Bentsifi’s Tattle…Guy About Town
Bentsifi’s Tattle…Guy About Town
Old Guy
The outdoor-living scene is getting more and more delicious lately, and I am here for it.
I recently missed out on The Awakening — Brothers at Camp, an outdoor gathering at River Camp at Mangoase, where a group of young men came together to talk about spirituality, business, family, relationships, fitness, personal growth and the other matters that become increasingly complicated when you are young enough to believe you have all the answers.
Apparently, it was quite profound. There were deep conversations, vulnerability, brotherhood, workouts, challenges and memories made. Looking at the photographs afterwards, I experienced the particular agony reserved for older men who realise they have missed something good because they were somewhere else doing something that, in retrospect, was probably less interesting.
The bond-fire circle during ‘The Awakening — Brothers at Camp’ that unfolded at the River Camp at Mangoase
Still, I had my own awakening. Having recovered from a brief ailment that had kept me out of circulation, I gathered my visiting “Cape Coast nephew”, Nana Gyasi, his American wife Kayla, his Accra-based dad and siblings, and, naturally, Jorgy – their magnificent white poodle – for a little Lake Volta–Okere Valley expedition.
Jorgy is also known as Mr. Anane. I have no idea why. Nobody has satisfactorily explained it to me, and I have learned that there are some family mysteries best left alone.
We decided to turn two days in the Eastern Region into a family camping adventure: with an overnight stay at our ‘WangoWango Teepee’ village at Farmstead in Mampong. It sounded perfectly manageable when we planned it. This is how these things always begin.
The drive out of Accra was mercifully painless. We left after rush hour and escaped before the city had fully warmed up for the day’s nonsense. Somewhere around Shai Hills, however, we encountered the first characters in our story: the baboons, who have become somewhat roadside celebrities, which is unfortunate because fame has not improved their manners. People stop to photograph them. Some even feed them.
The baboons have consequently learned that humans are mobile supermarkets with poor security. They hang around the road as vehicles whizz past and occasionally an animal gets hit. There is a lesson here, although apparently it needs repeating: please don’t feed wild animals.
Also, if you are photographing a baboon, don’t become so invested in getting the perfect Instagram shot that you fail to notice the baboon has become invested in getting you.
Watch the eyebrows. When the eyebrows rise, the eyelids become more visible, the ears pull back and those eyes fix directly on you- that is not the animal complimenting your camera. If there is foot-stomping, you have reached the end of the negotiation. Move, calmly, swiftly.
Fortunately, the road soon gave way to water. At the Akosombo Continental Hotel, we boarded a boat and Lake Volta performed its usual magic. The noise disappeared, the horizon opened, then, you find you are no longer travelling through Ghana, but travelling across it.
Jorgy understood this immediately, and took up position at the side of the boat, nose in the breeze, looking out over the lake with the solemn concentration of a seasoned explorer. Every few minutes, he turned around to see whether anyone was watching him. Kayla was. This pleased him enormously. Then he’d turn around with the grave expression of a dog who had been waiting all his life for somebody to recognise his adventurous spirit.
Captain Jorgy, making sure the boat navigates well
There are many things that improve with age. My appreciation for processed cow skin is one of them. I remember happily chewing away at my “wele” as we passed beneath the Adomi Bridge at Atimpoku, reflecting on how civilised an expedition into the wild could be when someone else is driving and a boat is doing most of the work.
Eventually we left the lake and headed through Adukrom into the Okere Valley towards Asemena Waterfalls. The walk from the entrance to the falls is mercifully short. I use the word “mercifully” deliberately.
In recent times, whenever somebody says, “It’s just a short walk,” I want to see the route, the elevation profile, the distance, the condition of the path and, preferably, references from three previous travellers.
Knowing this one quite well, I walked it like a zombi and soon enough, we reached the waterfall. For a moment, everybody became quiet.
That is what waterfalls do. They have been falling for thousands of years, entirely indifferent to human schedules, Instagram algorithms, and whether you remembered to bring a towel. You stand there, in awe of it, and realise that nature doesn’t actually need us to improve it.
Then I brought out the water guns. That thought lasted about thirty seconds. I call the game Aqua Splash, one of my little WangoWango devices for getting people to interact with water bodies instead of merely standing beside them taking photographs. It worked. As always, too well.
Within minutes, respectable adults had abandoned all pretence of maturity. Jojo transformed into Rambo. Akosua fired first. Kayla, recognising the trajectory of events, wisely surrendered.
Now, there was no diplomacy. No hierarchy. No seniority. And certainly no marital immunity. The waterfall became a battlefield. Jorgy stayed out of it. Even he had the good sense to recognise that some family activities are best observed from a safe distance.
Go outside! Into Ghana’s living landscape and experience great things. A moment at the waterfalls, hostcrafted by WangoWango
By four o’clock we had to leave for Mampong. We needed daylight to establish camp. Then came the most dangerous part of the expedition. The air conditioning. Nana wanted it colder. Somebody else wanted it warmer. Instructions went to the driver. Counter-instructions returned. The temperature in the van fluctuated according to the prevailing political climate.
