Hiking to Wli Falls

The trip to Wli Falls started at 5:30 on a Saturday morning. I headed out with my friends, Stacey, Yaw and Yao. Yaw, who was driving had wanted us to leave at the unholy hour of 4, to avoid traffic. I was glad to have the programme changed and get some extra time in bed before heading out to the highest waterfalls (about 80 metres long) in Ghana and West Africa. Wli Falls is in the Volta Region, near the town of Hohoe and the border with Togo. It was Yaw’s fourth visit, Stacey’s second and a first for Yao and me.

Heading onto the Accra-Tema Motorway I remarked that there was more traffic than one would expect for that time of day, especially on a weekend. “People are probably going out of town for funerals” was the response I got from Yaw. One of the stereotypes I knew of Ghana before heading there a year earlier was that funerals were big, bigger than weddings sometimes. So far, no one had tried to convince me otherwise. A colleague had even invited me to the out of town funeral of someone I didn’t know, just so I could witness what he expected to be a grand, traditional Ghanaian send-off.

We stopped for breakfast 130 kilometres away in the town of Atimpoku in the Eastern Region, with the Adomi Bridge as our backdrop. Our breakfast spot was buzzing, with street vendors trying to sell you everything from milo and bread to fried shrimp and kebabs. Before heading out again we took photos of the Adomi Bridge and the Volta River, which it traverses. The steel arch bridge was completed in 1957, the year Ghana gained independence.

Adomi Bridge

The road was rougher from then on but it was lovely to escape the hustle and bustle of Accra. The rolling green hills and tranquility of the countryside were a welcome change from the concrete jungle.  

Before we arrived we passed by 3 funeral processions. Maybe Yaw was right. If you didn’t know any better though, you would think they were parties and not funerals. People danced and sang but the colours people wore – red, white and black – helped give away the fact that these were indeed, funeral processions.

Five hours after we’d left Accra, and with a little guidance from some locals we arrived in Afegame, the small town that is home to Wli Falls. At the Wli Falls tourist office area we met our guide, Samuel, and gathered the supplies we were taking with us. I swapped my Converse trainers for a spare pair of shoes Stacey had brought me, because they had more grip. The plan was to hike to the falls and I didn’t know exactly what kind of terrain we would be tackling so I decided to err on the side of caution. Furthermore, expecting to get drenched by the falls, I was better of having dry pair waiting for me.

There are a few different trails or loops to follow when making your way to the falls. The falls has two levels and going straight to the lower falls is the easiest thing you can do. We planned to hike to the upper falls. I didn’t expect it to be easy but I had no idea just how much of an uphill climb it would be, literally. There are two main routes to the upper falls. The shorter one is steep all the way through and is the most difficult. The longer one, about 5 hours, is steep but has some flat sections so is not as intense. That’s what they told us anyway, but trust me; even the longer version is a big challenge.

Before we started off, our guide gave us makeshift trekking poles, basically tree branches. I thought we wouldn’t need them but we did. They helped us keep our balance and push ourselves upwards as we ascended a number of hills. Each one of us tripped and fell at some point though. It was inevitable. Sometimes where it was particularly steep you may have to crawl up or use steady and stable trees to hoist yourself up.

We passed a stream where local women were washing clothes. Then came the first climb and it wasn’t long before I realised this hike would be more demanding than I thought. I hadn’t climbed a hill since high school and that day, unfit as I was, I had to climb several. As we got higher and higher my exhaustion was mixed with awe at how beautiful the landscape was.

We were near the border with Togo and at the top of one hill our guide pointed out a small Togolese village in the distance. At this point we stopped to rest and take photos. Yao got some great photos for his online dating profile and social media pages. Stacey and I did some Wonder Woman-inspired poses, though I was not at all feeling as strong as an Amazonian warrior goddess.

