Ghana

18-24th April

We entered Ghana early on the afternoon of 18th April and the most immediate change was being able to speak English again. However this seemed to pass Peter by as, when talking to the Ghanaian border officials, he consistently started each sentence in French until a puzzled frown jogged his memory. Notwithstanding, the border formalities were soon over and we headed south, shocked to find that the road was far worse than any we had come across in Burkina Faso; driving on the pot holed dirt track created a lot of choking red dust and, being considerate, we slowed to a crawl as we passed pedestrians, only for the dreaded ‘trou-trou’ (battered, over laden mini-buses driven by lunatics!) to zoom past, tooting as they went, and enveloping everyone, including us, in a thick, red cloud of dust. Welcome to Ghanaian driving!! Even here in the poorest part of Ghana there were houses constructed from a type of breeze block; the mud huts were more substantial, most with corrugated roofs, many surrounded by a garden containing both exotic flowers and an assortment of vegetables. All around was an air of greater prosperity and everywhere was so much greener. Although we still passed mosques, the subtle cultural changes brought about by an increasing Christian presence that we had first noticed in Burkina Faso were now really obvious; Catholic, Presbyterian, Methodist, Pentecostal, Assembly of God, you name it- and there were some very odd evangelical names indeed- and we began to come across their places of worship. These were often no more than a small low oblong of rickety wooden poles supporting a thin palm frond roof; without walls and completely open to the air, their presence was indicted by a colourful hand painted sign on the roadside.

Our first priority was to get some local currency, the Ghanaian cedi. Although we knew that there would be no ATM, we had assumed that at a bank in the first border town we came to, we would be able to exchange currency. But oh no, it was not to going to be that simple; reaching the first town we had a bit of a shock, neither of the banks there would exchange dollars or euros. We tried again at the only bank in the next town with the same result- still no Ghanaian money! We were told by an apologetic bank clerk that the regional capital of Wa would be the only place where we could change money. But it was Friday, the weekend was looming, we were running low on fuel, Wa was miles away and there was no way we were going to get there before the banks closed. The bank clerk, seeing our growing concern, said that he thought that some of the banks there would be open on Saturday. We could have kicked ourselves, at the border we had turned away a man offering to change money; in both Mali and Bukina Faso (and throughout most of Francophone West Africa) where the CFA (based upon the franc and tied to the euro) was the common currency, changing money had been easy and we had become complacent.

It was now early evening and we had to find somewhere to stay the night; being effectively penniless, we had no choice but to bush camp. We found it difficult to find anywhere that was away from human habitation, it seemed that in Ghana, huts and village people were just everywhere. Eventually and with a sigh of relief, we saw what we thought to be a suitable spot. We turned off the road, drove around trees and across scrubby ground to reach our camp site. It was a lovely spot; next to a wood that was almost untouched with many large, old trees amongst which and much to Peter’s excitement, a family of huge owls were in residence. As we ate our supper the parents were flying in and out feeding their noisy young, one passed low overhead with a bush rat almost a foot long in its beak.

By now it was almost dark and, with increasing alarm, in the distance we could see torches weaving their way towards us. Liz held her breath, her heart missed a beat and holding firmly onto Peter’s arm uttered a quiet, ‘Oh lors’. Could this be trouble? The torches came ever closer until we could make out the three very large men holding them. Initially they said nothing and just stood there in what seemed a rather threatening manner. Oh horrors! Peter, ever foolhardy, walked towards them and held out his hand in welcome, whereupon the night was illuminated by the white teeth of the smiles on three very black faces! They were from the family that owned the ‘land’ we were camped upon and had come to ask who we were and what were we doing there! Fortunately they were happy enough for us to stay there and said that they would visit us again in the morning. They then left, but we were a little rattled and worried about other less amicable visitors that might follow in the night. It was a shame we had this hanging over us and Liz even wondered if we should do a bunk there and then, but Peter insisted that they were perfectly harmless and of course he was right. Apart from a storm which cooled everything down, the night proved uneventful.

We were up early and sure enough at 6.45am we had our visit as promised, but this time they were accompanied a young woman, their sister and all four made the precarious cross country trip on just two bicycles! We felt humbled as it became plain that, as we were guests on their land, they really were concerned about our welfare and kindly asked if there was anything we needed. Before leaving they said we would be very welcome if we wished to visit them in their family home, only a short distance away, after breakfast.

The one most important thing we had to do was get to a bank and it was a Saturday! So with no time to lose and still a long way to go to Wa, we rushed breakfast and broke camp at record speed. After which, we did then go to see our visitors, and we were so pleased we did, they couldn’t have been more hospitable. Rita, the young sister, was a fluent English speaker and took charge of our visit. She introduced us to her mother, one of her father’s three wives, to her other brothers and their wives and then to her extended family, it seemed never ending! Rita was a real sweetie and showed us around the fortified farmhouse; so similar to those of the Lobi in Burkina Faso, which is not surprising as, before the Colonial powers took their collective pen to the map of Africa, this was the same tribal area. Our visit ended with a farewell drink of their home made millet beer; two small calabashes each full of a foaming, sweet smelling, part fermented beer. It would, we were told, reinvigorate us and keep us healthy, being ‘so-so good’ for all those organs covered by a patting of hands in the general area of the stomach! Suitably rejuvenated, we took our leave and an abiding memory we have of this poor and hospitable subsistence farming family, is of them (more than 20) standing, smiling and waving goodbye as we left them and departed for Wa.

