Nzulez-who?

Our latest travels took us Westward to a coastal town called Beyin. The resort we stayed in is home to one of the largest and most peaceful beaches I’ve seen, for both humans and nesting turtles (we didn’t manage to see any, sadly.) Instead we got an awesome thunderstorm, the cabin flashing with light and shaking as if God himself was walking across the sky.

On Saturday morning we headed to one of Ghana’s principal tourist attractions – the stilt village of Nzulezo (try saying that with a mouthful of noodles!)

A village home to 450 people, Nzulezo sits slap bang in the middle of Lake Tadane, accessible only by canoe. Its residents are in fact farmers, and no-one knows exactly why they decided to build their village on water instead of land. Perhaps they just got confused

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Visits are frequent from domestic tourists and foreigners alike, who come from far and wide to visit this strange place. In many ways it is like any Ghanaian village – it has electricity, food stores, churches, and friendly people (surprising given the amount of tourists they have to suffer). The only difference is no football. And they watch their small children a hell of a lot more closely!

The canoe trip itself was spectacular - 5km through tunnels of reeds and dragonflies, opening out onto an enormous lake and parking up “underneath” the village. In a way it epitomises travel in Ghana: uncomfortable, yet so much to see that you seldom care.

The main mode of transport here is the tro-tro; a small minibus carrying as much as physically possible. They travel to almost all destinations, stopping wherever you like, and picking up bystanders from the road side on any road. Absurdly cheap and constantly cramped, a 40 minute journey into town costs just 1.20 (40p), but you may have to share your seat with an intimidatingly large woman. Our 7-hour round trip to Beyin cost us 18c in total (£6), including bone-shattering jolts from the cratered road surface, and a hilarious old lady who couldn’t stop making funny faces.

Tro-tros have their own code of conduct with regards to getting on and paying. Alongside the driver in each vehicle is the “mate”, who leans out of the window and shouts “Takoradi, Takoradi” or “Accra! Accra!” as loud as he can to entice customers. Once you have successfully flagged down a tro-tro (after shouting your destination and improvising some hand signals), you then have to negotiate the tricky task of paying for your journey... Watch out for the mate’s eye contact. Does he want my money now? Everyone is looking at me. How much does it cost? Rummage through wallet. Does he have change? This exchange will usually take place via the medium of hand signals.

The standard of English among many locals is really poor, and most will speak their tribal languages to each other – so when travelling around here, its better to use as few words as possible. Wherever you travel there are people queuing up to sell you oranges, plantain, raw eggs, fish heads…you name it, it’s there.

I’m gradually getting used to the food here, despite the protests of my taste buds. Most of our meals at the school consist of rice and fish in a sauce which ranges from hot and tasty to leaving your lips stinging until bed time. It’s all delicious, despite occasionally leaving you with your mouth at the sink. Plantain and yam are a treat here. After initially grabbing burger and chips at every opportunity I can now survive on a store of biscuits in my room and eat everything I’m given. The oranges and bananas are incredible. The pineapples are so soft and sweet I don’t think I can have one in Britain again! The bread comes in a range; tea bread, sweet bread, or butter bread - all fantastically dense and great for breakfast.

I’m feel embarrassed when I run them through the list of meals I can cook… Welsh cakes are the only thing I can think of making which is genuinely British and easily attempted. I’m going to try and introduce Ghanaians to them this week.

Bon appetite

Black and white

Picture the scene: 

You are taking a tour around a 500-year old castle. You learn this is where British thugs stored African slaves in the worst conditions imaginable, before packing them into ships set for various ‘developed’ countries around the world. The local guide tells you the floor is in fact an original feature from those disgraceful days, and the surface you are stepping on is not tarred, but caked in layer upon layer of the human sweat and excrement of the thousands of slaves who lived their horrific days there.

Oh, I forgot to say – you are only white person in the building.  ‘Uncomfortable’ does not even begin to describe it.

In Africa it is unavoidable to feel strange because of skin colour. But it has never caused problems; only curiosity. In Cape Coast, however, it felt different. Perhaps it was the sight of numerous white tourists and the local children begging for money.. Or the undercurrent of resentment I felt when talking to some locals about Britain’s colonial history... Or perhaps simply the sight of the castle and the knowledge that our ancestors enslaved whole generations of this land, and now we are back with more money than most Ghanaians could ever dream of.