Soon enough, we could see the upper and lower sections of the falls; they were so close, yet so far away. It was glorious sight – both the lower and upper falls in view - framed by the Akwapim Hills. As we continued on we met an American couple taking a breather. We stopped to chat with them for a few minutes. I was so tired I wished it were longer. Samuel pointed to the next hill and said it was the last one we’d have to climb before we got to the upper falls. He lied. I assume it was a tactic to motivate me but it only frustrated me more. When you get to the “last hill” and there are still a couple more, it can be draining. I asked Samuel if he ever gets tired doing this climb. He said he did but he didn’t look like he was. I marveled at the fact that he was doing this hike in flip-flops. I’d heard of people inexplicably attempting the hike in sandals. They regretted the choice but Samuel was doing fine in his flip-flops.

Somewhere on the last stretch before getting to the upper falls we were on a rather narrow path. You had to stay on it or the only way was down. We heard the falls before we saw it. The sound of the water crashing down kept me going. Finally we were there and seeing the waters of the Agumatsa River cascade down the hill, it all felt like it had been worth it. Relief washed over me, as did the water from the falls. The mist from the falls and strong winds that had come from nowhere cooled me down. I resisted at first but eventually got into the chilly waters of the pool formed by the upper falls. We took more photos though the mist made it just about impossible to get a clear shot.

The thing about climbing a range of hills to get to a waterfall is, you have to head back down. The relief I had felt made way for some nerves over the next part of the hike. Completely drenched, we made our way to the lower falls and just as we started off we met a large group of Israeli tourists. Somewhere along the way Samuel stopped to cut off a bunch of bananas. While I struggled with the trek he was grocery shopping from the forest.

In some particularly steep sections the best thing to do was sit down and drag yourself forward for a few seconds. I was not leaving that day without some mud on my clothes. After much struggle, Samuel announced we were about 30 minutes away from the lower falls. After the “last hill” pep talk earlier I wasn’t so quick to believe him. While we rested Yaw asked me some questions about myself. I was sure he was trying to get me talking to distract me from my discomfort. Even though I knew his ploy, it worked and I carried on, less focused on the pain I felt. We met the American couple; they were not happy and appeared to be struggling more than I was. They were rather frustrated because the hike was not as easy as they had been told.

Eventually the sounds of the falls filtered through. Relieved to be back on flat land, we walked a few minutes along with other visitors who had opted to only see the lower falls. Samuel said something to me about how I’d done well and the hike wasn’t so bad after all. I forced a smile and dragged my tired feet to the falls. As much as my whole body ached, I was glad to have done the hike to the both sections of the falls. Only seeing the lower falls would’ve meant a leisurely 40-minute walk but the tougher hike was worth it. The lower falls was impressive as the upper falls but I asked myself why anyone would only see the lower falls if they were able to hike to the upper falls. The hike was a physical and mental challenge, especially for someone who hadn’t exercised in a while, but I’m glad I took it on. I’d probably do it again and the great thing is, I’d know what to expect, unlike the first time.

After taking in the sights we made our way back to the reception area where we were parked. This was to take about another 30 minutes but luckily it was all on flat land. We would cross a number of streams and Samuel told we would be done after the ninth bridge. I counted diligently, badly wanting to finally have a long rest. I still appreciated the scenery though. The thick forest and clear streams were beautiful. We passed by many excited locals on the way; it turns out there was some kind of performance they were getting ready for. Further down we met some kids that wanted us to photograph them. “Photo me,” they kept saying.

Finally we were back where we started, six hours later. We said goodbye to our guide (probably see you later in Yaw’s case as he planned on returning soon) and drove across the road to a hotel where we had a late lunch. As we waited for our food I changed into a spare set of dry clothes and put on my dry shoes. As I changed I noticed my toenails were red and purple. A result of the battering they took during our descent towards the lower falls.