We made Wa in good time, but with desperately little fuel left. Again no joy at any of the banks that were open. With increasing concern we tried a couple of hotels and still nothing; with concern turning to mild panic, we were told by the last hotel that a store called Big Enterprise would change dollars. We had great difficulty finding the store, we assumed that ‘Big’ meant BIG. How wrong can you be! Big Enterprise turned out to be a tiny, one room, back alley (dirty, narrow and foul smelling) grocery store, but size isn’t everything and we were so happy to be able to pocket some cedis that we overlooked the less than reasonable exchange rate! Phew, what a relief! With some $150 in local currency, we could buy diesel, continue our drive to the Mole National Park, pay the entry fee and afford to stay at the Motel there. We had never felt so well off!

The first part of our route to Mole was on a good tarred surface and lulled us into a false sense of security, for, when we turned off the main road onto that for Mole, the tarred surface became interspersed with pot holes, then the tar gave up the unequal struggle and just a pot holed, corrugated, switchback dirt track remained. Sorry Boris!

We were passing along a damp track that snaked away in front of us, deep ochre red and steaming in the hot midday sun; pushing out and almost enclosing it was a thick, vibrant green jungle which added a sense of isolation and excitement to our journey. What adventure! After a short break for a lunch, surrounded by the largest and most colourful butterflies imaginable, we carried on and around the next bend came across a broken down Land Rover that belonged to an English ex pat called Peter Lovett; a really lovely man who had settled in Ghana and was leading player in the West African shea butter trade. He and 3 others, having spent the night at Mole, were on their way to the wedding of a Ghanaian employee, when the front suspension gave up the battle with the pot holes. We offered the use of the tools we had on board and Peter watched the repair take place trying to look as if he knew what was going on! Within 10 minutes a temporary repair had been made, email addresses exchanged and we were on our way again

We arrived at the Park late in the day and checked into a room at the Mole Motel. The motel was on the edge of a 100’ high escarpment from where, on a viewing platform, we could watch the wild life around the waterhole below. This was the first African game reserve of the trip, but of course it was a fraction of the size or calibre of what’s to come in South and East Africa. The motel was fairly basic, the food bore little relationship to what was on the menu, but our self contained apartment was ‘as cheap as chips’, and we loved all that went with it. We spent three days here and when we weren’t sitting with our binos on the viewing platform, we would swim in the small motel pool and watch the monkeys, baboons and warthogs wander around the pool area. Very early on the morning after our arrival we (including Boris) spent a very rewarding couple of hours on a game drive with a knowledgeable and sharp eyed park ranger, during which we saw elephant, Kob antelope, waterbuck, hartebeest, Green and Patas monkeys and warthogs. We also did a short safari on foot and again encountered elephants that, led by the matriarch, were slowly making their way down the escarpment to our waterhole. It was an amazing sight watching the ten strong family group splashing and washing themselves over a period of several hours. We were mesmerized.

We left Mole on April 22nd and drove southeast to Tamale. En route, at a small town called Damongo, we spied some form of celebration in full swing along a cordoned off street. We parked Boris and went to investigate the colourful jollities. It was in fact the opening of a bank that would support the local farmers and the townspeople were out in their best clothes, especially the dignitaries in their colourful robes; all were seated in rows at both ends of the street with a group of hot, but enthusiastic, dancers performing in the middle. If we could, we would have stayed longer but needed to get to a bank (again!), so continued onto Tamale.

Tamale, a regional capital, was a large, very busy town; Liz map to hand, found the centre, we parked up, and a short walk brought us to a Barclay’s bank and there, as promised by the Bradt guidebook, was an ATM. Joy, Oh Joy! We were surprised at the miniscule maximum amount we could take out and planned another visit the following day to build up our reserves. Nearby we found a good, open air restaurant for lunch and, looking forward to a relaxing meal, we sat down; no sooner had we done so than we were joined by a young man who wanted to chat. We had found in Mole and particularly by the pool, that we were never able to do anything quietly on our own. We would be targeted by a brash, but personable young man seeking a way to make some money; the normal procedure was to ask immediately what our names were, then where we came from, at which point he would say he knew the area or had a friend living there! A rapport established, the seemingly unending soft sell would then begin. As he knew all too well, we were unwilling to seem rude, to cut him short and tell him where to go! Liz found this unwanted and uninvited attention a little intimidating and intrusive. This young man followed the same introductory script, but then asked for our address in England, telephone number and about of our families, before in a very half hearted way went into the reasons why we needed a guide (now who could that be!!) to show us around Tamale! We declined the offer, only for him to remain at our table throughout the meal! It was also incredibly hot and humid in Tamale and the need for an air conditioned hotel was more on our minds than making conversation at this point. With this in mind, we found an overpriced but a perfectly serviceable, if very bland, Korean put together. Everything, but everything, in it seemed to have originated in Korea, including the ideas for the decor! But the wifi was free, the air conditioning was powerful and that was just what we needed, so all was good!

