Busua Beach lies in the Western Region, about half an hour past Takoradi if you’re coming from Accra or Cape Coast. I visited Busua with volunteer friends quite a few times over the years. It was our beach of choice for a while there.
Getting to Busua on public transport from Elmina was not too difficult. It was easy enough to stop a trotro from the main highway heading to Takoradi by simply standing on the side of the road and waving at all the Takoradi trotros whizzing by. Problem was I hated the front seat as it was akin to a death sentence should we have an accident. In retrospect, all seats are probably doomed if worse came to worse. Often, though, the front seats were the only ones left by the time we jumped in at Elmina.
The problem with trotros was that they belted along, overtaking on dangerous corners, and generally breaking all the rules most of the time. Worse if it was raining. But we did it anyway. We changed vehicles at Takoradi for a new one directly to Agona junction where we changed for a taxi to Busua.
The road to Busua from Agona was flanked by forest and palm trees. It reminded me of the mid-north coast of New South Wales - Coffs Harbour.
Frank the fruit salad man was one of my first impressions of Busua Beach. Middle aged and persistent as hell, he started hassling us to buy fresh fruit salad almost the moment we arrived at Alaska and intermittently throughout the day and the next morning. It’s hard to resist the lure of fresh fruit and coconut on the beach in Ghana. Frank did a decent trade.
The village was like most coastal villages in Ghana: multi-coloured, gelato-hued, single and double-storey concrete block buildings, shutters hanging, walls stained by dust and rusting in the salt air. A dusty road extended from a protected cove to the west, all the way east parallel to the beach. The beach was about 2 kms long and finished at a promontory upon which a couple of fancy looking round huts had been built.
Visitors and local children splashed in the wavers every hundred metres or so along the beach. It seemed to be one of the calmer beaches in Ghana—waves flatter than elsewhere.
Behind Alaska, where we lodged, sat African Rainbow, a fancy mult-storey lodge hosted by a lovely Canadian Ghanaian couple and their children, who oozed personality (whipping our butts at pool, for one thing). Busua Beach Resort was about half-way along – a sister to Elmina Beach Resort.
Alaska was a backpacker favourite: A hut with a bed, a fan and a net, 10 metres off the beach. The compound sat on a large thorny patch of grass dotted with about 10 round concrete huts with thatched roofs. Tiny windows let in fresh air and the sound of waves crashing. For ten bucks a night it was fine by me.
The first time I saw goats, sheep and chickens roaming along the beach I was quite amused. That happened at Busua.
On one occasion, when we wandered along the beach to a tiny shack staffed by a few rastas and a German girl, I discovered The Upsetters – dance hall reggae. I was hooked: raunchy, old fashioned funk mixed with reggae and what sounded something like the Charlston. I’d never heard this before. I made a ring with the little girls who’d followed us there and we danced around and around in the sand together.
All the kids from around the village of Busua converged on the beach, playing in the waves like seal pups and playing football in the sand like future black stars.
We spied an older couple strolling along the beach just as the sun was setting over the hill and ocean. They both had weathered faces and appeared to be perhaps Indian or African American—dreadlocks reaching their backsides tied in a scarf. They had a blanket wrapped around their shoulders and wore long flowing robes. It was such a picture of peace that we all just sat and stared. They came and sat on the table right behind us, facing the sea with the blanket still wrapped around their shoulders together.
Turned out they were our British-African neighbours from Elmina and we never knew.
We sat quietly having a drink and enjoying the waves crashing and goats and children running along the beach as the sun set.
Testimonials: Insider's Guide to Ghana
Here are some testimonials from readers of our Ghana travel guide: Insider's Guide to Ghana, in case you're wondering if it's any good or not.
Your guide has been a great help finding my way around the country so far. I love the little details that you write about, I recognise so much of it when I'm out and about! I have been recommending it to my friends here, and I have been hearing good things from them also. Really, I consider it a must-have if you really want to get to know Ghana in a fun and easy way!
Your guide has been a great help finding my way around the country so far. I love the little details that you write about, I recognise so much of it when I'm out and about! I have been recommending it to my friends here, and I have been hearing good things from them also. Really, I consider it a must-have if you really want to get to know Ghana in a fun and easy way!
