Under A Well-Lit Sky

NO matter how stable the genius, best-laid plans have a tendency to get swept away by real life.

Some get upset by that and lash out in 280 characters or less. Repeatedly. Others put off attempting to string together rather longer, less knee-jerk combinations of words, no matter how many times it makes it to the top of the to-do list.

Genius? Almost certainly not. Stable? Depends which doctor you talk to.

And so 17 days into 2018, one of the great traditions of the Travel Marmot swings around again – the new year, state of the nation address planned for New Year’s Day finally gets written.

Well, started anyway. Let’s see if we can get it finished despite the distractions of televised football (it’s Chelsea, so pretty safe), Twitter and the need to cook at some point in the not too distant future.*

This tradition started three years ago in a dark, peaceful beach bar in Ghana. It continues for a fourth year in a considerably better lit flat in Gloucester, considerably colder  despite the fact my boiler has been fixed after a couple of days without heat or hot water.

At least the need for a shower finally got me back to the gym.

That initial new year address was written, unplanned, on January 1 (although not posted for quite a few days). The next three have been scheduled to follow suit – the point where those best-laid plans have gone astray.

Things just kept getting in the way. Work, largely, a mini African reunion in Nice, losing weight (more later, not much of an excuse but have spent more time shopping and cooking), binge watching Stranger Things (no spoilers, not finished yet) and largely finding excuses to avoid spending even more time tapping away at a keyboard.

Still got here almost a week earlier than two years ago (starting it at least), albeit more than a week later than last year’s missive when the tradition was expanded to include my pick of the previous 12 months’ album. Again, more of that to come and why this really does need to be done on schedule.

Best albums of 2017: The final cut

So what has changed in those 365 days? Well, 373 to be accurate (and climbing).

On the face of it, not that much.

The blog had been on a hiatus, planned as opposed to just not getting round to it often enough, was living in the same place, doing the same job and was working through a tax issue that was muddying the finances for any travel planning.

Was about to head off to London to the Adventure Travel Show to get a few ideas and at least try to salve those itchy feet.

That much certainly hasn’t changed. There’s a few loose ideas and it was off to Olympia again at the weekend, part reunion, part travel fix.

My flat’s over there somewhere in the distance

Yes, still living in the same place – thankfully, warming nicely after a couple of nights layered up as the mercury dropped at the worst moment – but a fair few things have changed.

On paper, the job is the same but in terms of the working week it is unrecognisable from a year ago. No daily deadline to scurry towards, more a gradual cranking up of the pressure as we head towards Wednesday and the weekly appointment with the press.

There’s also no commute. Well, not so you’d notice. The hour or more on the bus every morning replaced with a gentle stroll a couple of hundred yards to the relocated office.

Not sure all my colleagues – a much more select bunch nowadays – appreciate the move so much having suffered a reversal of travelling fortunes, but now there’s a chance to do something meaningful with the evening. Like writing a blog post. Or going to the gym.

Oh yeah.

The other major change, bar the fact Gloucester have started winning regularly, has been my waistline.

It’s not a massive change, not yet. You might not even notice it, bar my trousers falling down (nothing that new there) unless my belt is pulled so tight it is almost garotting me. It you can be garotted there.

But after seven weeks, the difference is starting to show.

There’s closing in on two stone gone, wearing an old pair of jeans a size smaller (although with no buttons in the fly, not in public) and a lot of walking in Nice was, well, quite nice.

Certainly could not have covered so much ground on foot a few months ago. Then 10 minutes or so would have reduced my left hip to a throbbing knot, shooting pains down to my knee (which has given the odd minor grumble since the much-delayed return to the gym). Partly down to a hip issue, partly my total lack of conditioning.

Some more expensive flats near water

But only when things got steep – and they did, what with neighbouring Monaco being built largely on what felt like a cliff – was there any doubts that this was not a good idea.

Even my back held up to carrying a bag back to the airport when we decided walking was the best option with the Promenade des Anglais closed to buses and taxis for a race.

And it was probably a good idea after breaking a fair few rules of the diet every time we were ready for another round (although never thought it would lead to ordering a Coke Zero in a McDonald’s. Overlooking the Grand Prix circuit in Monaco –  country number 58 on my list).