We went out for a meal that night to a place called Swab Fast Food (!) where Peter ended up eating a curry that was so hot he nearly expired, at least he now knows what ‘with Indian spices’ means. We found in Mole and it was the same here, that when we ordered something on the menu, generally it was not available and the same applied to whatever we then next ordered as an alternative, this carried on until we just asked them to bring whatever they had available! To Peter’s dismay this rule always seemed to apply to the ice cream and we were very non-plussed when it extended to fresh fruit, particularly as there were piles of mangoes, bananas, pineapples and so on for sale everywhere! The Ghanaians also seemed laid back about the time taken between ordering and the food arriving, it takes for ever!! Fast food indeed! The following morning, our first priority was to get to the bank again to draw out more cash from the ATM, and this is when we experienced our next series of money problems. Oh dear! The ATM wouldn’t spit out anything and so we went into the bank to see if we could get some cash by using the card over the counter. This process went on and on and then ,after two and a half hours, were told the number being called in Accra was engaged and they couldn’t get authorisation to hand over the cedis. What a performance and such a waste of time. Our plan had been to leave Tamale at midday, but now we had to spend another night in another hotel; this time in a funny little place called the Relax Lodge. Whilst waiting for authorisation we returned to the restaurant we had lunch in the day before and the same young man, uninvited, sat down beside us again! This time though it was Liz who asked the questions. The more we talked, the more we were sure he was an intelligent but very depressed young man and his story genuine. It turned out that he, John, was only sixteen years old, came from a village some way away and couldn’t continue his schooling because his parents, who couldn’t afford the minimal fees (everyone pays for their schooling in Ghana) and had told him he had to leave home and fend for himself. So he had come to Tamale to seek work. John said he wanted to be a doctor and desperately wanted to go back to getting an education and spent every day in the restaurant sitting with people like us, hoping for some kind of help. We found this sad boy’s story heartbreaking and Liz tried to help by advising John on the ways he might be able to find a job. It was difficult saying goodbye to this penniless, homeless and hopeless boy whose nights of sleeping rough were beginning to tell on him and his clothing. We were concerned about reinforcing his dependency on people like us, but we so desperately wanted to do something to help. In the end, rather than give him a handout of money, we decided to seek out the waiter and buy John a slap up meal. Even that felt as if we were being tight fisted. Oh dear, how sad and impotent we felt as we left John sitting hunched, all alone at the table staring into space.


24th – 30th April

On April 24th we took the ‘old’ Tamale road, suitably corrugated and pot holed, to where we would catch the midday ferry across Lake Volta ( created by a hydro electric dam and the largest artificial body of water in the world), from Makongo to Yeji. The route to the ferry took us through the small town of Salaga, once a key crossroads in the caravan routes of West Africa, but more recently infamous for its role in the slave trade; our first encounter with a reminder of man’s inhumanity to man. The slave caravans passed this way and near here the slaves were washed and oiled, to improve their appearance and value, and then were taken to the town’s market square to be sold at what was the largest market of its type in West Africa. While awaiting their fate, the slaves were tied to a baobab tree on the edge of the square. The original baobab tree died some time ago and has been replaced by another, which serves as a memorial of these tragic events.

When we arrived at the crumbling concrete ramp that led to the ferry, we were only just in time and with the ferry seemingly already full, it looked as if we wouldn’t be able to get on. However the ferry crew had other ideas; Boris was slowly reversed down the ramp and, with much shouting and waving at a very hot and apprehensive Peter, miraculously squeezed in between two Lorries laden with yams. The ferry journey, all of about 3 miles, was covered at a snail’s pace and took 2 hours, during which we were often overtaken by fishermen paddling their canoes!

Leaving Yeji behind and on a good road surface -at last!- we drove south throughout the afternoon. As evening approached, we were now driving along a beautiful escarpment; a green jungle beneath us on our left and rolling forested hills to our right. At this point we began to look for a spot to camp for the night. This time we picked our village, looked for a suitable place, then did the polite thing and asked a nearby man if it would be OK to camp there. He directed us to the owner of the land who, though he spoke no English, seemed to understand our request and was happy for us to camp on his land at the edge of the village. 

As we began to manoeuvre into position we became a source of great attention. Villagers began to gather as we put up the tent, Liz, using sign language, suggested to a couple of women that they take turns and climb the ladder to look inside; there were giggles and much gesticulation as they described the interior to the others. Our boudoir definitely got the thumbs up! As when we were with the Dogon, the onlookers remained throughout the time Liz was preparing the supper; one particularly sweet woman seemed fascinated by the ingredients and, once the pasta and sauce were ready, Liz gave her a spoonful to try. There were hoots of laughter all round, but we were never quite sure if she approved of it or not!

We had a huge thunder storm in the night and very heavy rain that continued until we got up, turning our camp site into a muddy lake. Peter was slipping and sliding around in flip flops and getting absolutely filthy until he did the sensible thing and, with the tent still up and Liz ,who refused to come down and wallow in the mud, still in it, moved Boris onto a bit of grassier, higher ground. Here we had a relatively mud-free breakfast, but not of course without an audience of at least twenty wet and bedraggled children to whom we handed out peanuts and sweets. We said our goodbyes to them and then, with the villagers almost lining the route and, being waved and ‘farewelled’ at every turn, we drove through the village back to the main road.

So on to Nkoranza, where we had decided to stay at a guest house in the grounds of a residential home for about 46 mentally handicapped children. The home was run by a charity called ‘Hand in Hand’, set up by a Dutch doctor, Ineke Bosman, who along with both volunteers and charity financed ‘care givers’ also lived in the beautiful grounds. We had read about it in the Bradt Guidebook and wanted to support the charity by staying there and taking the opportunity to interact with the children.

