Kumasi to Accra – Ghana

It had taken a long drive to reach Kumasi, finally pulling into our accommodation around 5pm. By 5.30pm me and the Blonde Squad-plus-one headed out into the city of three million in search of a bar. After several minutes things were looking desperate and so the girls did what girls do best, ask for directions. A young man reluctantly accepted the task and marched ahead leading us down increasingly deteriorating and hectic streets. He then stopped, had a conversation with another chap who then picked up leadership responsibilities and led us deeper into the hustle and bustle of twilight Kumasi. I’m always extremely conscious in such situations as let’s be honest, as the only male in a group of four I will be the first to get knocked out should we walk down the wrong street. Despite this, I still insist on standing up straight and pumping out my minuscule chest in an attempt to at least look like I’d the knock the f*** out of anyone who dared touch my friends. Sure enough we ended up in a dodgy looking side street, at the end of which was a building that looked more like a bookies than a bar from the outside. The inside wasn’t much better, but it was local, and the bar lady oozed serenity. After a couple of rounds of ridiculously cheap beer we had to navigate our way towards an establishment that would serve us food. Here, Google and a tuk-tuk driver led the way, but only after the driver had unashamedly requested, nay demanded, that the person he deemed the cutest of the four of us sit upfront with him. It’s safe to say it wasn’t me.  

I woke the following morning nursing yet another hangover which have become of increasing regularity since the magical Ambre rum is no longer available to cushion the blow. There is of course rum available, plenty of it, but they insist on punishment the next day as opposed to a free pass. I therefore found myself for the second time on this tour regretfully not doing something because, well, I couldn’t find the energy and motivation to do so. I was therefore happy to follow a few others to a hotel swimming pool and spend the day in a vegetative state. Meanwhile, the responsible people in the group headed into the city to explore all it had to offer, most of which centred around its Ashanti roots. As with the basilica in Cote d’Ivoire, the Ashanti Kingdom is a topic I’ve read about several times and so I had been excited to get to the Ashanti region and explore. I want to write that I was punished for not taking the opportunity, but I can’t. Reports came back that the Ashanti Palace was barely worth the ticket price, and other sites contained little of interest. Other less culturally inclined folk explored sites such as the markets and topped up on supplies of African fabrics (made in China), but as much as I love a good African market, there’s only so many I can see in one month. On top of that, I came to learn that I would in fact be returning to Kumasi in four weeks’ time on the next leg of the tour. I therefore went to bed that night feeling less disappointed with myself, including the decision to get KFC delivery.  

The following day we rolled into Accra, Ghana’s capital, and the final day of this section of the tour. Within minutes of checking into our comfy hotel, bags were dropped, and the swimming pool filled with the majority of the group and their bottles of beer. Setting off from Freetown in Sierra Leone 20 of us had spent the previous 36 days together travelling through five West African countries. Despite the odd isolated meltdown, the group had settled into something rather pleasant as demonstrated with the bottle of rum that was purchased long after the final booze-fuelled group dinner had finished and keeping the pool party going until the early hours. Indeed, I believe it only ended once the Blonde Squad had disappeared in search of food, a search that ended when calling hotel reception for room service at 2.30am only to receive the reply ‘are you crazy’? Apparently, they had called a random guest in another room, not reception. 

I woke up bitter. The exodus was about to begin, including the Blonde Squad. Of 18 passengers, 14 were leaving, six new people would be joining, and I would be the youngest. I sat in the 9am pre-departure meeting the very person I grumbled about when I had first joined the group in Freetown. I didn’t want anything to do with the new guys, I had already decided I wasn’t going to enjoy the next leg of the journey with the average age of the group rising significantly and no longer having the refuge of two amazing friends. I fled the meeting as soon as possible, found the girls, and took a taxi down to Labadi Beach, one of the most popular beaches in the city. In keeping with the mood of the day, the beach was possibly the worse I’ve been to in West Africa. It was crowded due to a bank holiday, horses galloped up and down the beach with their masters offering horse rides, broken glass bottles poked up from below the sand, and the sea looked tainted with pollution. We made the most of it before heading back to the hotel where the day improved before coming to its inevitable sad conclusion. For dinner we found ourselves sat in a very nice restaurant that actually served up some delicious food and within a decent time frame, supported with a well-stocked bar of local craft beers and an extensive list of cocktails. Yeah it was European prices, yeah it wasn’t exactly a typically local venue, but even I enjoy a night of good food with a great bunch of friends, and knowing I wasn’t even halfway through my African journey, I felt entitled to a treat. The previous night’s antics kept us all in check and we returned to the hotel to say our first significant goodbye. Jen was leaving at 2am. The trio was down to two.

The next morning, I woke on the back of eight solid hours sleep in a comfortable bed but felt exhausted and numb. I’d only said goodbye to one person, today would be full of many more. First, I had to go to the Togo embassy to get a visa for the next leg of the journey. As we pulled out of the hotel in a taxi, we passed a man being followed by a mob of angry men who would periodically beat the lone guy with sticks. Further on another chap was casually peeing by the side of a busy road. We sat in traffic suffocating in the heat and fumes with sweat pouring out of me despite it only being 9am. My mood wasn’t set to deal with an African capital city, I felt like a sportsman devoid of confidence, worried my joy and love of the tour and Africa would fail to return. In all honestly, I simply refused to talk to the new people on the trip unless I was forced to interact. I’m usually coy to begin with on any tour but in this moment, I was actively aloof. I knew I had to snap out of it, but I refused, telling myself I would once the truck departed Accra. I returned from the embassy, met with Amber at the hotel, and settled in for lunch and a few cheeky shandies as we wiled away the afternoon giggling like two school children as we reminisced on the previous five weeks. In no time at all it was time for another goodbye and the trio was very much down to one. Along with Amber went several other great people I was sad to see go and that was it, whether I liked it or not, the time had come to adjust to a new group, a feat that would undoubtedly require a complete change in mindset. A couple of wonderful people remained that softened the changes ahead and would ensure that there would never be a lonely moment. I think that is the key to all of this melancholy: loneliness, or more specifically the lack of it. Much to many people’s surprise I always state I’m an introvert, I struggle to interact with new people on a daily basis, and no matter who I socialise with it will eventually end with me desperate for a bit of time alone. I have longed to be able to experience the feeling of travelling when it all began in my early twenties – especially the fabled 10-week East Africa overland trip – to be always surrounded by people up for a drink, a game drive, a skydive, a swim, anything. Supercharged by Amber and Jen, but with a supporting cast of brilliant people, the past five weeks in West Africa has provided an experience I thought could never be repeated and one that I didn’t realise I needed quite so desperately until now. My true self has been unleashed from a self-inflicted repression, blowing away the anxieties that have built upon me that have falsely convinced me that I’m not a social person. Overlanding is carried out in its own little universe, far removed from the mundane realities of life, and one must understand that at some point you have to walk back through the wardrobe door and pick up where you left off. However, what I have learnt over the last five weeks is that I very much have to take the joy, happiness, and freedom I have discovered and continue it into my everyday life, family, and relationship. Luckily for me, I don’t have to worry about that for another six weeks as its time to begin the next leg of my journey in West Africa, a region of the world that facilitates my happiness always. The hardest part of overlanding, always, is saying goodbye.

Check out the tour here.

10^th January 2024