Lunch was one of my favourite local dishes, banku and okro (okra) soup with goat meat (and some of Yao’s tilapia). On the drive back we found that one of the funerals we’d passed by in the morning was still going on. We played car games (thanks Stacey) and talked about everything from religion to politics and our mediocre high school French. We had hoped to make it to the nearby Tafi Atome Monkey Sanctuary and Mount Afadja (also called Afadjato) but we had a five-hour drive back to Accra and it was getting late. Hopefully, the monkey sanctuary and Mount Afadja will be a story I get to share another time. 

 *This article originally appeared in the Nov/Dec 2017 edition of Mahogany magazine (Zambia).

Accra Women’s March, showing up for solidarity

When I showed up to the Accra Women’s March, the first thing I thought was, “Damn, so many white people.” To be honest, I kind of expected that. This was, after all, one of the sister marches set up to show solidarity with thousands of people marching in Washington DC and other parts of the US. Also, the main organiser in Accra is an American lady. Even my white friend who attended the march remarked, “It’s so white!” when she showed up.

I had some reservations about attending, mainly thanks to a few articles I’d read. These are article by African American feminists who argued that the march being organised in DC wasn’t inclusive, especially of women of colour. However, hearing that efforts had been made to make the march more inclusive and it had become way more than an anti-Trump march (not that I have any issues with an anti-Trump march), I hoped the same would be true of the Accra march.

I also had to ask myself: I will happyily march for the rights of people tens of thousands of miles away from me but would they march for me? Maybe not but I dediced to not let that stop me. Another thought I had: I haven't marched for Ghanaian issues or Zambian issues so why should I attend this America-centric event? In the end I chose empathy and solidarity. The main march may have been organised a world away but I support the cause and while geography matters, it would not be my only consideration.

The march was organised in record time. Held on Saturday 21 January, the main organiser decided to make something happen on Monday and somehow pulled it off. Our meeting point was just outside the US embassy. I showed up ready to march in my Chuck Taylors but it turns out, we didn’t actually march. We had a permit to gather but not march. Perhaps, a result of having little time to plan but all things considered, a lot was done in only five days. What we did do was talk about why we were there. My inarticulate self was chosen first. I said I was there out of empathy, for human rights including women’s rights and LGBTQIA rights and for people persecuted for their religion or lack of it. 

These are just some of the reasons people gave for showing up:

I just don’t get racism
- Teenage girl of mixed heritage

The US is better than this

- Referring to Trump being elected US president

Climate justice

For my children

To show Trump we’re here and we’re gonna be watching

No human should be termed illegal

For my children and grandchildren

Silence is agreement

To support my wife and daughter
- A Ghanaian man married to an American woman. His wife and daughter were marching in the US and since he couldn't be with them, marching in Accra was the next best thing.

We’re still the majority

The American president is influential and having Trump in office legitimises prejudice

We can stop Trump

Empowerment of women helps everyone

Standing Rock and native rights

Black Lives Matter

My son who wants to go back
- African American woman living in Ghana. Her son wants to return to the US but she fears for his life especially in light of recent cases of police brutality.

Maternal health

Reproductive rights

Ultimately, I’m glad I went. It was great to be among like minded people and be reminded that I'm not alone. While the setting was "so white" ultimately there was diversity. A diversity of reasons people showed up, a mix of nationalities and men who turned up to support women. Our group of over 100 people had representation from the US, Ghana, Canada, Ethiopia, Senegal and Zambia, among others.

                            

The Young Feminists Gathering: sisterhood in action

 A few days ago I experienced a rare and beautiful thing; a meeting of young feminists in a safe space. In this case, that space was the African Women's Development Fund (AWDF) office and this was the first ever Young Feminists Gathering they have hosted. It’s not often that I meet feminists in my hometown of Lusaka or in Accra where I’m currently staying.  More common are the misguided voices saying feminism is unAfrican or that feminists are just angry women who can't find a man.