We were welcomed by a sweet young lady called Charity and stayed in one of the small guest houses for three nights; making friends with some of the care givers and a dear young man, George, who had been a resident since being found alone and starving in a wood as a young child. In Ghana mental illness is a terrible stigma and there is no state system of support. George was fixated by cars and absolutely fell in love with Boris; he simply wanted Peter to unlock and open the doors so that he could just close them again. He was ever present, asking Peter, ‘Whah cah key?’ and on occasions, when it became clear that the keys were remaining in Peter’s pocket, he spent many hours sitting in our little house, poring over the photos in our travel guidebooks, ‘umming’ and ‘aarring’ all the while. Liz did a little interacting with the children and went to a disco one afternoon, where they all wanted to dance with her!

We were so impressed by everything we saw, from the outdoor kitchen, to the classrooms and the two small craft workshops. It was here in one of the workshops that the children created the most beautiful bead bracelets and necklaces from patterned glass beads; they too were made at Hand in Hand by one of the care givers. The beads and bracelets, each having attached the name of the child that had made it, were for sale at a small shop at the entrance to Hand in Hand. And, yes, we did buy some!!

Nkoranza was ideally located as a base from which we were able to visit two major tourist attractions. The first was an area of forest around two villages where the inhabitants regard monkeys as sacred; thus they have not been hunted and the two species that occur there, the mona and the black and white colubus, are relatively habituated to human presence, including that of a sweaty, camera festooned tourist (Peter?) traipsing after a sure footed guide. So much so that we came across some monkeys on the tracks and in the trees in the outskirts of one village, whilst others were patrolling the village high street! The second was the Kintampo Falls, and as the rainy season had begun, there was enough water falling down the 25m high falls for it to be a spectacular sight. We were not alone, it was Saturday when we visited and mini-bus loads of students were making the most of a natural shower-come-Jacuzzi.

We had noticed in some towns and villages we passed through that many people were very smartly dressed in sombre clothing, mainly brown and black and a good few had a dash of red. They were congregating in open decorated squares created by rows of chairs and bunting and nearby were the hugest speakers ever, blasting out distorted music at a decibel level that caused Boris to vibrate as we went past! On our return to Hand in Hand we asked Charity what it was all about. It was Saturday and these were funerals and funerals in Ghana were big business; tribal tradition had always meant that a funeral was an important and necessary public show of respect for the deceased, but now it seems it had spiralled out of control. Ever more grandiose and a rampant ‘keeping up with the Jones’s’ culture had ensured that funerals were now a hugely expensive event. With any and every relative in the extended family expected to attend the daylong event; the cost of the food, the hire of the venue, the chairs, the music system, local musicians and dancers, etc, etc, was now well beyond the capabilities of the poorer Ghanaian. Even more out of their reach was the renting of advertising hoardings upon which a photo and the details of the deceased, in toe curling terms, were displayed as a very public show of familial respect. To overcome the problem, the more impoverished Ghanaians had come up with a very practical solution: joint funerals, well group funerals really. The deceased was simply kept frozen until there were enough bodies in the local area to be able to hold a combined funeral, a wait of several weeks if not months! In this way the costs were shared, hugely expensive and impressive respect shown and the well heeled Jones’s kept up with!

We left Hand in Hand on 27th April and drove south towards Kumasi on the most dreadful main road yet .. and that is saying something!!. The pot holes were lethal. In some places children and adults alike were filling them in with sand and mud, then trying to stop the traffic by waving it down in the middle of the road, shouting for money to reward them for the work they had done. The road was very busy and was the main route for traffic travelling between Burkina Faso and Accra. Apart from the standard broken down lorry every so often, as always preceded by a series of branches warning of its demise and the treacherous chicane it produced, there were also a number of mangled trucks and trailers lying overturned on the side of the road, reminding us, if we needed it, just how dangerous it was. Throughout our travels in Africa we have never seen a new truck, all that we have seen are of European (French and German) parentage and at best second hand, but the majority are much older, slow, battered, belching black smoke and seemingly constantly on the verge of mechanical failure; the trailers that they tow are always overloaded and have an alarming tendency to advance at an angled crab like gait, thus taking up two thirds of the available road space!

Kumasi, Ghana’s hectic second city and capital of the Ashanti region, lived up to its reputation for an incomprehensible street system filled with noise, chaotic traffic and a fume laden, breath stalling smog! We stayed in The Four Villages Inn run by a charming and very informative Canadian man called Chris. He and his Ghanaian wife had a lovely house and had four rooms for guests, each room decorated in a different Ashanti village style. Our main reason for visiting Kumasi was to see the Kejetia Market which, with more than 10,000 stall holders and covering over 12 hectares, was the biggest in West Africa and a ‘must see’.

Through Chris we were able to use an ex employee of his, a really sweet lady named Comfort, as a (highly recommended) guide for a morning tour of the vast market. We left early for the tour, but nonetheless became embroiled in the manic Kumasi rush hour traffic. Once close to the market we parked Boris and then walked through streets with makeshift roadside stalls into the market proper. Before exploring the labyrinth of lanes that criss-crossed the market, Comfort, whose parents were once stallholders, took us up a long flight of stairs from where we had a spectacular view of the corrugated sea of stall roofs, to the office of the market superintendant, the man responsible to the city council for the collection of the rent from the stallholders.

