthouse

And then there’s Jamestown. Accra’s poorest district is just a few hundred metres from its most expensive hotel – $300 a night for the cheapest room at the Movenpick – but the contrasts between the old fishing harbour and the wealthier parts of Accra are stark.

I visited Jamestown with Manuela and Flo, friends visiting from Germany, and it was an instant jolt to the comforts available on my side of town. Mountains of plastic rubbish smothered the ground, some smouldering in small fires. Mixed with the piles of drying fish around the harbour, these gave Jamestown an incredibly pungent aroma. Battered old cars replaced the 4x4 behemoths seen elsewhere, many with more dents than bodywork. And Jamestown is the only place in Accra I have seen kids running about barefoot and in rags; Ghanaians take huge pride in their appearance, but the realities of poverty were evident.

Jamestown

The most striking contrast for me was the small wooden shacks. These are found in all corners of the capital, selling everything from fruit and veg to phone credit and lottery tickets. Elsewhere, they are brightly painted in the colours of whichever mobile phone company sponsors them. In Jamestown, they are cobbled them together from pieces of scrap wood, leaving a hotchpotch structure that looks unlikely to withstand the next strong breeze. Instead of an array of goods on view, most have just a small pile of dried fish or a tiny bag of sweets – whatever the owner could scrape together to sell.

Emmanuel

We met outside Jamestown’s lighthouse, where Emmanuel, the keeper, was waiting to show us around. His deep voice made every aspect of the tour sound like a threat.

“This lighthouse was built by the British”, he growled as we went up the spiral staircase.

“Oh, brilliant”, I muttered.

“It has 91 steps” he barked next, with a look that suggested he didn’t think I could make them all.

The stairs

“Oh, ok, that’s, er, really impressive”.

We reached the viewing platform at the top – it’s best not to look too closely at the last few wooden rungs, especially the snapped rotten ones just behind their nailed-on replacements – and Emmanuel started pointing out landmarks.

“That is the oldest hotel in Ghana. Built in 1903”, he said, pointing to the faded Sea View Hotel opposite. “Not just the oldest in Accra, but Ghana!”

“Wow, that’s amazing. Is it popular?”

“It’s closed.”

Sea View Hotel

We continued with our 360° tour, him angrily identifying landmarks – the palace of Jamestown’s chief, Ussher Fort, James Fort – while I struggled to think of replies that didn’t incriminate me or my British ancestors. (Flo and Manuela had wisely sneaked off to the other side). Luckily the views were fantastic and I didn’t need to fake my interest.

After the lighthouse, Emmanuel offered to show us the harbour. I have always felt uncomfortable with ‘poverty tourism’ – essentially looking at some poor people and the squalor they live in. But at the same time I was fascinated by Jamestown and wanted to see more. Plus I didn’t dare refuse Emmanuel.

Fish

As we walked, Emmanuel explained the history of the Ga fishing communities who settled here before Accra existed as a city. But he was interrupted by an angry shout from a group of men playing cards.

“You just walk through and don’t offer us greetings?”

A large man had stood up from the card table and was staring at us, his friends grinning silently.

“Er, we’re sorry, we…” began Flo.

“Not you, him”, interrupted the card player, pointing at Emmanuel.

There followed a brief and angry discussion in Ga, the language of Jamestown, including the full complement of Ghanaian hand gestures and shouting. Emmanuel’s quick submission and grovelling bow as we departed betrayed his earlier ferocity, I noted (silently and to myself, of course).

As we continued through the harbour, I made sure to smile and say hello to everyone we passed. The residents responded with varying degrees of amusement, friendliness and apathy; most were too busy sorting the day’s catch to worry about another group of Westerners poking about their home. Tourism is beginning in Jamestown – most evidently with the Jaynii beach bar – but what the locals think of it remains unknown.

Thanks to Flo for the pictures. 

Dam

Akosombo Dam

The Akosombo Dam is Ghana’s equivalent of Big Ben. The country’s signature monument, a world-famous sight that every visitor wants to see. And when you get there, you look at it, take a photo, and … well, that’s about it.

You can’t walk on the Akosombo Dam without prior arrangement with the owners (and ‘prior arrangement’ is a loosely understood concept in Ghana). You can’t even get that close – the best viewing point is the balcony of the Volta Hotel, several hundred metres away.

And again

And yet, like Big Ben, it is still worth the effort to see it – to marvel at its size and wonder whether it really is just the pile of rocks and mud it appears to be. There’s no information boards, no museum and no guide, so these questions remain unanswered until you can get home and google them.