Add all that up and the whole weight loss thing has gone pretty well. It’s not all been easy and, don’t worry, there won’t be any preaching here but this is something worth sticking with.

There’s a long way to go. Not to any target, don’t really want to set those beyond the next landmark but throw in increased gym and the aim is simply to keep going and see where we get.

Not so much a new year’s resolution, just a fresh way of life – rather like it is not a diet, more a more sensible way of eating.

Haven’t always been good. There’s been a couple of sessions on the beer, rattling up all my syns in one go. And they’ve generally been accompanied by not exactly paying too much attention to the allowed food list.

But they’ve also included plenty of walking – in rain and snow through the streets of London – to counteract the added calories.

That’s sort of the idea (beyond the obvious health benefits). When the Travel Marmot eventually does get back on the road somewhere, fitness and weight is not going to be an issue in choosing whether or not to do something.

You never know, might even doing something about my snoring.

But let’s not get carried away.

  • Think the date at the top rather gives that away, but failing to get it done before heading to bed and four straight days away from the laptop rather scuppered that.

And the need to finish the second part of this post, once it became clear it would be way too long all rolled in to one.

Click just down there to the right for details…

photo by:

Should I Stay Or Should I Togo?

IT took Togo all of a couple of hundred yards to throw up a new travel experience – a road sign immediately after crossing the border from Ghana, pointing the way to a whole new country just a short drive away.*

But then, country number seven on this trip is only 56km wide along the coast.

Any thoughts, however, that this was a short, uneventful stay en route to Benin (not that much wider itself) has been dispelled by fresh experiences and incidents – not all of which can be recounted to a family audience.

On The Road – Our camp on a mountain road in Togo. Best not to sit in the way of any motorbikes


We have rattled through more visas, been held up by the police, scaled the highest point in Togo, got a tree stuck in the back of the truck, splashed about in waterfalls, sweltered at the coast, wrapped up against the cold and damp, tried to swim in a lake only a foot or so deep, got up close to a voodoo priestess and a swarm of bees, marked Australia Day in suitable fashion and, briefly at least, lost a couple of souls.

With an angry baboon thrown in.


On paper, Togo is merely a brief stop – hard to be much else when it makes up such a small part of this huge journey – at the start of potentially the most difficult stretch of the trip, but it has thrown up enough to make its mark.

Not that we were ever going to race through the country. Mainly because, the main road along the coast apart, it appears pretty difficult to race anywhere.

What appears a short hop on the map can produce a long afternoon on the truck as Nala negotiates ramshackle roads, climbs mountains through overhanging branches or circumnavigates a large lagoon (we could still see our starting point in Togoville across the lake two hours after we had set out).

Released from the shackles of Big Milly’s by the final set of visas, we made the break for the border which both trucks were through in pretty rapid fashion (can’t help get the feeling that the smooth crossings so far are saving up a heap of border problems further down the line) and into the outskirts of the capital city Lome.

Once we had somehow worked out how to get two big yellow trucks into one small courtyard, we worked on two truckloads squeezing their tents into a second courtyard watched over by the angry baboon behind his bars – and, evidently, a monkey in a tree which nobody noticed until our truck had moved on – and all using the single shower.

My option, staying in the bar until everybody else had given up trying to use the stuttering wi-fi and gone to bed, seemed infinitely preferable than those queuing up to use it before first light the next morning.

If getting anywhere on the roads can be frustrating in these parts, getting anywhere fast with bureaucracy is just as difficult as we again dived into a round of form filling and sitting outside embassies.

And in a Lome side street waiting for the trucks’ paperwork to be returned by the police after we were caught ignoring a sign saying we should not be on an adjoining street – until, that is, both drivers (both called Steve, just to be confusing) pointed out the signs were actually facing the other way.

This is Africa.

End of the Road – No option to walk the final few hundred yards to the top of Mt Agou. At least until the saw came out

A hot, frustrating wait was enlivened by a small group of us climbing off the back to feign frustration in an attempt to hurry along the police, which grew into groups heading up the road to the nearest shop or chatting nicely to the neighbours for the use of their toilet.

But finally, freed from police checks and bureaucracy, we briefly broke away from both the other truck and Lome and headed north to what pass as mountains in these parts and the welcome return of bush camping.