Leaving this very busy and stressed man with his mobile phone pressed to his ear and bellowing at the caller, we descended into the market. Seemingly a chaotic jumble of different stalls selling everything under the sun, the narrow almost claustrophobic lanes lined by stalls, no more than 6’ wide, provided a structure to this colourful cauldron of commercial activity. Each lane or area of lanes would only have stall holders selling one particular type of product; within the area could be the complete manufacturing process. For instance, within the ‘footwear’ area there were stalls selling sheets of leather or plastic, stalls cutting the leather, stalls stitching the upper on to the sole, etc, etc; each selling on to the other until the final product was there on sale at another stall.

We were taken by Comfort, who seemed to know all the many stall holders we met, around textile stalls, selling all types of cloth including that of red and black for mourning attire; stalls selling tools and ironmongery made from recycled materials; food stalls; spice stalls; stalls selling absolutely everything and anything.

When Liz mentioned in passing that she needed some elastic in the waist of her Malian skirt to replace the boot lace she was using, a horrified Comfort had within seconds arranged for a makeshift changing room, some material as a temporary replacement for the skirt and stood guard at the ‘changing room’ door. Then, Malian skirt in hand, Comfort disappeared to return 3 minutes later with the skirt complete with an elasticised waist.

As the morning wore on the lanes became suffocatingly hot and increasingly crowded; everywhere amongst the sea of heads were carried trays and boxes with items being moved from stall to stall, or refreshments that could be bought direct from the porter.

It was an exhausting, but also, interacting with the stall holders and passersby, a richly rewarding experience. Thank you Comfort!

After another of his filling breakfasts and a good briefing on places to see and stay on the Ghanaian coast, we left Chris on 29th April. It was a humid, sticky morning and, before leaving Kumasi, we went through 3 hours of another frustrating, but successful, bank authorization process to obtain money for our coastal trip. Compared to Mali or Burkina Faso, Ghana didn’t make things easy for us, to say the least. If we thought the bank took forever, just getting out Kumasi must have taken almost as long. The traffic came to a standstill at every circle (the Ghanaian name for roundabout) and junction for at least half an hour and it was SO hot, we almost expired in Boris.

On our way to the coast we wanted to visit the village of Bonwire and then Lake Bosumtwi, both only a short distance away. Bonwire is one of the Ashanti villages where the strips of Kente cloth are woven, sown together and then sold; the quality of the weaving was so highly regarded that originally the cloth made in Bonwire could not be sold to anyone other than the Ashanti king without his express permission. This visit was an absolute must for Liz who loves fabrics and sure enough we spent hours there! With an uncomplaining Peter in tow, Liz went from one little shop to the next picking out colourful strips of Kente cloth, which no doubt will be sown together and made into something useful once we are home again. Peter also found a large, very old piece of made up cloth that might have made a beautiful bed spread. We bargained hard for it, but sadly found it just out of our price range and so had to say no to the disappointed store holder. As we drove away, we noticed the same store holder making a call on his mobile phone and chasing after us at the same time, waving frantically with his free arm! We screeched to a halt and, between puffs and pants, he told us his father (allegedly the village chief) had agreed to our ‘best, best’ price over the phone, and so we carried on our way, now the proud owners of a beautiful Kente bedspread. How lucky was that!!

Our next stop and overnight stay was at Lake Bosumtwi. The almost circular lake and its picturesque setting, surrounded by a ring of green forested hills, were the result of a meteorite impact. Traditionally the lake is believed to be visited by the souls of the departed on their way to eternity and so is sacred to the Ashanti people; linked to this there is also a taboo on the use of anything other than a plank of wood, in effect half a tree trunk, as a boat for fishing on the lake. We stayed in a hotel called Lake Paradise Resort which was, in contrast to its beautiful lakeside setting, beginning to look a little neglected and in need of some TLC. We enjoyed an early morning walk along the shore of the lake to a nearby small fishing village and here we watched the fisherman sitting on their planks throwing out their nets for the first catch of the morning. It was just such a peaceful and idyllic spot!

Ghana-The  Coast. 30 April 

Coastal Resorts and Lodges

Nevertheless we had to leave this little piece of heaven and head towards the coast. After about 3 hours we began to pass through some fairly dense forested areas, every so often poking through the vine covered canopy were the majestic heads of huge mahogany trees. These welcome islands of old growth were soon over as palm oil and rubber plantations spread left and right from the road; here and there were massive dark green clumps of arching bamboo, the canes well over 20’ tall, and on the roadside stalls mangoes were now accompanied by plantains, bananas, pineapples and cassava.   

We drove with hardly a break and reached the coast in the late afternoon, our plan being then to spend time relaxing in the resorts and lodges on the coast as we headed slowly towards Accra, some 200 miles to the east. Our first was Lou Moon Lodge. Down a very long, rough, sandy track but worth every bump it took to get there, the lodge was just out of this world and a vision of everybody’s dream holiday destination. It was run by a Belgian designer-cum- architect called Paul, who had by pure chance found the spot; he saw the potential, then bought the land and created this idyllic lodge. Along with his wife and two young children, he had been established in this blissful spot for only sixteen months.