The region has other plus points as well, making a trip out here worthwhile. Chief among them is the Aylos Bay Hotel, perched on the bank of the Akosombo River. Hannah and I, with Manu and Flo, visiting friends from Germany, had arrived the night before after a hellish tro-tro journey from Kpando – thunderstorms, potholes, darkness and a maniacal driver are not a good mix. 

Atimpoku Bridge

The hotel’s lazy charms were the perfect remedy after such a journey. The highlight is the riverside dining area, especially the pontoons that float on the river. You cannot see the dam from here, but the impressive bridge at Atimpoku is visible. 

We immediately made our way there and our nerves were soon restored as we sank beers and enjoyed the good quality Ghanaian food (the best palaver sauce I have had here). It takes time to arrive – service here is as slow as most places – but for once the lethargy is in keeping with the surroundings.

Aylos Bay

Two bats called to each other in a tree nearby, a high-pitched squeak they repeated for two hours. The only other sounds were the oars of the occasional pirogue splashing into the water, and of course frogs and cicadas – the soundtrack to any night in Ghana. Certainly no interruptions from the staff; when I walked up to the bar to order more drinks, they had long since gone and the bar was closed.

 

Our visit to Akosombo could be summarised as an attraction you can’t visit, and a hotel with staff who would rather you didn’t bother them. It would be mean-spirited to conclude it was a typical Ghanaian experience. It would also miss the point; Ghana does understated better than anywhere, and in places as peaceful as Aylos Bay, that’s no bad thing at all. The dam was merely the cherry on a very sleepy cake.

Brunch

Cockerels

Cockerel

There’s no need for an alarm clock in Wli. The local cockerels provide a free wake-up call, competing to see how can screech the loudest. The problem is you can’t set them for a particular time. And so, I was roused at 4.30am – more than an hour before the scheduled start of our walk to Wli’s upper waterfall.

Wli waterfalls, a combination of two falls that together form the highest in West Africa, is one of the Volta Region’s most popular attractions. The usual approach is along the floor to the lower falls, but James and I had signed up for the route along a mountain ridge to the upper falls.

Looking across the valley

We met Samuel, our guide, at the Wli tourist office at 6.00am. Wli village was already busy; women and girls swept the yards, while a local bar already had music playing. And the souvenir sellers who line the path to the falls were already setting up their stalls, ready for the earliest arrivals. Clearly the cockerels do a thorough round of the village.

Samuel, with Mt Afadjato behind

We enjoyed the cool morning air as we climbed steadily, following the steep southern shoulder of the bowl that contains the falls. After 45 minutes we paused above a sheer rock face. As we sat, a West African River Eagle swooped past. It nearly dropped the branch in its beak, before performing a clumsy mid-air juggling act and gliding off nonchalantly, pretending nothing had happened.

As we followed its flight round to the cliff face where its nest no doubt lay, our gaze was drawn to Mount Afadjato to the south. This is Ghana’s highest mountain, if only by a few metres, but it looked suitably imposing for the title, rising up from the early-morning haze that hid the villages below.

A short climb further and we reached the forest that covers the top of the hillside. Hidden in the grass lay planks of wood, clearly cut by a mechanical saw.

Wli Upper Falls

‘Togolese’, said Samuel. ‘They come up here to steal wood and smuggle it across the border.’

‘But why don’t they cut wood in Togo’ enquired James.

‘And why do they cut wood in the forests right at the top of the hill, not lower down?’ I asked.

‘And do they really drag a mechanical saw all the way up here?’

‘Yes, Togolese’ repeated Samuel, emphatically. Discussion over. And neither of us could come up with a better explanation as to how they got there.

From the contraband wood, the path headed steeply into the chamber. Tree roots and vines provided vital handholds during the precarious descent, and the brief glimpses of the upper falls provided little distraction from the task at hand. After a final, vertical slide through mud, rock and bush, we finally reached level ground again and continued quickly to the falls.

James

The water cascaded from high overhead, dispersing into spray before it reached the plunge pool. The spray soaked us in seconds, providing instant refreshment in the morning heat. On the opposite side of the falls was a path leading uphill. ‘The path to Togo’, said Samuel solemnly. No doubt used by those pesky wood smugglers.

"Numerous bats"

After admiring the falls, we headed quickly downhill to reach the main footpath. After passing the colony of bats that live near the falls – modestly promoted in the region as Wli’s “numerous bats” – we returned to the comfort of Wli Water Heights Hotel to shower, shower again, and then eat.

From the hotel’s courtyard, you can just see the waterfall, as well as the many other hills that crowd this beautiful corner of Ghana. And so we settled in for an afternoon of the scenery it from a distance while the hotel’s friendly waiter brought a steady supply of well-earned beers. It had been an early start thanks to the cockerels, but at least Wli is suitably sleepy during the rest of the day.