After the ice breaking – which included introductions and spelling each other’s names with our butts (weird, but we actually did that!) - an AWDF staff member, Belinda, gave a talk about the organization including its history and the work it does. Next up was a talk about our “Feminist African Ancestors” given by Maame, another AWDF staff member. The feminist ancestors included late Zanzibari musician Bi Kidude and the ladies of the Igbo’s Women’s War, also known as the Aba Women’s Riot. I was familiar with Bi Kidude, a woman who challenged traditional gender roles in a conservative Muslim society and defied expectations. But I was totally unaware of the ladies of southern Nigeria, who in 1929 staged a revolt against colonial taxation. This served as a reminder that I need to learn more about women of colour, both past and present, and their fights against the system designed to oppress them.

Another AWDF staffer, Jessica, spoke about the definition of feminism or rather as she put it, “feminisms.” It was the first time I’d heard it referred to in the plural but it immediately made sense. While there are some basics many feminists agree on (a belief in equality of the sexes), there is no one feminism and I continue to discover new types. From atheist feminism to Islamic feminism and choice feminism to eco-feminism, diversity exists within the movement.  

Feeling woke

After a discussion on the meaning of feminism we moved on to discussing certain words and concepts, relevant to women's and more broadly speaking, social justice issues. Each of us picked a piece of paper with a word or concept that was to be discussed. Terms included meninist and ant-feminist triggers such as patriarchy, rape culture and mansplaining. Others were choice, sisterhood, self-care, misogyny, misandry, heterosexism, personal is political, gender non-conforming and a personal favourite, intersectionality. Boy was I feeling woke and up to date with the lingo, until we got to 'chosen family,' a term I’d never heard.  And might I add, it was great being with people who got it and didn’t find the language strange. 

 Source

What’s wrong with anger anyway?

Addressing the stereotype of the ‘angry feminist’ some ladies questioned what the problem with anger is anyway. Anger at injustices causes some to act and can help bring about positive change. Anger in and of itself shouldn’t be a problem. But some of the ladies in attendance could attest to how speaking out about social injustices and inequities we see and experience can often lead to dismissive tone policing (attacking the tone of a message rather than critiquing its content). 

He’s the man!

Grabbing takeout with a male friend (who just so happens to be a feminist ally) after the YFG, I noticed that our server turned his back to me and made a point of only showing the bill to my friend only. I had planned to pay a least part of the bill and I asked the server why he didn’t bother showing it to me. The response, as he looked at my friend and then back at me: “He’s the man!” Aside from thinking this man needed to be brush up on his customer service, I thought back to the end of the YFG, when we were asked to give one word describing how we felt. I gave two: grateful and validated. Sitting in that fast food place, I felt grateful and validated once more. Grateful to have spent the afternoon with ladies who understood the trouble with comments like the one the server made. Granted, the comment was not meant to be harmful, but my male friend and I found ourselves subject to gender stereotyping and it was less than an hour since I left the YFG and that is where the feeling of validation came in.

No borla: my first beach cleanup

When I first arrived in Ghana one of the things I was most excited for was the beach. I wasn’t quite sure the beaches would live up to some of the ones I’d seen in Zanizbar and Australia but I was psyched either way. I’m from landlocked Zambia, I’ll take any beach.

I visited Labadi Beach, Accra’s most popular, on my first day in the city. Back then I was happy to be at a beach for the first time in years but I was somewhat disappointed by the litter I saw. It wasn’t an overwhelming amount but enough to bother me. I found this to be true of other beaches in Accra. They were beautiful but the litter reduced their beauty. (Littering is one of my peeves. I will secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, judge you for littering but I don’t do much about it.) So it was with absolute pleasure that I participated in a beach cleanup along Afia Beach in Accra. The cleanup was organized by the interestingly named NGO, Hipsters of Nature. It took place on 17 September, which I learned was International Coastal Cleanup Day. I participated along with my friends from the Humanist Association of Ghana.

