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.

Butterflies

Not Kumasi

The Lonely Planet’s West Africa guidebook says ‘Kumasi is worth as much time as you can give it’. Hmm … my first five minutes in Ghana’s second city were spent picking a route through Kajeita market – through open sewers, ankle-deep rubbish, and street traders who cover the pavement with cheap plastic tat and piles of fruit. Five minutes was more than enough time for me.

Perhaps the best way to enjoy Kumasi is not to live in Accra. The ‘sizzling street food’, ‘colourful markets’ and ‘bustling/vibrant/hectic/pulsating nightlife’ may be exciting the first time, but the novelty quickly wears off. Kumasi had the same hassles, traffic and potent stenches that Hannah and I were escaping for two weeks.

That evening we got food poisoning from an expensive Indian restaurant and were greeted in our hotel room by a cockroach the size of a cat. I was more than happy to leave Kumasi early the next morning to explore the countryside of the Ashanti region.

*****

Lake Point Guesthouse

It’s an unfair comparison: a crowded city of 1.6 million people versus a tranquil lakeside retreat. But Lake Bosumtwe felt a world away from Kumasi. Formed by a meteorite several millennia ago, the near-perfectly round lake is surrounded by quiet fishing villages and forested peaks – not a bustling market in sight.

We took a taxi to Lake Point Guesthouse on the western shore of the lake. Our room was charmingly furnished with local materials and adornments. In the garden, birds flitted between the flowers and star fruits, mangoes, bananas and oranges hung from the branches of the various trees. I could feel the grime of Kumasi leaving me instantly.

Star fruit

We spent the day lazing by the lake, reading books and playing scrabble. Beside the lake, the only noise came from the raucous weaverbirds that were nesting in the reeds. The shallow lake water was as warm as a bath, and an eagle swooped overhead as I swam. This was my kind of place.

It’s hard not to fall into the relaxed vibe of life beside the lake. Unfortunately the staff at Lake Point had done likewise. The next day, we asked about the lunch menu – a limited but tasty selection of soups with bread or toasted sandwiches. We were told that they had run out of bread at breakfast and were waiting to get some more.

A cattle egret relaxing at the lake

Breakfast had finished four hours ago; the nearest village, complete with a stall selling bread, was a mere 10 minutes’ walk away. I asked if they could get some bread: ‘Someone has gone already’. When will they be back? ‘I don’t know’.  Can you prepare soup and bread when they are back, and bring it to us? ‘No, you must wait.’

It’s a minor gripe, and lethargic customer service is hardly a new complaint in Ghana. And if you’re going to wait for two hours for a bowl of soup, there are few more relaxing places to do it than Lake Bosumtwe.

*****

A butterfly

The Ashanti region is Ghana’s traditional heartland, as well as being the source of much of the country’s wealth, particularly from the region’s goldmines. There are plenty of craft villages nearby, but as with bustling markets, you only need to see Kente weaving once to get the idea. Instead, we decided to visit Bobiri butterfly sanctuary. 

It was a good decision. Situated just off the Kumasi–Accra road, the forest sanctuary is surprisingly well preserved considering that logging has decimated much of the region’s forests. And you don’t have to go far to see its eponymous residents.

Another butterfly

There were butterflies on every bush in the garden as we dropped off our bags; several different species flitted about on the road through the forest; one or two even found their way into the sanctuary’s guesthouse. Filling in the guestbook, I noted the previous visitor was ‘disappointed not to see any butterflies’; I wondered exactly where he had been looking.

'I saw her first...'

 
We were soon on a forest trail with James – the only wildlife guide who wears polished slip-on shoes and an ironed white shirt. He identified the different trees and told us how people use each one. He also explained the threats facing Ghana’s forests as the demand for timber rises – part of the forest is selectively logged. 

The forest was also alive with many of the 400 butterfly species recorded in the sanctuary. Although how anyone records them is beyond me – butterflies rarely sit still long enough to be examined, the little scamps.

Breakfast at Bobiri

That evening, we relaxed in the sanctuary’s guesthouse, a painted wooden house built on stilts. It felt like a trip back from the 1930s – sipping drinks on the terrace, looking out to the forest. The only thing missing from a full Happy Valley experience was the wife swapping – not easy when you’re the only guests –although two of the resident tortoises were scrapping over a lady. (If you’ve never seen lovesick tortoises fighting, I can assure you it’s very entertaining.)

I stretched out, beer in hand and with the sounds of the rain forest all around. Kumasi may delight backpackers, and Bosumtwe has its charms, but for me, Bobiri and its butterflies are the highlight of the Ashanti region.

Makola

Mounds of luminous trotters, pinker than a pig has ever been. Huge sheets of sea sponge being chopped into strips. Barbequed rats, piles of beans and spices, mops, live crabs, kente fabrics, washing machines, cheap plastic toys, chillies … the crowded lanes of Makola market contain everything and anything you might need, plus plenty you never will. Forget Accra Mall; this is where the city comes to shop.

The smells are less varied; the vast mounds of cooked fish win that battle fins down. They are smoked to within an inch of becoming charcoal, then stacked up and sold to flavour soups and stews. Their pungency fills the covered food section of the market.

Makola market sprawls over what roughly counts as the city centre, covering a huge area. Traders spill from its concrete hub into mazes of wooden sheds and even into the road in places, where irritable taxi drivers weave past women selling washing powder from huge metal bowls balanced on their heads. It’s as much a cash and carry, as most people are here to buy in bulk, taking advantage of the cheap prices to sell goods on at a profit elsewhere in Accra.

Ruth, Sarah and I wandered around the stalls, trying to avoid treading on the gangs of small children chasing each other beneath their mothers’ stalls (almost all sellers are women). The girls bought onions and spices, while I tried to take photos. Not so easy; people are reluctant even to have their stalls snapped, and I was often shooed away.

Pausing for a drink in the market café, I asked the man who shared our table why this was. “It is their place of work, not a tourist attractions. Would you like us to photograph you at work?” came the reply. It’s a fair point; people are too busy working to mess about with obronis trying to photograph their tomatoes because they like the shade of red.

The fabric quarter was quiet compared to the food market, and we browsed the stalls at a leisurely pace. Sarah, a kente addict, bought cloth to be made into dresses and I brought some trouser material that I was sure Hannah would veto later (she did). Satisfied with both our purchases and for surviving the chaos, we hailed taxis and sped away from Makola, our driver nearly colliding with a stack of watermelons piled up in the road as we went.