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

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.

Omelettes

Travel broadens the mind; it gives you new perspectives, it challenges prejudices and misconceptions. And in Tamale I learnt that, contrary to popular wisdom, you can make an omelette without breaking eggs.

A Tamale omelette

Hannah and I were tired and hungry when we arrived at Asempe Lodge after an early flight from Accra to Ghana’s hot, dry north. Before even checking into the room, we ordered omelette and toast – the standard (i.e. only) breakfast option in most Ghanaian hotels. I emphasised to the chef that I wanted ‘no meat, no fish’; experience has taught me how easily these sneak into the simplest of dishes here.

Fifteen minutes later, she brought our breakfasts … two plates of steamed cabbage and carrots. I looked at it suspiciously. “This is how we do omelettes here, if you don’t eat eggs”, came the reply to my inquiring look. It’s rare to find a Ghanaian who is sensitive to vegetarianism – most don’t consider even chickens to be animals – and it was pretty tasty for steamed cabbage and carrots. Besides, anywhere that serves fresh coffee can be forgiven.

Tro tro and truck

Asempa Lodge also challenges the perception that first impressions count. As you turn into its dusty driveway, off the Tamale–Kumasi road, the hotel looks a bit run down and half-finished. Storms have twice blown off the outside restaurant's roof, but a new local-style grass roof is forthcoming.

Home time

The lodge has many attractions in the meantime. The rooms are clean and cool – a vital factor in baking north Ghana. And while the grounds need a few more trees or shrubs – the resident donkey ate the last lot planted – new saplings have been planted. And the grounds are blissfully peaceful compared to the busy nearby city, and full of colourful starlings, kingfishers and rollers.

The lodge’s main asset, though, is its staff. Friendly, helpful and competent, which isn’t always the case in Ghana, the four young people who run Asempa Lodge catered to our every need. They organised our bus onwards to Bolgatanga, and car hire for later in the week. Rather than explore Tamale’s meagre attractions, we decided to spend the afternoon sipping drinks outside. Joseph, the lodge manager, taught us the local version of mancala, taking great delight in repeatedly thrashing us.

The Tamale Gandalf

As we sat, an assortment of local characters headed along the road outside – farmers carrying their goods on small trucks, school children cycling home, local women returning from the mosque. I ordered a beer, sat back in the shade, and watched Tamale life trundle by.

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.

Aburi

Murder

Situated in the breezy Akapwem hills, Aburi is a popular day trip from Accra – an increasingly easy trip as the road-building project at Madina reaches its conclusion. And the usual target is the botanical gardens.

The gardens were created by the British in 1890, who decided the best thing to do was chop down all the native plants and put in foreign ones. I travelled there with Guy, a colleague visiting from the UK. Our first encounter with nature was a little unexpected. A luminous green spider scurried across the path where it was soon chased down by some ants. The battle was swift and ruthless; the ants quickly ripped a leg off, then overpowered the unfortunate arachnid and dragged him away to meet his fate. It was a gruesome sight so early on a Sunday morning; I loved it.

Strangler Fig

The garden’s star aboreal attraction is the Strangler Fig tree. This is a parasite that, over a period of 30 years, fed off its host tree and eventually killed it. The dead tree rotted away, leaving the Ficus standing with a hollow trunk where the host once was. For botanists, it’s a fascinating specimen that demonstrates parasitism. For everyone else, it’s a chance to stand inside a tree and stick your head out of the little holes.

A butterfly (somewhere)

But Guy was here for the butterflies, not trees. And the botanical gardens are full of them, so he spent an hour chasing them about, trying to get good photos with which to identify them later. This quickly wore us out and we headed to the restaurant for a drink and a snack. We enjoyed kelewele (spicy fried plantain) and yam chips (yams cut into chips). A bee-eater and a pied hornbill flew past as we ate; I was proud that my new birdwatching skills enabled quick identification without flapping through the field guide.

A flower (a red one)

A student from Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew founded these gardens, but they bear little resemblance to their neatly organised UK cousin. From the restaurant, a steep path led into what was nominally the citrus section, but essentially an overgrown jungle. An army of soldier ants paraded in line along the path. I gave them a wide berth, having already seen what they were capable of.

Guy enjoyed the multitude of butterflies in the forest, while I simply appreciated being out of Accra – one of Aburi’s key selling points. Eventually the mosquitoes drove us back to the main gardens and as it was approaching midday, the gardens were filling with picnicking families and noisy church groups. Another key tip to enjoying Aburi – arrive early.

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

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.