Céline, the Netherlands Wed, Jun 2, 2010
Preparing for my first visit to Ghana, I found the Insider's Guide very useful and I kept it with me during my visit. It helped me to have a wonderful time and since I came back I have recommended it to several friends. i hope to be returning to Ghana in November and will certainly be taking it with me.
Peter Halliday from the UK. Sat, May 29, 2010
A fresh and original guidebook that entertains as well as informs. The conversational style makes you feel that you're sitting down with Godwin and Gayle as a welcome guest in their home while they pass on all the travel tips and information you could possibly need. Their passion for Ghana and their enthusiasm for opening its vibrant and colourful culture to other travellers is infectious and they share inside knowledge which only someone who lives in a country can provide. Best of all the personal touch extends to free updates and an invitation to contact them with any questions or suggestions you might have. I'm sure I'm going to get a lot more out of my trip to Ghana as a result of reading it.
Catherine, Spain. Sat, May 29, 2010
Not keen on the personal stuff, b ut the info on Ghana is up to date and Gayle is sooooooooooo awesome at answering any questions and so helpful above and beyond guide. Recommend Sat, May 29, 2010
I was thrilled to hear this guide was available and it has lived up to my expectations. It is current and relevant to my needs and interests. It covers everythign your average guide does, as well as including useful information such as the currency conversions and personal tips from the authors, recommending where to eat, visit, etc.Although the authors worked together, their ideas are listed separately and this helps me to see an idea from the Ghanaian point of view as well as from a visitor's.
It is the best guide book I have ever read and I will refer to it each and everytime I return to Ghana. Thank you Godwin and Gayle!
Sarah from England Fri, May 28, 2010
Hi Godwin and Gayle,
We had a very good time with your guide. It helped
a lot with timely information while I was in Ghana
with Ghanian friends in Feb. and Mar. 2010. They
also found it useful.
Thanks again,
Don Majors USA Fri, May 28, 201
Read a review at Go Backpacking--we didn't pay them, we promise!
You can buy it by clicking here for Paypal.
Read a review at Go Backpacking--we didn't pay them, we promise!
You can buy it by clicking here for Paypal.
Then and Now: A Morning in the Life
Sydney, Australia:
8 a.m. I dried my hair with a ten-speed salon dryer and rolled it into Velcro rollers for added oomph after taking a long, hot shower. All made up, shoulder bag clasped under my arm, I marched out of the house dressed in a suit and high heels, clacking along the footpath to the bus stop. Neither the old lady walking her poodle nor the young man huffing along in the latest aero-dynamic jogging ensemble said hello when we passed each other. Rounding the corner, I approached the dozen passengers standing strategically, like pieces on a chess board, willing the bus to stop in front of them. When the bus finally arrived four minutes late, we each jostled for position, squeezing out all others ever so politely—using briefcases for leverage. No one made eye contact and no one acknowledged each other; only ‘weirdos’ said hello to strangers on the bus.
Cape Coast, Ghana: 3.30 a.m.
Cock-a-doodle-doo crows the damned rooster, no doubt chuffed to be a rooster. I hold my watch up to the moonlight. It's not bloody daylight for another two hours, I think, kicking the mosquito net over my feet. In this pre-dawn darkness I hear the foot steps and the quiet murmurs of people trudging along the dirt track beside the house; the coolest time of the ‘day’, a good time to start work.
A chain of cock-a-doodle-doos suddenly echo around the neighbourhood like talking drums. In my half-sleep delirium I imagine the roosters crowing in my father’s voice: ‘Cockadoodle-twooooo more hours fellas, look at all those lazy buggers still sleeping,’ Damn roosters. I have visions of pinging them with the security man’s sling shot and fall asleep thinking the whole crowing at sunrise thing is a myth.
I awake again around six a.m. For a few minutes light creeps across the bedroom wall like an animal stalking its prey. And then, as if the chase is on, the sun shoots up and away, and light floods every surface.
We’re a ‘stone’s throw’ from the equator, as Ghanaians would say; one minute it’s dark, the next it’s light, every day, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year.
I sit up and notice that several new bites have appeared on my legs overnight even though I sleep under a net. Malarial bites are rumoured not to itch. These tiny red dots do not itch. I decide not to think about malaria now. Most Ghanaians have a fairly laissez faire attitude towards the whole thing. ‘Oh, it is just like catching a cold.’ Malaria shmalaria I think and get up and clip the mosquito net over my bed.
