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.

Bus

Hamale bus station

Once you’ve experienced Ghana’s main attractions, there’s really only one thing left to do: travel the entire length of the country in one day. That’s 665km in a cramped, rickety bus. With unforgiving wooden seats and a crotchety driver.

Late in the afternoon, Hannah and I had crossed into Ghana from Burkina Faso at Hamale, a small town in the far northwest. Our plan was to get a tro tro to Wa, the nearest large town, then continue to Accra the next day on a comfortable VIP bus – complete with comfy seats, Nigerian films on TV and perhaps even a preacher on board.

But the border guard who stamped our passports told us that the last transport had gone for the day; we would have to catch the Metro Mass bus to Kumasi at 4.00am in the morning. Metro Mass is Ghana’s state-funded, poorly managed transport network, with antique, overcrowded vehicles. It was not an attractive option, but the only one available.

The Hamale Hilton

Our next task was to find somewhere to stay until 4.00am. Hamale is chaotic, like many border towns, but it’s a remote crossing with few tourists – hence a lack of tourist-friendly outlets. The town’s only hotel offers dingy rooms around a bare concrete courtyard. The mattress had an ominous brown sheen and the bathroom comprised a tap in the courtyard and a foul-smelling long-drop toilet. It was far from inviting, but as with the transport, there were no other options.

No other options for cosseted Westerners at least. Rising early, we walked to bus station. Clearly most travellers wait at the station, rather than paying 30 cedis for a hotel room (this would more than double the bus fare); some were still asleep, wrapped up in blankets to keep out the cool night air, while others crowded around a TV showing a spy movie. Simple our hotel may have been, but it was a luxury few could afford.

Only 21 hours to go...

I bought a fried egg sandwich from a father-and-son team who were feeding the waiting crowds. The boy, no more than 10 years old, looked exhausted as he brought over my breakfast, his eyes half-closed and steps slow. I wondered if he had been working all night, and if he would be going to school in a few hours. Despite the economic progress, Ghana is still a poor country, especially in the far north, and many children have to work to help out the family business.

Ghanaians don’t travel light, and it took over an hour to cram all the bags into the bus’s storage decks. The driver shouted directions at his young ‘mate’ (or conductor) before eventually we took our seats. As the driver revved the engine, the mate tied the door shut with a piece of twine. Clearly this was a bus that had seen better days.

And so began the journey. The bus skidded and bumped along the dirt road to Wa. We waited for two hours in Wa for no apparent reason. Passengers shouted impatiently at the mate when they wanted to get off; the driver then shouted at him for making the bus stop too many times. The sun cooked the inside of the bus and my t-shirt began to melt into my skin. The wooden seat got harder with every tedious mile.

The bus stopped and everyone got out for a piss beside the road: men beside the bus, women behind the trees. We got back on and continued through the endless scrub forest of the Ashanti region. By this stage the driver was at the point of killing his poor mate, and I would have probably joined in, just for something to break the tedium. Eventually the bus entered the suburbs of Kumasi; relief was tempered by the thought that we were still at least five hours from home.

Nearly 22 hours after leaving Hamale, we reach the capital. I was exhausted, foul-tempered and even fouler-smelling. It was an unforgettable journey, despite nothing happening. And one that I never want to repeat, although it did create an unusual feeling – I was pleased to be back in Accra.

Home sweet home

Logic

It's not all bad

After nearly two years in Ghana, I have seen a lot of the country, learnt a few words of Twi (about five), and tasted all that Ghanaian cuisine has to offer me – not much, being vegetarian. But I could live here another 20 years and still not master Ghanaian logic.

The taxi journey last night was a prime example. Walking to pick up a takeaway at Noble House, an Indian restaurant near the local A&C shopping mall, I heard the familiar parp of the horn. I said where I was going.

“You are going to A&C mall?”

“No, a restaurant near there.”

“OK, 6 cedis to the mall.”

“Fine, but it’s not actually the mall. It’s nearby. OK?”

“You know the way? I don’t know it.”

“Yes, I know, let’s go.”

He asked directions all the way, and then pulled up at the mall. No, I repeated, I’m not going to the mall; it’s a restaurant nearby.

“Oh, I have to pick someone up and I’m late. You said you knew the way.”

“I do, just take the next turn right.”

“Left?”

“No, right.”

“Right?”

“Yes, right.”

“OK, right.”

We turned left. Past an enormous, garage-sized ‘Noble House’ sign with a bright red arrow pointing the other way.

“It’s the other way.”

“No, nothing is down that road. It’s this way.”

“But you said you don’t know where it is.”

“I know it’s not that way. Nothing is that way.”

