Well-Earned Beers: The Road to Wli

Finding a bus in Ghana is no easy feat. Nevertheless, there were rumours of a magical waterfall somewhere in the Volta Region that needed discovering. The tallest in West Africa, this was a sight I had to see for myself.

The journey began by heading into a vast, dusty car park in Ghana’s capital, Accra. As usual, this one was packed to the brim with tiny little buses, known as tro tros. There are no signs, nor any indication of which vehicle goes where. The locals, though, have an intuitive sense of the system and know exactly where to go.

“Excuse me, can you help me find a bus to Wli Falls?” I asked the kindest-looking passer-by.

“Wli? No. No buses. You must get the bus to Hohoe, then travel from there. Come.” The middle-aged man in a torn-up stripey polo shirt grabbed my hand and whisked me through the crowds. We weaved in and out of locals, some with large boxes on their heads, others with herds of goats.

We arrived at a battered, black van and I was taken to the ‘mate’. The mate is the man (I’ve never met a female mate) who collects your money and tells the driver where the passengers need dropping off. He confirmed that this was the bus to Hohoe and I slotted myself between two Ghanaian passengers.

Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Timeliness is not a well-respected concept in Ghana, but it even seemed the locals were getting antsy. In Accra, residents rarely speak English. Conversing in ​​Twi, muttering and murmuring turned into shouting. I sat silent, quietly worried about how late it was getting.

We were all asked to alight and get onto another larger tro tro. This isn’t so bad, I thought, bit more legroom. Still, we waited yet another hour. The drive to Hohoe is five hours in a car (on a good day). By tro tro, we were looking at seven or eight.

The shouting intensified.

“Are you okay?” the kind-faced lady beside me asked, “This is not your fault, you know?”

“Didn’t think it was.” I shrugged.

The bus departed the station, straight into a queue of traffic. But we were on our way.

*

Most of the journey was pretty pleasant. We left the bustle of Accra and headed deeper into the West African rainforest, moving toward the Togo border. Stunning red dirt tracks paved the way. I gazed out the window to see a small troop of baboons, waiting patiently to cross. What an awesome country.

Meanwhile, though, the shouting continued. There was relentless yelling between the mate and some of the passengers. Ghanaian banknotes were being waved back and forth. I wasn’t really interested in what was going on and didn’t think politely asking would add any clarification. It seemed, though, that some people wanted their money back. Having paid what felt like a tiny amount, I wasn’t so bothered.

We soldiered on, getting closer to the town that was near the village where I had my hotel booked. Then, out of nowhere, we stopped. We were in a tiny little community. It looked lovely, but I really wanted to get to the hotel bar.

Within moments, the bus was swarmed with villagers. They carried a feast and were determined to feed it to us. Some with bags of water, others with chicken feet or crates filled with beans and fried plantain - a hearty beloved dish known as red red. Every passenger, bar me, waved their cash out the window and grabbed something to eat.

One woman repeatedly yelled “Tom Brown”, which was a little unsettling since that’s my name. Then I remembered that Tom Brown is a popular porridge-like substance in Ghana.

I’d brought my own snacks, unaware that such a stop was on the agenda. In a bid to help the local villagers (and if I’m honest, to fit in) I bought a couple of bags of water. Gotta stay hydrated in these hot and harsh conditions.

Eventually, the bus engine whirred back into action. We travelled a few more hours before being pulled over at some kind of checkpoint. We all got off the bus and I was taken aside by a small but solemn woman in military clothing.

“Passport.”

“I-I don’t have it. It’s at the embassy, getting my visa renewed.” This was true.

The woman informed me that I must have my passport on me at all times. In which case, how does anyone get their visa extended? She let me off without a fine (bribe) and told me to go back to the bus.

The bus! Where the hell is the bus?!

It had disappeared while I was caught up at the checkpoint. Uh-oh. Thankfully, it had just popped across the makeshift border and was waiting for me. Phew.

*

We ploughed on and eventually got to Hohoe. It was about 10 pm and pretty damn dark. I looked around for a bus that might be going to Wli, but ours was the only one there. I crossed the road to look for a taxi, but the place was pretty much deserted.

Two teenagers walked past.

“Um, hi, excuse me,” I stuttered. Their eyes widened like they thought I was about to mug them. “I’m so sorry, I’m trying to get to Wli. Is there a bus or something?”

“A bus? No, no bus. No taxi at this time either.”

Ghana has Uber, but out here, in a pretty remote part of the country, there was no luck on there. After a while, a few locals gathered around, offering to help.

A man arrived on a motorbike. Was he an official taxi driver? I’ve no idea. There was nothing to suggest he was, but then again, there never is. He offered to take me to Wli at a reasonable price. At this point, though, the road to Wli was pitch black and full of potholes.

Even if this man wasn’t going to kidnap me (and for the record, I believe he was genuinely just trying to help and maybe earn a few bucks), it still felt dangerous. I was already anxious, hungry, dehydrated, and stressed. I didn’t need 45 minutes helmetless on the back of a death trap. Nah, I’ll wait for a car.

Eventually, a taxi did drive past. I waved it down and told him where I needed to go. He explained it was very late (well spotted) and it was a long, dangerous drive (uh oh). I jumped in, fully ready to get hilariously overcharged.

The man was nice enough, but I was too exhausted to engage in small talk. We eventually got to the village that is often referred to as Wli, but is actually too small to officially be named anything. Despite this, the driver still managed to get lost.

He drove straight past my accommodation and dropped me off at a different hotel, a good 15-minute walk away.

“No, this is wrong,” I sighed, “but don’t worry, I have Google Maps. I’ll walk.” I was sick of vehicles anyway. I paid him more than triple what the journey was worth (which he still complained about), left the car, and started walking.

“No, sir, come back! I will drive you, please.”

“No thanks.”

“Please, I will take you there for free, I promise.”

“I’m good. Have a safe journey home.”

So I plodded through the empty dirt roads of Wli towards my lodgings. Something about being on foot is calming. I’m in control here. It was gone midnight, but the heat was still pulsating through me. I was drenched in sweat, hopelessly thirsty, and aching all over. The drive was long enough, let alone the constant confusion and now walking alone in the dark to find my hotel.

I found it and was relieved to see the owner still awake, waiting for me. Without a hint of anger or annoyance, he welcomed me to his lovely little guest house. (Not an ad, but check it out here). He took me to my room and I threw my stuff down.

Then, I went back outside.

“Hey, man. Is it possible to get a beer?”

“Sure! Club?” The cheapest, but most Ghana-defining beer there is. That’ll do just fine.

I took the beer to the little terrace above the restaurant. Completely alone, I reclined into a wicker sun lounger and took the first sip while gazing at the forested mountains that divide Ghana from Togo.

Ah, now that’s a well-earned beer.