I said nothing. This is another advantage of being the Old Guy. You learn that not every disagreement requires your intervention. Sometimes you simply sit back and watch younger people negotiate matters that will be completely irrelevant in twenty minutes.
Eventually, Farmstead appeared in the mountains. Slowly at first, then in all its expansive glory. The lawns were green, vast, and working farm sat quietly beside the forest, with the views opened towards the valley. The light had began to soften.
We put up the WangoWango teepees one by one until the lawn became a little temporary settlement.
Jorgy immediately claimed his territory. He rolled. And rolled. And rolled, disappearing into the grass and emerging looking like a dog who had just been released after serving a long sentence.
I, meanwhile, selected my tent strategically. It had to be close to the washroom. When I was younger, the ideal camping spot was the one with the best view. Now? The best view is nice. The nearest toilet is better. This is not ageing badly. This is infrastructure planning.
Morning arrived wrapped in mist. A lot of it. I emerged from my tent expecting consequences. The previous day had included what I had optimistically called “soft hiking” and a night on an airbed. I have since concluded that “soft hiking” is a lie invented by people who want other people to go hiking with them. There is hiking. Then there are the consequences.
Strangely, however, I wasn’t nearly as sore as expected. Instead, I lay there listening to the birds. They had started before dawn and were still at it. Farmstead had almost disappeared into the mist. The forest was barely visible. The valley towards Koforidua had become layers of grey. For a few moments, everything seemed outside ordinary time.
Ritchie was already up preparing the fire for coffee. He had actually listened to me for once. This deserves mention because Ritchie and I have had to revisit instructions with the persistence of a vinyl record stuck on repeat.
Breakfast presented another problem. My frozen fresh croissants pastry had over-proved overnight. Fortunately, Kayla is a professional caterer, which is exactly the sort of person you want around when your French pastries have decided to become chemistry experiments.
We improvised. The croissants went into plantain leaves and then into a clay pot we had bought along the way. Somewhere between the plantain leaves, the clay pot and the mountain air, they stopped being croissants. They became WangoWango croissants.
Jojo took a bite. “This thing slaps with the honey, ‘roff’!” There are Michelin-starred restaurants that would be delighted with that review. We added coffee and cocoa, boiled eggs, sautéed vegetables, chicken sausages and gravy with rice.
Mr. Anane, naturally, was present. His contribution was largely to look hungry. Kayla, being kind-hearted, obliged him. The rest of us ate until the camp descended into a collective food coma. And that, really, was the point.
The morning unfolded slowly. We laughed. Retold yesterday’s stories. Argued about absolutely nothing. Endured Old Pop’s latest Instagram musical obsession. Nobody was in a hurry.
There is something increasingly precious about that. When you are younger, you measure a trip by how much you managed to cram in. As you get older, you begin measuring it by how little you had to rush. Eventually we packed up and headed for Safari Valley Eco Park.
The others went off to explore while Ritchie, Ziks and I prepared our final WangoWango encounter. They returned with stories of zebras, antelopes, alpacas, elands and rheas, elevated walkways and forest paths.
We stopped at a random park in one of the communities along the way, as we often do on WangoWango, and before long, had the fire going.
The table was set. And lunch arrived with all the subtlety of a family that had spent two days eating outdoors. Slow-cooked pork this lunchtime. Abolo. Jollof rice. And sweet juicy Watermelon.
Nobody needed a motivational speech about wellbeing after that. We were well. Then, almost suddenly, the expedition was over.
Or nearly. Because on the way back I realised that Jorgy had probably had the best time of all. He had travelled by boat. Stood at the edge of Lake Volta with the wind in his face, behaving exactly as Mr. Anane, rolled around on a mountain lawn, being adored by Kayla, negotiated scraps, walked through forests, experienced mist; and accomplished absolutely nothing.
He just had the time of his life. Perhaps, the dog had figured something out that the rest of us are still learning. Ghana’s countryside doesn’t need to perform for you. It doesn’t need to entertain you. It doesn’t need to provide an endless succession of attractions so that you can announce that you have “done” the place.
It simply waits – quietly, generously – for you to slow down enough to notice what is already there. That is what I increasingly find fascinating about taking people outdoors.
You leave Accra thinking you are going on a trip. A familiar trip. Then somewhere along the way the road disappears, somebody starts a water fight, somebody has an argument about the air conditioning, a poodle rolls around in the grass as though he owns the mountain, and a baboon raises its eyebrows as you drive past.
And something changes. You slow down. You listen. You notice, laugh, eat, and remember that life is not actually supposed to be lived entirely between traffic lights, meetings, and WhatsApp messages.
Perhaps that is the real awakening. Not another seminar. Not another panel discussion. Not another motivational speech.
Just a bunch of people, somewhere in the Ghanaian countryside, around a fire, beside a lake, under a waterfall, eating good food and laughing at one another. And an old guy quietly discovering that he can still hike.
Somewhere between the lake and the mountains, the mist and the fire, the croissants and the jollof, the animals and the laughter, you realise you’re no longer simply travelling.
You’re in a story. A WangoWango story. You just have to hope the baboons aren’t writing the ending.
WangoWango is hostcrafted by BENTSIFI, turning ordinary treks into pulsating expeditions. DM 0244 697 046 to have yours.