Our first overnight halt came pretty much on a road – motorcycles heading up and down the hill drove through camp until well after dark, despite not often bothering with lights – alongside a thin, but hugely refreshing waterfall.

Opting not to head off on a trek to more waterfalls (mainly due to the return of bush camp belly**), the next morning was spent largely sleeping and watching the monkeys scaling the adjacent cliff face.

But there was no need to worry about missing out on any scenery or climbing – it came to us later in the day as we drove up Mt Agou.

The views of the valley were pretty spectacular and the villagers we passed on the way up seemed happy, if surprised, to see us.

Not that we were looking too closely, our attentions being taken by the collection of branches, insects and other creatures which were tossed into the back of the truck by the overhanging foliage as the road narrowed to a single path.

A Real Buzz -A swarm of bees descends on our base in Togoville

One branch managed to wedge itself into Nala’s innards, requiring some rapid work with a hacksaw, while we finished the last few hundred metres of the climb on foot as some more serious tree surgery was required to clear the road ahead of the final bend.

What we found at the top was not the most spectacular mountain summit, but it provided our home for the night and, for the first time in a couple of months, jumpers and jackets were pulled from the depths of our kit as the cloud rolled in and we had to remember how to deal with a damp night (with the advantage of being able to snuggle up in sleeping bags).

There was no such concerns at the next night’s stop, down on the banks of Lake Togo, after a journey to Togoville relatively short on distance, but fairly lengthy on time.

Based around the gardens of an artistic centre, we found ourselves in the heart of the community with card games and watching football on the side of the street, refreshed by a few beers from the shop across the road.

Those of us who opted to miss the visit to a voodoo priestess spent the next morning swimming (well, paddling – it’s amazingly shallow) and washing in the lake and were relaxing around the truck when the peace was disturbed by a huge swarm of bees which sent us scurrying for cover and even interrupted the card game before settling on a nearby tree.

Waltzing Matilda – Michael, Me, Skippy and what may not just be Coke toast Australia Day

All a good sign according to voodoo.

It certainly pointed to a fine night once we had returned to Lome, albeit to a larger beach resort down the road, and set about marking Australia Day.

There may only be three Aussies on board, but everybody joined in with relish. Some of the details must remain hazy (mainly because they are), but one reveller was found asleep the next morning in the shadow of the baboon at our previous stop.

Sure the Aussies are very proud.

* That is a short drive in normal conditions. In Togo, that may not be the case.
** Or so we thought at the time. It may well have been a precursor to something else, of which more next time…



Cooking Up Surprises

SPENDING ten months travelling around Africa on a big yellow truck was always going to throw up a healthy number of surprises.

And our final week in Accra certainly lived up to that with some or all of these events falling into the tales of the unexpected:

  • For the first time since my teenage years, my hair is now long (and thick) enough to get coated in sweat.
  • Girls were queuing up to get in my room (certainly a surprise to me).
  • My cooking skills – normally reduced to throwing something in a wok, heating something which somebody else has created to stick straight in the oven or heading out to a takeaway – have somehow been elevated into the chef of our latest cook group.
  • A lengthy game of beach volleyball saw me throwing myself about, actually managing to return a few shots and, most surprisingly, not receiving any lasting injuries.
  • Two marriage proposals coming my way.
  • My knees hurt (as predicted, not all of these events are that much of a surprise).
Freshly showered – A nightcap at Big Milly’s with Karla, Ale and Linda

All this took place on familiar soil as the weekend retreat back to the beach at Abanze was followed by a return to Kokrobite and the welcoming surroundings of Big Milly’s Backyard – and the equally welcoming bed which had been home for the previous week – as we settled in to wait for the final visas required before heading to the border.

The sojourn to Abanze rather ruined our plan to spend a leisurely afternoon producing a potato bake, which instead was constructed after dark and fighting with a new recruit from the other truck for space on the fire while sweating over a white sauce.

Having had no idea how to create a white sauce before we headed off (you buy them in a jar, right?), the prospect of me bemoaning how difficult it is to get one to thicken with limited heat while using Blue Bird margarine will have anyone who knows my lack of culinary expertise reeling in shock. Especially when someone keeps shifting it off the heat to cook his sausages.

