Listening to my flight announcement at Heathrow airport, I had a first linguistic surprise in discovering that
My stay in the capital was limited to the strictest necessary, but at least I did meet the team of those volunteers who run an interesting project in underprivileged areas of the sprawling city. They are mainly concerned with marginalised kids and focus on open air activities to boost their confidence and help them lead a healthy lifestyle.
Today I walked to Akosombo and visited the documentation centre where interesting photos are displayed concerning the building of the dam in the 1960’s. The project was doubtless cyclopean, so much so that the resulting lake is the biggest artificial reservoir in the world, but you could never imagine its proportions just by looking at the dam. Still, this massive Italian-built barrage gave rise to a lake that extends for more than
I boarded a trotro out of Ho to move toward the Togolese border crossing a charming hilly landscape with remnants of beautiful tropical forest. From Fume junction, extensive work was under way to upgrade the road. The Mountain Paradise Lodge, where I had envisaged staying, was too near the dust and the noise from the building site, so I went further to Amezofe, which sits higher on the hill, comfortably away from any annoyance. The only reminder of the roadwork was the bright cut in the hillside below where the white chalky rock showed amid the dark green vegetation.
When I hurried away from
I quickly walked away from the bus station in search of a hotel, but the place I was looking for was not advertised in any way. However, the signboard of a food joint by the same name pointed to a building a bit off the street. Some passers-by confirmed that was my place, and in fact the hotel name on the building could be made out under a coat of whitewash. If they were trying to keep a low profile their efforts were successful.
Leaving Amedzofe in the morning I walked down to Vane and from there I found a motorbike to Fume junction. The driver was a French-speaking Togolese who had no English, basically because this part of
As I waited for a trotro to come along, a young peddler leaned his bicycle hung with countless pairs of plastic sandals on both sides, complained about his harsh life and wished he could reach
From Hohoe I moved on to Wli, right next to the Togolese border. It is a tranquil village, formed by two communities run by different chiefs. In what was left of the day I enjoyed African village life heedless of tourist attractions. The pace of life and the relationship with the locals gave me a great feeling of empathy. Some women were drawing water at the pump, and the children were playing football on the school playground. A match was then played between teachers and pupils, but the age difference between the two groups was hardly noticeable. The sun went down, the sky tinged in orange and seemed to reflect the colour of the earth. I spent the evening chatting in the street where no cars pass, but loud music comes blaring from the baffles and drags everything and everyone to follow its rhythm.