Burkina Faso part IV: Domes

Karfiguela Falls

After a peaceful evening spent sipping Brukina beer – one of West Africa’s finest brews – and nibbling groundnuts in the gardens of Le Calypso, Hannah and I awoke slowly the next morning and ambled down to breakfast. After two years in Ghana, our body clocks were set to GMT – Ghana Maybe Time – so the pre-arranged 9.00am meeting time was treated as little more than a vague suggestion.

But Burkina Faso is not Ghana. On the dot of the hour, Metina, our tour guide, hurried into the hotel grounds to see where we were. Burkinabes pride themselves on punctuality; we had noticed already that the buses leave on time, rather than when they are full, when the driver wakes up, etc. We scoffed down the fresh baguettes and coffee while Metina chatted to the hotel’s owner – another of his contacts on Banfora’s informal tourism network.

Pools

July is the rainy season in this part of West Africa, the hot days interspersed with welcome bursts. But with few roads properly surfaced, many resembled a thick porridge after the heavy downpours. Metina guided us expertly through the worst ponds, over rickety bridges and through the numerous herds of cows being led to new pastures, waving to the herdsmen as we passed.

The recent rains also meant that Karfiguéla Falls, the next stop on our two-day tour, were at their most resplendent. We pulled into the car park and Metina introduced us to the group of young men who scratch a living guiding the region’s infrequent tourists to the nearby falls. Handshakes all round, and we set off along the mango tree-lined path.

Sugar cane

Our young guide was keen to show us the base of the falls first. “You must see the top and the bottom”, he said, without explaining why, exactly. But storms had brought down several trees, meaning we had to pick our way through fallen branches and leaves to get there. Unfortunately, soldier ants had wasted little time setting up camp in the foliage and objected strongly to us passing through their new home. I’m not sure if there is an international scale for measuring the painfulness of ant bites, but if there is, then these lads must be near the top.

Hannah and I retreated quickly but the guide was insistent: we had to visit the lower falls for the perfect photo opportunity. As the ants split up into two groups, one for each leg, more schoolboy French came flooding back: “Je ne veux pas un photo; je vais maintenant”. It’s amazing how much actually sinks in at school, even when you’re not listening.

The chocolate-brown water cascading through the upper falls didn’t look too inviting, but with burning ant bites to soothe, I stripped off quickly and slid in. The curved rocks, worn smooth with the water, provided handy entrance points, plus some underwater seats to lie back and admire the view.

Not as high as it looks

And we could admire it in solitude. This is one of the country’s most popular tourist attractions, but even on this weekend morning it was far from crowded. The few visitors – a group of American volunteers, a large family from Ouagadougou, and a local church group – spread out among the chocolate-filled pools, each finding their own private section to bathe and picnic. This is one of the benefits of visiting Burkina Faso – the country’s spectacular natural attractions have yet to become overcrowded or over-developed. Facilities rarely extend between a local person to show you the way and a few plastic tables and chairs for enjoying cold drinks and simple meals.

Domes

Metina has spent 20 years driving tourists around Banfora and he knows how to plan a tour. The car weaved through fields of bright green sugarcane, vibrant in the midday sun, until we reached the entrance to the best of all the sights around Banfora – the Domes of Fabedougou.

They are a truly remarkable sight. Over 1.8 million years ago, layer upon layer of sediment was laid down. These have since eroded to form a jumble of giant stone teacakes, all tumbling down a hillside with patches of forest clinging into the gaps. They demand exploration; even Metina eschewed his usual car-seat nap to come with us.

After two hours clambering about the domes alone (Metina had taken his nap on the first dome we climbed), we reluctantly descended. The heat was rising and there was a Brukina with my name on it waiting at the hotel. Tourism is coming slowly to Banfora, and in time its nearby attractions will get the visitor numbers needed to boost the local economy. But having had the rare experience of exploring this phenomenal natural wonder in solitude, I could only be thankful that they hadn’t come just yet.

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

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

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.

One down...

One year into our Ghana adventure. And despite the power cuts, water shortages, traffic, open sewers, angry landlady, idiots at Vodaphone (etc.), it has been fantastic fun. Ghana is not Africa’s most spectacular country, but it is green, hilly, friendly, safe, developing fast and will prove a happy home for another year.

So on to next year. An election coming up, thrown into uncertainty with the recent death of Prof. Atta Mills. A move for us to East Legon, Accra’s up-and-coming trendy district (or so we are told). A planned trip to Ivory Coast, and hopefully a Burkina Faso–Benin–Togo road trip, logistics permitting. More walks with the Mountaineers and more nights out with our friends. And hopefully no more fufu.

Here are some highlights of our first year.

Elmina harbour

Elmina

This small town is not as famous as its neighbour, Cape Coast, but the fort was more interesting, and wandering around was more enjoyable. Small and colourfully formed.