We got there eventually. I had to pay him eight cedis; not only did I not know the way, I had made him late for collecting his passenger. Taxi drivers in Accra drive a hard bargain.

***

Where are the spuds?

New arrivals are just as easily caught out. Our friends Lilly and Ole came for two weeks last year, and after a dusty trip to Mole, we retreated to relax at Till’s No.1, a beach resort just outside Accra. Owned by a German, the menu has a better-than-average selection. After a week of yam chips and fried rice in the north, Lilly spied the fresh green salad – lettuce, tomato, eggs and boiled potatoes.

One hour later (the standard waiting time for food in most Ghanaian hotels), out came the meals, including her salad ­– minus the spuds. She asked where they were; “Oh, coming, coming,” came the reply from the hurried waiter.

A further 20 minutes, and the salad devoured, but still no potatoes. As the plates were cleared, Lilly asked about them.

“Oh, please, no potatoes with salad,” said our smiling waiter.

“But the menu says potatoes”, replied Lilly (the chips I had eaten proved they weren’t ‘finished’).

“No, this salad doesn’t come with potatoes.”

“It says on the menu, though – lettuce, tomato, egg and boiled potatoes.”

“Oh, please, everyone here knows this plate doesn’t come with potatoes. You can ask my friends.”

Sunset at Tills

Simple logic: why on earth would a guest expect potatoes when the staff all knew the menu was wrong? To be fair, the waiter probably had the stronger case this time; most Ghanaian menus are as grounded in reality as the average Noddy story. “It is finished,” is a refrain common to anyone eating out. It’s difficult to believe some dishes ever ‘started’.

***

The moment I knew I would never get my head around the Ghanaian way of thinking was in Shoprite, Accra’s low-cost, poor-quality South African supermarket in the city’s main shopping mall. It had been a stressful Saturday morning, full of typical expat problems: the air-con was broken; the waitress brought the wrong coffee; it was too damn hot, again. Sweating and in a bad mood, I went to buy the week’s groceries before retreating home to watch Coronation Street on Youtube.

Vegetables are weighed and priced by a bored-looking shop assistant, but when I handed him my mango, he gave it back: “It must be in a plastic bag”. Refusing bags for single items is my own futile gesture towards reducing Ghana’s phenomenal plastic waste, but I knew it wasn’t worth arguing.

In between me getting a bag and returning, a Chinese couple had sneaked into the queue with half a trolley’s worth of veg. Swearing quietly and trying to stay calm, I impatiently waited my turn, then unloaded my basket of veg … only to find an unbagged avocado at the bottom. Swearing quite loudly this time, I went to get yet another bag, only to be stopped.

“That doesn’t need a bag”, said the assistant.

“Why did the mango then?”

He gave me the smiling, ‘what’s he on about?’ look that is a common Ghanaian response to irate obronis making a fuss about nothing. I tried again, this time with props.

“What is the difference between this (holding up bagged mango) and this (holding up unbagged, similarly-sized avocado)?”

“That one is a mango… and that one is an avocado” he answered.

Beaten again by Ghanaian logic.

Spot the difference

Hawkers

What connects mobile phone credit, 500 ml sachets of purified water, and a framed hologram of Christ on the cross? Answer – they can all be bought on the streets of Accra. Along with bush meat. And fried plantain chips. And huge maps of Ghana. And Chinese-made neck massagers. And sliced papaya. And self-help books, bottles of fresh coconut water, new windscreen wiper blades, frozen yoghurts…

The capital’s street traders, known as ‘hawkers’, sell these myriad items at every set of traffic lights and traffic jam that slows cars down long enough for a transaction. Sometimes only just long enough; a hawker running alongside a car, one hand collecting change through the window, is a common sight.

Chasing cars isn’t the only hazard the hawkers face. They must dodge quickly out of the way when the traffic starts moving: not easy with an overflowing basket of oranges balanced on your head. And spending 12 hours a day amid the city’s vehicle fumes can’t be healthy.

Several women, men and children trade at the end of my road in the suburb of East Legon. While buying phone credit one morning, I asked the seller, John Abatey, how much he earns. “I get four cedis (about £1.30) for every 100 cedis of credit I sell. Most days, I sell around 500 cedis.”

My surprise at such a meagre living must have shown, as he quickly explained that this was a good living. “The water sellers earn much less,” he told me proudly. Water sells for 10 pesawas per sachet (around £0.03), with a seller making 1 or 2 pesewas per sale. Buying one always leaves me with mixed feelings: the empty sachets are one of the mains culprits in Accra’s wave of plastic pollution, but there’s no denying that they are instantly refreshing on a scorching day.