But it all worked well and, once we had dug out the pots from under the coals, it disappeared in rapid fashion.

Beachfront dwelling – The front garden of our campsite at Abandze

There was less surprise about my decision to spend the next day making the most of our chilled surroundings, until the outbreak of a lengthy game of beach volleyball which made up in enthusiasm, diving around and sand in strange places what it lacked in any form of skill. Splashing about in the waves was needed to shift the sand and cool down.

Our weekend chilling out on the beach was replaced with… well, to be honest, more chilling out by the beach as we returned to our hangout at Big Milly’s.

And so we, largely, fell back into our routines.

Plenty of playing cards, sitting around the bar, convening at 12.30pm when the restaurant reopened for lunch (and waiting as the African idea of fast food is considerably different to ours) and wandering up to the newly-discovered internet cafe in the village (handily situated next to the building showing both Premier League and African Cup of Nations football).

With more visa forms and trips to the mall for food and supplies thrown in – the distinctive yellow bags from the Shoprite supermarket are scattered around the truck – some also headed further afield, although not the intrepid party we dropped at the mall to catch taxis into Accra to catch a local football match.

Only as the truck pulled back onto the main road did we notice them running after us, the taxi driver having kindly informed them the match had been played the previous day.

Back at base, there was also the attraction of having a bed to chill out on – and actually stretch my legs out properly – in my room (my only planned upgrade before our hostel in Cape Town, when that hair will finally go under the clippers).

The bed may have been a major attraction – to say nothing of the ceiling fan in the soaring temperatures (at least when the power was on) – but my shower proved just as big an attraction to some of the girls who were sleeping in their tents and making do with a bucket shower.

Really should have charged. Or stayed.

Meeting the locals – One of the younger children at the orphanage. Unruly hair partially hidden by sunglasses, rescued from eager hands of the children

But it was not all lounging about at Big Milly’s and one excursion out provided a truly memorable day.

Three years ago, Karla spent time volunteering at an orphanage near Accra and keen to catch up, she headed off with me in tow as a curious onlooker.

A shared taxi to the main road and two tro-tros – the minibus-type vehicles of varying condition which plough back and forward along fixed routes, picking up and dropping off at a very cheap rate – dropped us at the Good Shepherd Orphanage and we wandered across the barren ground past the neighbouring school.

Any worries Karla had that nobody would remember her were dispelled as Gloria, one of the women from the kitchen, spotted us from some distance away and shouted out her name – a wonderful moment, which not only brought a smile to Karla’s face, but rates as one of my favourites of the trip.

Gloria’s welcome was echoed throughout the afternoon, a string of children not only swooping on the pens Karla had brought along with her, but reintroducing themselves, three years older and taller and delighted just to say hello.

Decent proposal – Gloria and her son

And not just to Karla. Many were just as keen to say hello to me (after all, how often do they get to meet a large white man in a bright orange shirt?), two of the younger ones opted to cling on for dear life (although think the one in the Celtic shirt just wanted me to lift him up so he could get at my sunglasses) and my first marriage proposal came from one of the older girls who sat and chatted to us about life at the orphanage and what had happened to some of the other youngsters from her previous stay.

We wandered up to the school which, sadly, seems to be in a state of disarray. Having sat in the back of one geometry lesson, the children seem keen to learn, when they are actually in the classroom and not wandering in and out without anyone batting an eyelid.

From what we saw – and the background from Karla – the school and orphanage are in need of some tender, loving care and strong, disciplined leadership, but one does doubt whether cash injections are enough with the distinct impression that not all the money would make it down to the children who need it most, particularly not in the way they need it.

But with people like Gloria – who fashioned my second marriage proposal of the day, despite already being married and feeding her young son at the time – there is hope these children are getting some of the care and attention they need.

And on a trip full of surprises, this whole experience is one which will go down as one worth holding on to.

Even if it may have ended with me being betrothed. Not quite sure.


Anchored Down In Accra

IF you find yourself in need of a last-minute present, forget rushing to the shops or the final resort of an all-night garage. Head to a traffic jam in Accra.

The streets of the Ghanaian capital are awash with vehicles, usually not moving that fast (if at all) and myriads of enterprising folk offering to sell you just about anything you need. And lots you don’t.