We had a choice of rooms to stay in, but only for one night; with the long May Day holiday coming up it was going to be full from the following day. Paul showed us around, leaving the best till last and, yes, it was the best we went for! What the hell we thought; hang the expense and it was only for one night anyway. With the choice of two chalets on a rocky outcrop, which became an island when the tide was in, we opted for the most beautiful and tasteful one that overlooked a calm and picture postcard palm tree bay, over which the sun would rise the next morning. The other chalet overlooked the windy Atlantic Ocean side with waves crashing on the rocks as the sunset. Calm was what we needed and so we luxuriated in romantic, tropical island, heavenly bliss!! The food, created by a Togolese chef, was stupendous and we just loved the restaurant which was raised on stilts, with its sides open to the sea breeze. Paul had a great eye for natural art. At night a piece of old tree stump that he had cleverly positioned so it was overlooked from the restaurant, was lit up and looked just like ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch; so clever! 

We thoroughly enjoyed  the unaccustomed  total relaxation of just not being ‘on the road’; beach walks, sun bathing on loungers, lazing in hammocks, watching the fisherman bringing in the fish for our dinner and every so often swimming in the warm sea. Sheer heaven!

 We so wanted to stay another night, Paul kindly asked us if we would like to camp in the grounds right next to the sea. We needed no second invitation! Boris was moved and the tent up in seconds, roughly the time it took Peter to eat one of the chefs outstanding sorbets. We loved this fabulous place.

On the 2^nd of May we moved onto our next resort, only one and a half hours away at a small coastal village called Beyin. The Beyin Beach Resort, run by a young English couple, Nina and Patrick, was full, but they were more than happy for us to camp, so we parked in the grounds under some very tall coconut palms. How romantic, but not for long. We were very quickly told this was very unwise as falling coconuts would certainly leave their mark on Boris or the occupants of the tent, or both! We promptly moved and what a bit of luck we did, because that night there was a fierce storm accompanied by a howling gale and  in the morning the ground was knee deep in coconuts the size of cannonballs!

The palm fringed white sand beach was picturesque and as the sea was quite shallow, it created huge waves that ran in to the beach, breaking in a white foaming line as they came. This made swimming nearly impossible and even standing up was quite a challenge. Once, when Liz felt she was in danger of being knocked under, she grabbed Peter’s hand, only to be dragged under when he was flattened by the next wave. Added to all this was a windblown mist from the spray coming off the crashing waves, which, when drifting amongst the coconut palms, created  rays of hazy light through the tall windswept trees.

We had come to Beyin to go to the nearby Nzuleo stilt village on a remote lagoon in the nearby Amansuri wetlands. The next morning, after the storm had gone, we picked up our guide and drove to where the canoes were moored. This proved easier said than done, because of heavy rain that had fallen overnight, we had to take Boris through water that came up well above the door sills, but in true Boris form we made it with no problems at all.  After parking Boris on a bit of dry ground, we then had to wade through the swamp; up to our knees in some nasty, muddy water, following carefully behind the guide for fear of disturbing any snakes. Oh lors, what a thought!

We bailed the rainwater out of the canoe and then paddled through some lovely glades out onto the black waters of the lagoon, upon the far side of which the stilt village sat. We spent almost an hour with the village people; walking on the seemingly flimsy wood and raffia walkways above the water below, being shown their small houses and the way they eked out a precarious existence in their self imposed isolation.  

The following day, as we began to pack to leave, we discovered a lot of water in Boris; in fact things were almost swimming around on the floor which was a bit of a worry, especially as we didn’t know the cause. Thankfully it was a good sunny morning so we spent most of it taking everything out and drying it off on the grass before we were able to leave. Peter checked all the water pipes and found no leaks, and the assumption was that water had got in whilst we were part submerged going to and from the canoe the previous day. Dear Boris had become incontinent!

Safari Beach Lodge, where we stayed in a delightful straw roofed hut built in the traditional stick and mud fashion, was our next extravagance. The lodge was very eco friendly, with solar power and composting loos; after dark we were given kerosene lamps to light our way to the restaurant, and we then carried them with us whilst star gazing from loungers on the beach and then for the return to our hut. The loo was quite extraordinary. It was basically a hole in the ground but with a mud brick dome over it, in the middle of which was a comfortable seat; ‘after use’ we had to shovel two scoops of ash down it and then close the lid. It really worked and never smelt. Yes, different!!  At night, mosquito free under our great big mosquito net, we could open up our louver doors the width of the room; the sound of the waves as we went to sleep was lovely, although we did wake in the morning feeling quite damp.

The waves here covered a narrower area than those at Beyin but were bigger and meaner. Once, when trying to swim through these to the calmer water beyond, Liz misjudged the wave and, arms flailing, completely disappeared in a heaving wall of white water. As the wave continued its way to shore there was no sign of Liz and she was taking far too long to reappear. But just when Peter was about to really panic, her head broke the surface and, amidst much spluttering and coughing, Liz, trying to laugh, said the tumble dryer sensation of rolling over and over was ..well .. quite fun, really! However she only dabbled her feet at the waters edge thereafter.

Whilst at Safari Beach we went for two very pleasant long beach walks. On the first we encountered a python making its way up the beach to the safety of a coconut grove; on the second we went to a little fishing village, called Akwidaa, nestling in a small bay and on one side of which was a small tree covered promontory that looked worth a visit. We struggled through the matted undergrowth and at the top found the remains of an old fort, hidden amongst the trees; its remaining walls held together by thick vines and exposed tree roots. We later learnt it was once a Dutch fort called Fort Dorothea, which of course made us think of you, Dorotee! You, by the way, would just love this trip.