View from the hotel

Beach

Palm trees

The coastline east of Accra gets far fewer visitors than the resorts to the west. Yet Ghana guidebooks sling out the usual clichés when describing the beaches here – unspoilt, peaceful, off the beaten track. Would Prampram be a hidden gem or a damp squib?

With James, a friend from Accra, we drove past the port city of Tema along the road that eventually leads to Togo, turning off for the village of Prampram. After a quick browse of the beachfront options described in our well-worn Bradt guide, we decided to try the Golden Beach Resort.

Pulling into the car park, the resort instantly gave off a neglected air. Piles of building materials cluttered the garden, evidence of half-completed or abandoned renovations. The paint on the resort’s buildings was heavily faded and peeling. The staff stared absently out to sea, with little to do as only two other guests occupied the cracked plastic chairs spreading across the beach.

Rubbish

At least the resort wasn’t quiet. Celine Dion powered out from the resort’s speakers, which vibrated precariously with every high note. We ordered drinks, and joined in with the sea watching, which seemed to be Prampram’s main activity. Two shipwrecks just offshore provided a little interest, but a large dump of plastic rubbish spoiled the view. The Golden Beach Resort does little to encourage its visitors to hang about; when Celine gave way to Chris de Burgh and Phil Collins, it was time to move on.

Boy on horse

The next settlement along the beach road is Ningo, formed of the villages of Old and New Ningo. We opted for the Comme-Ci beach resort on the basis of it having the most advertising signs along the road. The bright red signs suggested a little more life and Comme-Ci was certainly a step up. A boy offered us horse rides as soon as we arrived, and a chubby waiter pottered straight over to welcome us and take us through the food options (rice, or chicken and rice).

Comme-Ci resort

After eating, we walked along the beach. All along the top of the sandbank that lined the beach were deserted, half-completed buildings, which seem to line so much of Ghana’s coast. It’s hard to know why so many have, apparently, been abandoned. Perhaps the owners are waiting for money to finish the project, or are going through one of Ghana’s notoriously protracted land negotiations. But these deserted concrete shells gave the beach between Ningo and Prampram a melancholy, unfulfilled appearance.

It’s easy to describe any trip out of Accra as worthwhile, and Ningo in particular beats a Sunday spent in the city. But it’s hard to see either resort competing with the bright lights of Bojo Beach or Kokrobite any time soon. Except among Celine Dion fans.

Chillin', innit

Ants

Spillage

A new direction for the Ghana Mountaineers: northwest from Accra rather than northeast, along the rutted, quarter-built Accra–Kumasi road. Kevin had spotted two inviting-looking hills near Nsawam. The only problem was finding them.

The early-morning mist that hung low across the road was atmospheric but didn’t help with route finding. It was so dense that we missed Nsawam; a policeman guarding an overturned truck pointed us in the right direction. One U-turn later, we pulled up at a quarry cut into the foot of the larger of our two new hills.

Yasao

The mist was clearing as we gained height quickly. A cheerful family, pottering about their farm on route, told us the names of the hills: Yasao (the bigger one, 425m) and Mamidi (240m). Their path to their fields provided an easy route up, and the singing from village church services far below provided the usual Sunday-morning soundtrack. Even though it was a new hill, it felt very familiar.

Stephen and Nathan take a breather

The only thing missing was a summit view. The top was a building site, with a new farm building in the early stages of construction. Any views were blocked by trees – good for the environment, bad for photos. So after a brief pause we headed back down. But a quick up-and-down felt too abrupt for a proper walk, so we headed across and take on the second peak, Mamidi.

A wide variety of crops grew in the valley farms: tomatoes, yams, maize, plantains, papayas, even onions, which are usually imported to Ghana. After weaving through the fields, we reached the foot of the hill. It looked benign; much smaller than Yasao, with clear grassy slopes up. I estimated an hour up and down. I was wrong.

The tall grass disguised sections of steep, loose rocks, which made the climb up tricky. It took a while to reach an exposed outcrop just below the summit, where we paused for breakfast. The reward was the view that had been missing earlier, and two more hills behind Yasao were noted for our next trip out this way.

Mamidi

Continuing over the summit, the grass reached above head-height, so we followed our noses down the opposite side of the hill, trusting to luck and a basic sense of direction. A very thin path weaved through the grass – formed by a farmer? a grasscutter? – and headed in roughly the right direction. We followed into a gully that would surely lead us back to the start.

Tomatoes

It did – but not easily. The low-lying branches and rattan stalks made progress tricky, and every branch was swarming with ants. Not vicious biters, but their numbers meant they soon got everywhere – in hair, up shorts, down T-shirts. A five-metre, near-vertical rock face proved the final obstacle. As the ants nipped away at secret places, we headed down one by one, using a combination of sliding, root grabbing and swear words from several different languages.