For whatever reason, a times I felt uneasy there. This was not a regular thing, don’t get me wrong, but it was notable because it was the first time I have felt it here. Everyone is very welcoming to visitors here (it’s in their constitution, apparently), and despite their independence in 1957 they are interested in all things European, especially football. But I’ll tell you about football here another time.

Inside the castle - cannonballs from the 1800s

The castle was built in 1653, and is one of dozens of old forts along the Ghanaian coast, all monuments to the European domination of Africa over the course of 400 years. The Dutch, Portugese, and finally the British all laid claim to the castle, and used it to protect their colonial interests at the expense of the locals. Inside there are there are many of the old features of the castle intact, along with a museum exhibiting lots of local history. Pretty interesting stuff!

This past weekend we visited Kakum national park, taking in the sights from a 40m canopy walk and seeing many different animals and awesome trees. We saw a Dutch monkey sanctuary and crocodile park – in separate places, thankfully – as preparation for a trip to Mole national park in the North over the Christmas holidays.

Canopy walk - don't look down!

The two times we have stayed in Cape Coast we have been treated to some amazing Rastafarian hospitality. They get to see a lot of tourists, but they have been so welcoming to us – making us punch, pancakes, smoothies, giving car rides and generally being pretty cool guys! They run their own school and I’ve loved getting to know them and their way of life, and their crazy-long hair.

Talking to Ghanaians is one of my favourite parts about being here, in spite of the frequent communication problems (English is often not their first language). Last week I stayed with a friend named Ben in the coastal town of Elmina, and it was lovely to eat and watch terrible TV with his wife and kids.

I’m almost half-way through my time here already. It’s getting hotter but I’m enjoying it the longer I stay.

Huw

Cape Coast at sunset

What's my age again?

Two weeks ago I turned 23. A whole year older than Darwin when he set off on HMS Beagle, two years older than Messi when he won his first Balon D’Or, and three years older than Bill Gates when he founded Microsoft.

To face facts, I am edging ever closer to 25 and I don’t like it.

BUT it is not all doom and gloom. In fact, I may only be 18 after all! Perhaps my whole life is still ahead of me after all. Let me explain.

There is a strange phenomenon here known as “football age”. Given the rarity of birth certificates in Ghana and much of Africa, age can end up being irrelevant; post-childhood birthdays may be forgotten, pupils can enter school at any age, and if you are over 30 your age tends to be a secret anyway!

So when a promising young footballer (such as Atsu, recently signed for Chelsea), moves to a European club, no-one notices if they roll back the years and rack up their market value in the process. 19 year-olds become 15, and 15 year olds suddenly become pre-pubescent children. It is an accepted fact. I have met two people who swear blindly than Michael Essien is at least 35, which explains his recent decline – along with Obefemi Martins and Kanu before him.

Birthday meal - plantain and red red (beans)

Despite the apparent confusion, age is extremely important to life here. Elders are given total respect, and the youngest in a family will usually be the one doing the most work. Form 3 students are superior to form 2 students based purely on their year of school entry.

People use “senior” to describe a good or accomplished footballer, and “small boy” for someone unfortunate to make a sloppy error. Experience is valued more than skill.

Time moves differently in Ghana anyway. Einstein could have saved himself a lot of time figuring out Relativity and travelled to Africa instead! In a school day lessons rarely start on time, and lunch can last anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour. Instead of looking up a bus timetable you flag down a “trotro” (minibus) whenever you get lucky and have a sympathetic driver.

Ato, our guide in Accra, warned me that when an African says “soon” he could mean any conceivable amount of time…  an even vaguer version of the Welsh “now, in a minute!”

The only time I have ever seen a Ghanaian rush was a teacher running to catch the start of an Arsenal match.

On Friday the school held a football match: Day students vs. Boarders. The build-up was intense. I played in central midfield – not a sensible idea with the match starting at around midday, so I was limited to sitting back and passing the ball as well as I could over the rough pitch. The match ended 3-3 with the Boarders winning via a penalty shoot-out, by which time I had long since collapsed in a heap on the sidelines. 

Boarders team

My passing, hair and lack of tackling (without wanting to confirm a racial stereotype, these guys are incredibly strong) have led to the nickname I’ve wanted all my life: Paul Scholes. Senior player.