How much longer John and co. can stay there remains to be seen. The Accra Municipal Authority is stepping up efforts to clear the streets of hawkers. Their stated aim is to clear the streets to reduce congestion; the suspicion among the hawkers is that the authorities see them as an untidy blot in a rapidly modernizing city.

If they do disappear, I will miss them. Not least because of the convenience they offer: I know I don’t have far to walk whenever I need phone credit. Or some grilled maize. Or a box of Man Utd tissues. Or a carved wooden mask, a dead rat, a school lunchbox, a slice of watermelon, a game of Scrabble…

The big match

In the mixer

It’s West Africa’s Clásico, the regional clash of the titans. Accra Hearts of Oak, Ghana’s most successful team, against their fierce northern rivals, Kumasi Asante Kotoko. The country’s two most popular clubs meet in Ghana’s version of Chelsea versus Liverpool Man United. And … it’s a little bit rubbish.

Many of Ghana’s brightest stars are whisked off to European clubs at a young age, and those left behind seem to be running through the commentator’s cliché book: the players couldn’t trap a bag of cement, and chances go begging that the most lethargic grandmother would have buried. But both sides give 110% on the pitch and plenty of full-blooded tackles fly in.

Packed stadium

Matches at the Accra Sports Stadium are about more than the football though. The ground is nearly full, 38,000 fans wearing the bright red of Kotoko or the garish yellow-blue-red of Hearts (one of football’s more lurid kits – imagine Crystal Palace mixed with Partick Thistle, with a bit of LSD thrown in). It’s also the only place in Ghana where you see anyone wearing a scarf.

A Hearts fan

Vuvuzelas buzz across the stadium, far louder than they seem on TV and every bit as annoying. People sing and dance together, and after every key moment men stand up and start a fierce argument with someone nearby – anyone will do, even if they agree with you. It’s a furious burst of shouting and finger pointing, then smiles all round and back to the game.

And..... he missed

A rare moment of skill lights up the first half. Wilfred Kobina, the Hearts midfielder, runs towards the box. As fans in the upper tier take cover, he surprises everyone by drilling the ball into the bottom corner. The Hearts players run off to celebrate and the stadium erupts on all sides. Cue even more shouting and finger-jabbing.

At half time, the crowd join in with Hearts’ endearing chant: ‘Arise arise arise, be quiet and don't be silly, we are the famous Hearts of Oak, we Never Say Die’. Fans pour outside to buy grilled kebabs and popcorn and mingle with the opposition. It’s all remarkably civilised for the nation’s biggest rivalry; perhaps the memory of Ghana’s worst stadium disaster, in which 127 people died, is still too fresh in people’s memories for any aggression.

The Kotoko teddy

The second half starts at a noticeably slower pace, Ghana’s intolerable afternoon heat taking its toll. The fans find new ways to entertain themselves. A poor offside decision leads to a volley of water bottles thrown towards the offending linesman; one hits him squarely on the backside, which satisfies everyone. An ever-growing throng dances around the stand, carrying above them a giant teddy bear bedecked in Kotoko colours. They seem to have more energy than the players by this late stage.

Kotoko equalise through a scrappy header following a goalmouth scramble, and apart from a few late chances for Hearts, the game peters out to a 1-1 draw. The spoils are shared and both sets of fans head home happy with the result. But that doesn’t stop them arguing furiously outside the stadium, about offside decisions, missed chances, and which side has the best teddy bear.

Football

At a Hearts of Oak match

The African Cup of Nations is here again and Ghana’s Black Stars are one of the favourites. Their games are notable for two reasons: they offer a rare chance to see Accra (virtually) devoid of traffic, and they are one of the few times when Ghana’s many football fans watch an African game.

For the rest of the year, people follow the English Premier League, the Spanish La Liga, and increasingly Italy’s Serie A and the German Bundesliga. The talk in the bars and ‘football theatres’ – small set-ups that show the games via South African DSTV – is of Chelsea, Barcelona, Real Madrid and Man Utd.

Epo's

Debates rage as fans of the big European teams (and Liverpool) argue about which is the best team, who are the ‘true champions’, which club has the greatest history. It’s remarkably heartfelt, considering virtually none of them has seen the teams live, or likely ever will. The fervour surpasses the atmosphere at Ghanaian league matches; Hearts of Oak, Accra’s leading team, rarely sell even a quarter of the tickets for their games.

There is interest in other English teams as well: a few hardy souls will turn up for Wigan v Reading. For the first time in my life, an in-depth knowledge of lower-league right-backs is proving useful; certainly more than it did as an opening chat-up line at university. 