Fancy a snack? Something to drink? No problem, wind down the window, open your door or hang out the side of the truck and hand over your cedes for a pack of plantain chips or the ubiquitous bag of water (very handy, usually cold and about 2p, although not the easiest to drink while trying to maintain some dignity and prevent spilling most of it over you).

The Originals – Possibly the only shot of the complete group that started the trip before the first departures. Taken before we left Abandze and headed to Big Milly’s

Need a present for the children? Flag down the guy carrying sets of building blocks, one of which is already made up and being carried around for demonstration purposes.

How about some paintbrushes? Religious pictures? Or a copy of the local newspaper with the splash headline “Commuters Stranded” to be read by stranded commuters going nowhere fast?

Or what about a framed picture of Barack Obama shaking hands with dignitaries at an official function?

It’s all there and you will have plenty of time to peruse what is on offer as sooner or later – almost always sooner – you will get stuck in a traffic jam trying to go anywhere in Accra.

Not that we have been going anywhere fast as the need to sort out visas has seen us sitting in some of those jams, waiting outside embassies, hanging out at a couple of shiny new shopping malls and chilling out at our base, Big Milly’s Backyard.

An institution among overlanders, young volunteers seeking a weekend retreat away from their schools and orphanages, holiday makers and locals escaping the bustle and smog of Accra, Big Milly’s has become a major stop on Oasis Trans-Africa trips.

Reinforcements – Nala, left, and the other truck at Big Milly’s

Big Milly herself – who is far from big and is called Wendy – even hopped on one of the trucks for a brief stint a few years ago.

Her backyard – a beachfront bar surrounded by huts, room for tents, a restaurant, a few other stalls and space for bands and entertainment when it gets busy on weekend evenings – also provided a first proper bed for many of us since we left the UK more than two months ago.

The draw of that bed (and the adjoining, open to the elements, bathroom) meant at least one of us (OK, me) stretched out a three-day stay in a hut to the full eight-night duration of our initial stay. It may be difficult to resist a repeat when we return to complete our visas before heading out of Ghana and pressing on towards Cape Town.*

Big Milly’s has also been notable for us crossing paths with our fellow Oasis truck heading to Cape Town for the first time since Fes in the opening Moroccan skirmishes and we acquired several of its inhabitants for our quick scamper back down the coast for the weekend.

And two new arrivals have countered bidding farewell to four of our original group.

Joanne was always scheduled to finish her trip in Accra (and her departure increases my chances of winning a game of cards), but Sam and David have been forced to head home (hopefully only temporarily) for personal reasons and Derrick made the same journey back to the UK due to illness.

Tired and Emotional – Not an uncommon sight at the bar in Big Milly’s. Or elsewhere to be honest

With four gone, two new faces and five refugees from the other truck, it all made for an unfamiliar look to the back of the truck as we headed a couple of hours out of Accra to Abandze Beach Resort, which had been our final, brief port of call before heading to Big Milly’s.

We had made it back to the sea after leaving Kumasi after a last-ditch, early-morning run around the Presbyterian Guesthouse to collect our damp laundry off washing lines – despite proud assurances that it was ready and done in dryers the day before – and heading to Cape Coast.

The castle which played a key role in the slave trade which scarred this stretch of coast makes for an interesting visit as another entry into the places where tour guides are able to use the word British with no shortage of contempt.

Halfway round the museum, a large tour group descended on a small room and, for a few slightly unsettling moments, the only white face in an exhibition on slavery suddenly became the centre of attention.

Totally at odds with the welcome we have had across Ghana, but unnerving. Still not sure if they guy who exclaimed “what are my eyes seeing?” was looking at me or the pictures behind.

The welcome at the bar just down the road from our overnight halt was certainly warm. They had no power and they did not have the promised meat on sticks. But they had beer and as we sat drinking by the lights of the passing cars on the adjacent road, one of them stopped and out jumped the guy despatched in a taxi to get the much-valued snack.

A gentle start the next morning and we were rolling towards Accra, before turning off down the bumpy roads to the beachside community of Kokrobite and its beating heart Big Milly’s to bring down the curtain on the opening leg of this African adventure.