Once safely down, it was one final push back through the farms to the cars. We passed two more farmers on the way. On our early morning walks, we often attract surprised looks from local people: what are they doing, hiking in this heat for fun? This time, the farmers looked even more bemused than usual. As we reached the car I looked round at the group – hot, grubby, sweaty and still brushing off ants – and concluded that, maybe this once, they had a point. But it was still fantastic fun.

Mist over Nsawam

Move

Our new flat is in East Legon, in northeast Accra. It’s the first, and probably last, time I will live in a city’s trendiest quarter.

You can tell it’s trendy because the taxi drivers ask Hannah and me for double the normal city fares – even on top of their standard obroni tax. We can usually haggle them down, but one or two have got very irate when they felt they hadn’t ripped us off sufficiently. Another refused to take us for less than 10 cedis (for what should be a 3-cedi journey), arguing, “I will then have to turn round to come back”. True, perhaps, but failing to grasp one of the key aspects of taxi driving.

Dzorwulu, our old quarter, was a suburb for wealthy Ghanaians, but East Legon is a suburb aimed at young middle-class Ghanaians and expats, who are spilling out here now the smartest districts, Airport Residential and Cantonments, are full. Flashy new restaurants line Lagos Avenue and Freetown Avenue, with many more being built. New houses and flats are also going up, their grey concrete skeletons springing up on every spare bit of land.

The lesser-spotted air-conditioning repair man

Our own flat is new. It’s bright, shiny, and suitably trendy for East Legon, with white leather sofas and a flat-screen TV. But pick away at the mahogany-finish, stuck-on surface and the cracks quickly appear. The list of faults is too long and dull to list, but is epitomised by the front door. Strong, sturdy and shiny … but put on back to front. So the lock is on the outside, and you have to put your shoulder to it to close it properly. A new one is being shipped from China (everything is imported from China). The other problems will be fixed tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.

The back of our flat overlooks one of Accra’s few rivers. It’s not quite a Ghanaian equivalent of Wind in the Willows; you are more likely to see a chicken pecking about in the sludgy trickle than a water rat in a rowing boat. Unfortunately, like most waterways in the city, it’s used as a rubbish dump. And as there is nowhere else to dump it, where else should it go? Our security guards set fire to the pile when it gets too high.

The river does, though, provide a green and leafy view, with trees lining either side. As I approach middle age, I can justify keeping a bird watching book by my desk, which overlooks the river. And my new binoculars help to determine whether that flash of red and yellow is a Barbary shrike or a Shoprite carrier bag blowing in the wind.

Year two

Friends who have spent time living overseas say that the second year in a different country is easier. Your new home city is no longer a mystery; the weather and seasonal changes don’t catch you off guard; you have an existing circle of new friends and generally know what to expect.

And so it proved. Stepping off the plane at Kotoka International Airport, the tropical air smelt instantly familiar: warm and damp, with a faint tinge of burning plastic. Porters in bright yellow jackets sat stood about on the runway, smiling broadly and doing nothing.

In the terminal, every wall was plastered with adverts for phone networks, each with their own distinctive colours and boasting that their coverage is the cheapest, the best value, Ghana’s most popular, the most reliable – an instant reminder that in this country, the mobile is king.

At the immigration desks, the queues shuffled forward at a torturous pace, the young men behind the glass screens in absolutely no hurry as they mulled over each bit of paperwork. By contrast, it took less than five minutes back in Ghana to be asked for our first ‘dash’, or bribe; the lady organising the lines asked us if we wanted to join the now-empty delegates line, “for some small compensation”. We declined; it was a little too soon to resign ourselves to the fact that almost every task requires a backhander.

We passed the sign politely advising visiting “paedophiles and sexual deviants” to “take their business somewhere else”. A surprisingly quick trip through customs – the officials were too busy negotiating the ‘extra duty’ on other people’s goods to bother with us – and into the chaos of the arrivals hall.

A generic Ghana photo

Taxi drivers swarm around new arrivals, preying on their bewilderment to get overinflated fares. Prior knowledge proved useful this time; ignore all calls, hold on to your bags, and keep walking to the official taxi rank outside. (The one time we did get hooked by one of the hawkers, his engine caught fire less than three minutes from the airport). One ridiculous price later – there’s only so much you can haggle, despite experience – and we arrived at our newly built flat in East Legon.

None of the jobs that needed doing had been completed in the preceding six weeks. The door still stuck, the washing machine was still unconnected, the toilet seat broken. Eric, the caretaker, assured us they would all be done. “Soon, soon, I am just waiting on a few things.”

Akwaaba. Welcome back to Ghana.