The hashtag for the day. Borla is Twi for rubbish

The work was confined to a small stretch of beach but yielded dozens of bags of trash and we couldn’t get it all (especially not the countless shards of plastic). Unsurprisingly, everyday items were part of the haul - plastic bottles, shoes, clothes, cigarette butts, bags, dolls, toothbrushes and old electronics. Chances are much of this stuff wasn’t discarded in that area. I wondered where my trash goes after it’s collected by Zoomlion. I have no idea, and that’s part of the problem. Usually it's 'out of sight, out of mind.'

Clearly I’m unfit - it wasn’t long before I was sore, tired and sweating. However it felt good to do something about one of my pet peeves. It also felt good to contribute in a small way (emphasis on “small”) to the city I’ve stayed in for the last few months. It also made me think about what ways I could contribute to my hometown once I return.

It was hard work but there was still time to laugh and goof around

The task at hand seemed overwhelming at times. The beach certainly looked cleaner but it would’ve been impossible for us to completely clear it of trash on our own. Afia Beach had more trash on it than I’d seen on previous visits - strong tides had brought in trash from the sea on to the shore and made the task more arduous. Also, a few metres away from where worked there was yet more trash that was left untouched. Ultimately though, I was glad to have participated and wish there more beach cleanups. Cleaning up a small stretch of beach on International Coastal Cleanup Day is a good start but considering the scale of the problem, way more needs to be done.

Trash aside, the beach really is beautiful

Chale Wote - the Spirit Robot and purple men

I tried to become one with this graffiti butterfly

August is festival time in Ghana, so I was told when I first arrived but didn’t think I’d still be here at that point. But luckily I am and I got to attend the Chale Wote Street Arts Festival, held annually in Jamestown, Accra. The festival’s been running since 2011 and this year’s theme was ‘Spirit Robot,’ but don’t ask me what that means. The festival was on from 15 to 21 August but I only made it for the final day to experience the paintings, graffiti murals, musical performances, acrobats, street boxers and fearless fashion, among other things.

Elmina: beautiful castle, ugly history

[This article was originally published in Nkwazi Magazine]

It’s just past 1pm and I’ve arrived in Elmina, a town on Ghana’s southern coast.

Locals direct subtle glances at my fellow travellers and me; they can tell we’re not from around here. We ask for directions to the castle, the main reason we’re in town.

Crossing the bridge to the castle

Elmina Castle, built by the Portuguese in 1482, is one of about 40 castles and forts along Ghana’s coastline. The former trading post and UNESCO World Heritage Site is among the oldest European buildings in sub-Saharan Africa. The Portuguese were drawn to the area because it was rich in gold, but eventually human beings became its primary export. People from present day Ghana and other parts of West Africa were held here anywhere from two weeks to three months before being shipped off to the Americas (the United States, Brazil and Jamaica included). The castle in Elmina, along with many others in West Africa, was a critical part of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade.

The view as we drove into town

As we got closer to the castle we’re approached by children asking for money and a few men trying to sell us locally produced jewellery. I gave in to one persistent vendor and agreed to have him make a bracelet displaying the name of a close friend back home. One gift sorted and after that I made a beeline for the castle.

It’s striking how beautiful the castle, the ocean and Brenya Lagoon are, especially when considering the area’s ugly history. Our tour guide, Alex, first takes us to the female dungeons. These rooms, originally made to store gold and other goods, are dark, musky and humid. Upwards of 150 people were crammed here with no consideration for sanitation, ventilation or a proper diet and they could be kept anywhere from 2 weeks to 3 months. I tried to imagine the stench, the fear and the despair. I know what happened in those rooms but it’s incomprehensible and I cannot understand how it continued for centuries. The castle held around 1,000 captives at a time, roughly 400 women and 600 men. As many as two thirds would die before a ship arrived to transport them to the Americas but there was often a steady supply of newly captured men and women.

Women held in Elmina had to deal with the added indignity of sexual abuse by the governors, officers and traders occupying the castle. The men were at liberty to pick any woman they wanted. She was then thoroughly washed before she was raped. Otherwise, captives held at Elmina were never given the opportunity to bathe the entire time they occupied the castle. Enclosed by the female dungeons is the inner courtyard where women who refused to be used as sex slaves were punished. They were chained to a canon ball, which still sits in the courtyard, and left to endure the elements for several days. This served as a punishment for the women and also as a deterrent for their fellow captives who had a view of what awaited them if they refused to be used by their captors.