To varying degrees, we spent the week or so exploring the city itself – a good hour or more away by taxi and tro-tro — heading out into the shops, bars and food places in the village (especially once we had discovered the internet cafe), wandering along the beach (heeding the warning to take nothing valuable) or merely making the most of having a bed (be it in a hut or in a shared house which had up to a dozen crammed in at one stage) and hanging around the bar.

Checkout was difficult, not just because of bidding farewell to the bed, but it provided the moment of truth with my bar bill.

But with large beers at 4.5 cedes a pop (just over £1) and cokes about half of that, it would have taken some serious drinking to run up anything too alarming.

Not that some of us didn’t try a few times (breakfast attendance was sporadic across the week), particularly on the Friday and Saturday when the place comes alive to the sound of ethnic drummers, a reggae band who really kicked into gear after midnight (and even had me up dancing barefoot on the sand) and some excellent, eye-watering local acrobats, plus the influx of new faces to chat to – a bit of a novelty to us as we usually make up the bulk of the residents at most places we stay.

Switching Beaches – Abandze, our home away from Big Milly’s. Meat on sticks not pictured

The bar also hosts any number of locals keen for a chat and most of us struggled to walk too far without someone calling our name or engaging us in an elaborate handshake. Have just about mastered the one that ends with a click of the fingers, but not without a bruised middle finger.

Away from Big Milly’s, much of our time has been spent at one of two new malls which show the growing prosperity of Accra or sorting out visas.

Joe has been running around the embassies sorting out forms, payments, photocopies, printing and a wide range of differing requirements, most notably how much each one costs and in what currency.

Having collected the cash for two sets of visas, he took Kris and myself along as hired muscle (our cost: a bottle of water and share of a pizza each) to visit an embassy and deposit a payment at a bank.

Not sure how much use we actually were, considering we were both falling asleep in the bank by the time Joe emerged after being stuck behind a guy paying in 48,000 cedes in cash.

It should have been a simple job – walk into bank, fill in a form, hand over money – but this is Africa. And even in booming Accra, there is no escaping that.

There are times it appears somebody has drawn up a list of the most efficient way to do things, crossed out all the best options and opted for the one that involves the most amount of people who can stand around and look totally bemused when you ask them something to do with what you think their job might actually be.

And when you do get something done, it’s time to sit back in one of those traffic jams.

* For difficult, read impossible.


Mountains Out of Molehills

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AT some point, it was necessary to explain to my brain those really were hippos surfacing out of the Black Volta River not far from our less than substantial dugout canoe.

And yes, the bank closer to our other side was in Burkina Faso (not on our route due to political upheavals and, despite pleadings from Terry and myself, not available for a quick detour to chalk up another country).

All a few hours after my first encounter with elephants in the wild.

And the promise of getting up close to a sacred crocodile to come.

So Close - That'll be Burkina Faso just there. Just out of reach
So Close – That’ll be Burkina Faso just there. Just out of reach

Not a bad day all in all.

With Christmas and new year out of the way, it has been back to business as usual as we turned our back (for a few days) on the coast and headed inland for a further exploration of what Ghana has to offer.

Our main destination, after a couple of long drive days which saw us reacquaint ourselves with the art of bush camping and cooking through a language barrier, was Mole National Park.

In comparison with what lies ahead in the more tourist-friendly east, Mole is not the biggest of safari areas and offers only one of the big five* – elephant, buffalo, leopard, lion and rhino.

It is also in need of a little bit of care and attention, particularly the campsite and its rather fraying facilities which ranked it as little more than a well-situated bush camp, albeit with the odd baboon running attempting to make off with our cutlery (and curtailing foot traffic to the loo throughout the night).

But it did have a pool, a bar, food, televised football (West Brom v Gateshead with the poor Ghanaians, and most of Africa, having to withstand tortuous studio analysis from Andy Townsend), other people to chat to/up (delete as applicable) and enough wildlife to whet our appetites for what lies ahead in the months to come on, for many of us, a first taste of safari.

Which brings with it a pre-dawn breakfast and the first taste of clambering onto the roof of a jeep for the best viewing position.

We’d already chalked up baboons, warthogs and more than one type of antelope before we headed back to base, changed drivers and headed off to see the same baboons, warthogs, varieties of antelope and even locals as we covered the same  ground again.