On the morning of 7^th May we left Safari Beach and stopped at the nearby fishing village of Dix Cove. We walked up the steps to a fort that looked down on a colourful bay with its brightly painted fishing boats.  Fort Metal Cross was built by the British in 1696, when it was known as Fort Dick’s Cove and it was the sole British possession in what was the Dutch area of the Gold Coast. The fort eventually lost its name when taken by the Dutch some 200 years later. The Dutch have long gone but their change of title remains.

The history of the Gold Coast and the European involvement, from when the Portuguese arrived to when the British left, is a fascinating window into European trade with and exploitation of Africa and the Africans. This coast was for 500 years a trading interface between Africa and Europe. A trade that started with the lust for precious metal, became forever tainted by the obscenity that was the slave trade and ended with chocolate. For most of their time on the coast the Europeans fought one another for control of the coast; the British ended up with it almost by default and so gave birth to Ghana.  

We continued on eastwards and enjoyed one last beach resort called Ko-Sa; newly taken over by a charming young Dutch couple, who were very hard at work giving the resort and its chalets a bit of much needed TLC.  There was also a lovely natural pool, created by rocks when the tide was out and so swimming was much safer.  On our first and stormy afternoon we were absolutely fascinated, watching through binoculars, as one fishing boat after another came ashore at a nearby village, riding in on the huge crashing waves. We were amazed that these small boats, no more than a large canoe and with a crew of three or four, didn’t capsize and at how each boat would brave the dangerous swell waiting its turn in the bay, every so often disappearing from view between the waves. Then, sometimes with an additional man who had swum out to help, picking their moment and paddling like mad, they would head for the beach. Each boat was then helped by a line of village people safely managing to haul it from the water’s edge and up to the huts that lined the beach. It was real piece village team work and fascinating to watch.

Elmina and Cape Coast

Whilst at Ko-Sa we visited the two best known castles on the coast, both initially built for the protection of trading rights against other acquisitive European countries, they are now best remembered for their roles in the dark era of slavery.

Elmina Castle, a stark eye piercing white and in a perfect location overlooking a beautiful bay on one side and the town of Elmina and its fishing port on the other, was started by the Portuguese in 1482. Unfortunately for them, they failed to appreciate the importance of the nearby St Jago hill that overlooked the castle; the Dutch didn’t and in 1637 finding the hill undefended, hauled their cannons to its summit and pounded the Portuguese into submission. The Dutch quickly built a fort on the hill and for the next 250 years Elmina was the centre of Dutch influence on the Gold Coast. We spent time touring the castle; visiting the Palaver Hall, once a Portuguese chapel, where slaves were bought and sold, the Dutch Governor’s quarters and the battlements, before braving the midday sun to walk around the fishing port with its distinctive smell, noisy fishermen and colourful large boats.

The second, and from 1665 exclusively British, castle we visited was at Cape Coast. It is now the Ghanaian memorial to the slave trade and of their and the European roles in it.  Here is found the infamous ‘Door of No Return’, through which the slaves shuffled on their way out of the dank, unlit underground passageway from the castle’s dungeons to the slave boat that would take them to the Americas. We took a guided tour to understand better what we would be seeing and visited the dungeons, their rough stone walls scored by the fingers of those once imprisoned there, and then, blinking in the sunlight and breathing in the fresh sea air, walked through the Door from the sombre interior into the welcome hustle and bustle of Ghanaian fishing activity.  We turned to look back at the doorway and were told that, from this side, it was now known as ‘The Door of Return’; through here, some 10 years ago, a coffin containing the remains of an American slave was carried, accompanied by two descendants of slaves, in a symbolic gesture that broke the chain.     

On our final evening at Ko Sa and feeling adventurous, we ordered a Ghanaian dish called Fufu for dinner. Hummmm!!! Fufu consists of rather scrawny chicken parts in a very tasty ground nut (peanut) based sauce in a bowl and, on a plate beside the bowl, a  grey spherical lump of what can best be described as a mix of wallpaper paste and play dough. In the best Ghanaian manner we used our right hand to pull off a piece of the play dough and dipping it in the sauce, stared at it for a moment or two, and then took a bite; well, really a boggle-eyed how the hell am I going to swallow this, bite. Liz only managed a few mouthfuls; however Peter, obviously in some form of self induced trance, was able to eat very nearly the whole lot, but suffered the next day with a major intestinal blockage!

Kakum National Park

On 9^th May we drove inland to Kakum National Park, an extensive area of humid rainforest which contained one of Ghana’s ‘must do’ tourist attractions. A wood and rope aerial walkway ran for over 350m through the rainforest canopy and at its highest point was some 40m above the forest floor. It provided a marvellous, if testing, way to see and experience an area of the forest eco system that would otherwise be closed to us. We arrived mid afternoon and passing through gates emblazoned with the word ‘Akwaaba’, Ghanaian for welcome, we booked ourselves in for guided dawn tours of the walkway and the forest floor. A dawn tour before the park was open was the most rewarding time to be there and, as it was really only a practical option for those who were independent travellers, not often done. We were delighted to be told that we would be the only participants; the forest at dawn would be ours alone!  

We stayed overnight in the basic but very inexpensive self catering lodge in the park, a perfect location for our 5.30 start the next morning. We cooked our dinner out of Boris that night and shared it with a park ranger who, when cycling by, had stopped fascinated by the ‘exotic’ food and our kitchen set up. He was delighted and finished all that we gave him; by now it was pitch black and with a smile of white teeth he took his leave, cycling off to his family, in the dark along the rough track and with no lights at all. We hope he made it.