Inner courtyard and female dungeons

Leaving the inner courtyard, we go past the male dungeons and on to “the door of no return” in the room the men and women spent their last moments before boarding ships headed for the Americas. That’s if they survived the dungeons. The door of no return is more like a little window, small enough to let one emaciated person through at a time. For safety reasons, metal bars have been placed over the door. The room is pitch-black and gloomy but looking through the door I see locals enjoying a game of football, women selling food and fishermen resting by their boats on a bright and sunny day. Life goes on, the castle is merely a backdrop.

The door of no return

And the view from outside

After the door of no return the group heads upstairs to the rooms occupied by officers, traders, governors and even clergymen. Not only did priests, pastors and missionaries live here along with slaves, two churches were built in the castle. This was a shock to some but not me; when it comes to slavery and colonialism, the Church was often on the wrong side of history. The first church, built by the Portuguese, occupies a central spot in the main courtyard and is now a museum. When the Dutch seized the castle from the Portuguese they built their own church upstairs and turned the original one into a slave auctioning room. After they bought it from the Dutch, the British built a new church outside the castle.

Main courtyard with the Portuguese church in the centre

View from inside the Portuguese church

The living quarters upstairs are, in stark contrast to the dungeons, spacious, well ventilated and built to let in a lot of light. It’s amazing to think that Europeans lived comfortably while below, Africans wallowed away in dehumanizing conditions. The roof of the castle offers gorgeous views of Elmina town, the sea and Fort St de Jago, another Portuguese building. The fort sits atop a hill and was built to protect the castle from attacks. At the top I felt conflicted. Once again, I was struck by the beauty of the castle and marveled at the fact that the building was still standing after 534 years but this felt wrong, as though acknowledging its beauty was disrespectful to those who suffered here.

Fort St de Jago

Later, back at ground level, we visited two cells that stand side by side, both with the purpose of punishing unruly occupants. One meant to contain drunken officers had a door built to allow a decent amount of light and air. Marked with a skull and cross bone, the other room, however, is where slaves were sent to die, usually after attempting to escape. Alex had us enter the punishment cell meant for officers. “I’m sorry the tour has to end like this,” he said and then walked away. We chuckled at this joke Alex has probably played on visitors countess times, a light-hearted moment during an emotional tour.

"I'm sorry the tour has to end like this"

Towards the end of our tour we discussed African complicity in the slave trade, something relatively few people know about. Chiefs would trade captives from enemy villages for anything from alcohol to gunpowder. Some Africans became slave raiders and captured fellow Africans, typically from rival tribes, for Europeans.

I know slave trade happened but it’s one thing to know about it and another to understand it. The Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade is not part of my history as a Zambian but I’m also half Nigerian and the realisation that some of my ancestors may have passed through Elmina en route to the Americas is sobering to say the least. One can only take comfort in the fact that slavery is over. But it’s not over. It still exists in countries like Mauritania and Sudan to name a few. Human trafficking is a form of slave trade and forced labour still exists around the world. And we still persecute those that look different from us and hold different beliefs.

I believe it’s important to move on but in doing so I do not want to forget the atrocities of slavery and I find it fitting that we ended the tour at a spot with a particular message inscribed in the wall:

In everlasting memory of the anguish of our ancestors.

May those who return find their roots.

May those who died rest in peace.

May humanity never again perpetuate such injustice against humanity.

We the living vow to uphold this.

Huffing and puffing through the castle with my camera in hand

The tour was over and outside more people were selling jewellery and trinkets, my friend’s bracelet was ready and someone was trying to get me to make a donation to the Elmina Community School Football Club. It was time to move on but I have internalised the message inscribed on that wall and am committed to honouring it.