Beer

In true expat style, many nights ended with a bottle of one of Ghana’s fine beers. Gulder is my favourite, followed by Star, and Club is drinkable too. All best served cold and three (large) bottles is the minimum.

The Volta region

Green, hilly and lots of walks. Need I say more?

Kakum National Park

Ghana’s premier attraction, at least in the south, and fully deserving of the accolade. We stayed overnight in the treehouse and were rewarded with the sight of watching monkeys feed from the canopy walkway.

+233 jazz club

+233

This is our favourite live music venue in Accra. It markets itself as ‘the place to hear Ghanaian jazz’, so it was a surprise to hear ‘Careless Whisper’ as the opening song on our first visit. But it’s a lively place, with musicians of all types from across West Africa. If you want to see a Burkinabe beat out a rhythm using a pair of spoons and some empty tins, this is the place.

Red red at Labadi beach

Food

Not Ghanaian food, obviously; nothing there for vegetarians to enjoy. But Accra has many good places to eat, a bright spot in a city without bundles of cultural highlights. Our favourites include the Tandoor for Indian, Bella Roma for Italian, and La Bouquet or Commodore for Lebanese. (I would write about Accra’s eateries, but this blog does it better.)

Marvels

This minigolf club was around the corner from our flat in Dzorwulu, and was our ‘local’ for the past year. I spent many hours watching football, using their wireless when mine had (once again) failed, and enjoying the waffles with ice cream. Mentioning that I’m a golf club member is also handy in certain expat circles.

Camping at VerandaMountain

A starry night, a full moon, potatoes in the fire, and bird watching in the morning. To be repeated.

The coast

A weekend at the coast is one of the best things about living in Accra. From Bojo Beach on the edge of Accra, to Fete, Butre, Akwidaa and Beyin, every place we have visited has had its unique charms. And there are many more places to explore next year. Hannah’s favourite: Fanta’s Folly for the food. My favourite: Green Turtle Lodge. Because it’s named after a turtle.

Sunset at Mole

Ghana Mountaineers

A breath of fresh air in Ghana, literally and metaphorically. A lively, friendly bunch who love walking up a hill and sinking a beer afterwards. Not sure about the obsession with 5am starts, though.

Mole National Park

It took a while to get there, but it was worth it. Seeing wild elephants from a few metres away was my highlight of our first year in Ghana.

Saturday

Ryan’s Irish Bar in Osu follows the blueprint of expat pubs across the world: a carefully recreated slice of home, in which people can imagine they are back in the country they chose to leave.

It’s a winning formula. When I met Nikki and Sarah at 7am for England v Scotland in the rugby world cup, the bar was already packed with grumpy looking men wearing white or dark blue tops, all clearing up the last of a cooked breakfast. Hungry, I checked the menu … 18 cedis? Eggs cost about 15 pesewas (there ae 100 pesewas to the pound) and Heinz beans 40 pesewas, so either bacon costs more by weight than cocaine or someone is making a tidy profit. I ordered a coffee and toast, a bargain by comparison at 7 cedis.

The game was dull, especially for someone who doesn’t like rugby much, and we were told off for talking by the ‘locals’. And with early kick-offs leading to early final whistles, I found myself in Accra at 9.30am on a Saturday with nothing to do. It doesn’t take long living here to realise that, drinking aside, entertainment in Accra needs seeking out. So I was happy to follow Nikki and Sarah to the Centre for National Culture.

Don’t let the name fool you; this is a market, where unsuspecting tourists are led to be ripped off. Inside the covered part of the market is a maze of narrow alleys, where animated stall owners pursue a hard-selling approach that is uncommon in Ghana. They even block you off in the alleys to deflect you into their stall, like a game of gift-shop pinball. It doesn’t work; the most common response is to quicken your pace, eyes down, and head for the nearest exit you can find.

We escaped to the open area at the back, where the stall owners are happy for you to wander about at your own pace. The dusty wooden sheds contained vivid paintings of village life, carvings of African animals long since hunted out of Ghana, and a collection of wooden penises that was second to none.

The reason for our visit was to collect a West African drum Nikki had ordered, and the young men who made the drums offered us a lesson in how to play them. We tried to mimic their quick hands and rhythms while outside their colleagues carved away on new drums. I desperately wanted to buy one, but they are made with goat skin. A vegetarian dilemma; could they make one from a goat who had lived a happy life and died of natural causes?

Post-lesson, Hannah joined us and Abraham, the drum teacher, offered to take us to the Rising Phoenix for lunch. And so the day descended into a boozing session by the sea. Star beers were sunk, pool was played, we met the Rastas smoking on the plastic-strewn beach, and in the evening we were treated to something we could never have planned – a beauty contest.

The Ghanaian Dale Winton introduced the three contestants competing for the title of Miss Accra, and led them through a series of acts which all seemed to revolve around bum-wiggling. I was too drunk to see who won, but it rounded off a varied take on a quiet Saturday in Accra.