For Liz waking up in ‘the middle of the night’ (at 4.45 am) was ghastly enough; even more ghastly, when bumbling around, bleary eyed, half asleep and nearly  naked, was being greeted by the guide who had arrived 30 minutes early. Fully dressed, with torches in hand, we set off on foot along forest tracks to the walkway. The walk along these narrow tracks was not for the faint hearted; the forest pressed up against us and was full of wonderful, if at times alarming, night sounds: rustlings, squeaks, groans and grunts; less wonderful but more alarming were the  insects of all shapes and sizes that wanted to make Liz their new home. Yuk!

Black became grey as the first faint glow of dawn penetrated the canopy above us. As we climbed up onto the walkway, trees were now silhouetted against the cloudless brightening sky and around us were the calls of birds piercing the cool dawn air. Just the perfect experience we had hoped for, so no more complaints from Liz. The canopy walkway was suspended between the trees and broken up by a number of viewing platforms, from where we enjoyed watching the sun appear above the trees around us, mixing streams of light with the mist that ran through them. It was just magic. When we left the forest and our very pleasant guide, the first visitors of the day were being marshalled into groups of ten or so; we were just so pleased to have done the walk on our own.

Accra and an Opening Ceremony

We headed back to the coast and began our final day’s drive to Accra, stopping briefly to see the ironically named Fort Good Hope; a small, pretty white washed slaving fort situated on the edge of a cliff and overlooking a fishing village on a lovely white sandy beach. Next was Accra, Ghana’s capital and where we were to have the great good fortune of staying in the wonderfully comfortable house of family friends, David and Jillian. This lovely and so hospitable couple worked at the American Embassy and gave us the run of their house and the company of their Ghanaian bush dogs for ten days (we came for six!).

It was not only a good winding down period for us, but it was also a productive time as well; we managed to obtain our Togo and Benin visas, get Boris serviced, sort out all our belongings, wash clothes and bedding, pack up boxes of purchases we had made along the way to be sent back to England and get ourselves a little up to date with journal writing by making use of the very erratic Ghanaian internet system.  During our time here we also got the happy news on 13th May of the birth of Lily Caterina, a little sister for Maya. Well done Rebecca and Andy. Another great bit of unexpected news was Nick proposing marriage to Louisa. Gosh, ‘hatch and match’, the excitement was all too much!! 

Before leaving Accra we attended a very special occasion in the Volta region. David and Jillian, who were coming to the end of a two year stint at the embassy, had put their spare time to good use and had worked extremely hard on generating the sponsorship that had enabled the building of a kindergarten school in the village of Agbenoxoe in the Volta district of Kpando. Saturday the 17^th of May was to be day of the official opening ceremony, and we were to attend as guests of the village. It all took place on the most beautiful rain free day on the ‘village green’ in front of a little primary school which now included a brand new kindergarten. First the children marched in and sat down on the grass, then came the local dignitaries, including the village chief and the Queen Mother and when the American Ambassador and her deputy arrived, the ceremony began. It was a lovely, heart warming mix of dancing, speeches interspersed with specially prepared displays by some of the children. Central to it all were the two people who had made it all possible; David and Jillian were rightly lavished with praise and at the end were given gifts by the Queen Mother. We felt so privileged to be there and witness such a special occasion. Well done David and Jillian, what an achievement!

Towards The Togo Border

On 20^th May we finally left Accra and drove back into the Volta region, an area we felt needed more exploration. Despite being a stunning area of green rolling hills and forested mountains, bounded in the west by Lake Volta  and by Togo in the east, it is an area little visited by tourists. We returned to Mount Paradise Lodge, nestling in picturesque hills near the village of Biakpa and where we had stayed the night before the ceremony at Agbenoxoe. This time, travelling in daylight our arrival was less dramatic and the journey less hair raising. On the previous occasion, breaking our taboo of not driving in the dark, we had travelled the twisting, narrow and badly eroded mud tracks with all lights blazing; head lights, side lights, flood lights and spot lights full on. To the blinded and bemused Ghanaians we passed, we must have looked like a cross between a Christmas tree on wheels and the spaceship from the film Close Encounters!

This area of the Avatime Hills could almost have been Switzerland; stunning views, with clouds in the valleys below and the air so cool and clear, yet the sun so warm. Bliss! The following morning we left the lovely, mosquito free lodge and drove up to the foot of Mt Gemi and the village of Amedzofe, a former German mission in what was once part of German Togoland and now the highest village in Ghana. In the visitors centre we were greeted by a serious young man who was training to be a missionary and was involved in a project to bring running water to the village. He told us they were desperately looking for a water engineer and yes, Andy, your name was mentioned; we thought you would all love it up there!! Anyway, we were very generous with our donation as we entering Togo that day and had money to get rid of. Free from the weight of our Ghanaian currency, we made the short walk to the summit with ease; here we had hoped to see both Lake Volta, 15 miles to the west and looking east, see the mountains of Togo, but the low cloud covering the summit just didn’t want to break for us. We didn’t leave disappointed; we were allowed some glimpses of the valleys below us and it had been a lovely, refreshing walk. Descending all the while, we then drove to a small town called Hohoe, filled up Boris to the brim with diesel and headed for the Togo border.