Safety First – Not sure if that’s what you call a nervous smile

There was, as Joanne succinctly put it, the threat of the whole day “sucking ass”.

Her one proviso for a much better outcome as the clock ticked on through our two-hour drive was spotting elephants.

Then it happened and the day started to “kick ass”.

After veering off the main track, our guide ushered us down from the roof (about as elegant as some of the wildlife in some of our cases) and quietly urged us to follow him down a track.

And there, as we moved into a clearing on the edge of a watering hole, were the elephants. Four young males making the most of the lake to swim, drink and cool off before emerging back onto dry land, covering themselves in dust and doing what a gang of young lads do to keep a watching, growing gang of enraptured onlookers happy and their camera lenses full.

It seems a bit trite and cliched to say it was a magical moment, but pretty much any encounter with wildlife in their natural habitat is just that. And there’s something that bit special about elephants.

Just to round off our morning, our debate with the guide about whether we paid extra to extend our two hours in order to search for larger adults on foot was rendered pointless by the emergence of one such female from the trees directly in front of us.

Waving Goodbye – It was supposed to be a shot of the motorbike in the canoe, it became one of Jiro waving. One of my favourite pics

Certainly enough to send us home happy and sustain us as we headed further north – not to our original destination of Wa, but after a quick (and pretty much unanimous) vote, to the Wechiau Hippo Sanctuary on the border with Burkina Faso.

The journey there was interesting enough as we collected first the guy from the sanctuary office, some half an hour or more drive on some less than pristine roads from the river, and then the boatmen who would take us out onto the river in search of the hippos.

The boats we found waiting for us (across and, in one case, submerged in the river) were pretty basic dugouts and we tentatively stepped aboard and attempted to balance them well enough that they stayed above the surface (all while the locals were loading piles of stuff, a motorbike and themselves into one of the craft for the crossing over the border).

A delicate balancing act finally left Terry and myself (let’s just say, the two biggest guys on the trip) waiting for the final dugout to return, although we had the advantage of having a vessel all to ourselves as the sun started to dip behind the trees.

Thankfully, the hippos were stationed pretty close to our boarding point, so there was not too much time to fret about the stability of the boat (not helped by the sound of baling out behind me) before our attention was drawn to the sound of the hippos surfacing and snorting away to our right.

Three Men In A Boat – One was paddling, one was baling, one was sitting as still as possible

Admittedly, as one less positive view of our visit had predicted, you did not see much of the hippos. But having never seen any before in the wild, having four heads emerging in the water that close is a pretty special moment.

Another head emerged from the water the following morning as we broke our journey back south with a quick visit to the sacred crocodiles of Paga.

Having got somebody to retrieve the guide from his bed (caught out by our early arrival), we were given the tale of just why the crocodiles are sacred to the village (and not merely dyslexic and scared) after one of them saved one of the founders and they had protected each other ever since.

The current resident certainly knows when he is onto a good thing, emerging from the far depths of the main lake when called. Or at least when he knows it is going to be fed the chick which was used to keep it on the shore for long enough all to get our pictures.

Bidding farewell to the sacred crocodile, we headed for central Ghana’s main town of Kumasi and sacred ground on the lawn of the Ashanti Presbyterian Guesthouse.

Much of a sweltering afternoon was taken up with an in-depth truck clean – which saw much of Nala’s contents strewn across the church grounds – before we set about cleaning ourselves (cleanliness is, after all, next to godliness) and making full use of the wi-fi the Lord giveth before he took it away again.

Hippo – Just there. In the middle. Honest.

Plans for a group of us to head out and find a decent restaurant were scuppered largely by the fact that there aren’t any, but Steve and myself settled into a bar he remembered from a previous visit and set about consuming its wares and those of a nearby street food vendor (although not sure he quite understood our request to go easy on the spices).

We were joined by more of the raiding party, more of those who had eaten back at the truck, a group of German volunteers and Samuel, a Swiss tourist we had first stumbled across at Mole for one of those long evenings of swapping tales and making friends which travel is so good at throwing up.

What better way to remind yourself exactly what you are experiencing.

* There are supposedly two of the big five in Mole (that’s pronounced Mol-ay by the way), but as they average one lion sighting every five years, we were not exactly getting our hopes up.


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