Epo's at night

One of the most popular places to watch games in Accra is the terrace bar at Epo Spot in Osu. Its reputation means you are as likely to be sat next to a Canadian volunteer as a Ghanaian, but it maintains its friendly chaotic ambiance. The shouting is loud, the beer is cold, and the aroma of grilled food drifts up from the surrounding snack bars.

I went there for Ghana’s last group game in the Cup of Nations, against Niger. Radio XYZ was commentating directly from the venue, adding an authentic atmosphere to their coverage. Ghana won 3-0, an easy victory to top their group. But many fans are still downbeat about the team’s overall chances following the experience of last year’s tournament.

Ghana lost to Zambia in the semi-finals in 2012, with Asamoah Gyan missing another penalty to follow his effort in the World Cup quarter-final. As the final whistle blew, the fans at Epo's were all in agreement: the team had failed to live up to expectations; the coach was clueless; the star players were more interested in money; they never win on penalties. 

They clearly watch too much overseas football – apart from the heat and the smell of grilled goat, it was just like watching England. Hopefully they can go two better this time around – not least because it will keep Accra traffic-free for a good few hours.

Epo's at dusk

Nsawam

Sunrise

You won’t find Nsawam in any guidebooks – its main point of ‘interest’ is the large prison on its outskirts. But it’s just 45 minutes northwest of Accra along the Kumasi road, and the surrounding hills make it well worth heading out here. The lack of a tourist trail adds to the adventure – you could be one of the first people to go walking on them.

Walking on them for pleasure, at least. Farm tracks weave their way across the hills, connecting village to field to village, through fields of papaya, maize and cassava. And it was one of these tracks that we followed to create a new Ghana Mountaineers route.

In the village

Most tracks are steep in Ghana – no messing about with zigzags here – and we lost our breath as quickly as we gained height. The pause to regain it was a chance to admire the stunning early-morning view. The cloud that drifts in from the sea at night is caught between the closely packed hills, providing a scene rarely found on the more widely spaced hills around Krobo. The inversion, with the peaks bursting through the white blanket, was a fitting reward for yet another early start.

Stephen had brought maps of the area – one from Google, another from an obscure Russian website – but once in among the trees on our first summit, they were of limited use. Still, we were creating a new route so it didn’t really matter; we followed our noses in a vague direction of somewhere over there. The air was cool, and the walking easy, so why rush?

Breakfast

As walks in Ghana go, it was uneventful – no snakes, no ants, no secret cannabis farms – leaving plenty of time to enjoy the area. We passed through fruit farms, villagers preparing for church, the occasional bird in the trees.

At the occasional clearings, we saw further inviting hills to the south and further north, noting down inviting ridges and potential climbs. And that’s the problem with exploring new areas – you come back with a list of even more hills to tick off. There’s plenty more to be discovered around Nsawam.

Dust

Harmattan haze

Ghana has no distinct seasons – it’s hot, very hot or stupidly hot – so the Harmattan, between December and March, provides some shape to each year. This trade wind, which blows southwest from the Sahara towards the Gulf of Guinea, coats Ghana and its West African neighbours with a fine red dust carried from the desert.

Not everyone welcomes it. Many Ghanaians complain of headaches and colds, brought about by the cool temperatures, and the dust can cause breathing problems. And Accra, never the smartest of cities, is even scruffier than normal with every last street looking like it needs a good sweep. Guidebooks advise travellers that the Harmattan can spoil views in the mountains or when wildlife watching, and photographers bemoan the damage done to their cameras.

Harmattan sunset

Personally I enjoy the Harmattan, not least for the spectacular effect it has on the sunsets. Each evening, the haze turns the sun into a perfectly round disc as it drops, tinting the sky with vivid oranges and reds.

A good place to appreciate the effect of the Harmattan is the Hillburi resort, near Aburi in the Akapwem hills. While this option is not open to most people in Ghana – one of the plush rooms costs 320 cedis a night, double what some earn in a month – for those fortunate enough, it makes a welcome escape from Accra.

Hillburi pool

Hannah and I headed there for a late Christmas treat, to enjoy their fine food and relax in the ‘world’s end’ swimming pool, which overlooks the surrounding hills. Normally the view stretches for miles across the interlocking hills, but in early January only the nearest two slopes were visible through the dust.

Chillin'

Breakfast

Enjoying dinner on the terrace, our eyes were fixed on this view across the valley. It’s captivating at any time, but the Harmattan haze made it particularly special. And once the sun had set and the day-trippers had departed, the only sounds we heard were the plop of a Gulder beer bottle opening and the flapping wings of the bats.

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