Geckoes scatter across the glass window slats when I pad into the kitchen. I cut off a couple of hunks of bread and toast them on a small fry-pan over an old gas stove with only two working burners.
Next, I take a ‘shower'. That is, I let a trickle of water drip over my body from a rusted shower head. There is no hot water. It is too hot for hot water anyway. So, first, I splash the trickle over my shoulders, chest and legs. Then I turn the tap off. I take a bar of soap and lather up all over, peering out the bathroom window at the dirt track where kids in uniform trudge by on their way to school.
If it’s one of the two days a week I wash my hair, I’ll use a bucket instead of the trickle (I’m tempted to grow dreadlocks). Then I turn the trickle on and do the shower hokey pokey – moving one body part after another under the drip, taking turns to wash the soap off. I have to remind myself not to swallow water from the tap – that’s just asking for trouble. I manage to use a tenth of a bucket of water during these washes, saving that which drips off me to throw over whichever vegetable Appiah is growing; now, it’s maize. My hair dries in ten minutes, curling into ringlets in the humidity. No more whiz-bang dryer or Velcro rollers for this obruni.
The sensation of squeaky clean skin, a luxury, lasts for the hour I potter about the house before stepping outside into the ninety-nine percent humidity.
“Good morning/how are you?/I’m fine/thank you,” chorus the women and men, legs spread apart in the dirt, breaking rocks with rocks to earn a pittance of a living, when I walk out the front gate at eight-thirty.
“Good morning,” I reply, once more in awe of their cheerfulness in the face of endless, sweaty labor and no prospect of an easier life anytime soon.
“Good morning,” greets the man walking past in suit and tie, swinging his briefcase, headed to an office in Elmina, probably.
“Good morning,” I reply.
“Fine,” smiles the lady carrying small pastries in a glass case on her head.
“Fine,” I reply, smiling. The baby wrapped on her back bounces in time to her footsteps, head lolling backwards. He’s fast asleep.
I stand at the junction in the morning glare and do “the hitchhiker,” pointing towards the Atlantic Ocean just over the rise. My aim is to get to the office by nine o’clock. I’m hopeful. You’ve got to be hopeful—there ain’t much else to latch onto when it comes to transport in Ghana.
A share taxi pulls over. I squeeze in the back seat next to two fat market ladies cradling baskets of smelly, silver fish on their laps.
“Good morning,” the three passengers and the driver greet me.
“Good morning,” I reply.
It’s fair to say that Ghanaians place great stock in greetings. A simple rule is to do so when you enter a room or a vehicle, and always return a greeting, wherever you are.
Different lives. Different mornings.
8 a.m. I dried my hair with a ten-speed salon dryer and rolled it into Velcro rollers for added oomph after taking a long, hot shower. All made up, shoulder bag clasped under my arm, I marched out of the house dressed in a suit and high heels, clacking along the footpath to the bus stop. Neither the old lady walking her poodle nor the young man huffing along in the latest aero-dynamic jogging ensemble said hello when we passed each other. Rounding the corner, I approached the dozen passengers standing strategically, like pieces on a chess board, willing the bus to stop in front of them. When the bus finally arrived four minutes late, we each jostled for position, squeezing out all others ever so politely—using briefcases for leverage. No one made eye contact and no one acknowledged each other; only ‘weirdos’ said hello to strangers on the bus.
Cape Coast, Ghana: 3.30 a.m.
Cock-a-doodle-doo crows the damned rooster, no doubt chuffed to be a rooster. I hold my watch up to the moonlight. It's not bloody daylight for another two hours, I think, kicking the mosquito net over my feet. In this pre-dawn darkness I hear the foot steps and the quiet murmurs of people trudging along the dirt track beside the house; the coolest time of the ‘day’, a good time to start work.
A chain of cock-a-doodle-doos suddenly echo around the neighbourhood like talking drums. In my half-sleep delirium I imagine the roosters crowing in my father’s voice: ‘Cockadoodle-twooooo more hours fellas, look at all those lazy buggers still sleeping,’ Damn roosters. I have visions of pinging them with the security man’s sling shot and fall asleep thinking the whole crowing at sunrise thing is a myth.
I awake again around six a.m. For a few minutes light creeps across the bedroom wall like an animal stalking its prey. And then, as if the chase is on, the sun shoots up and away, and light floods every surface.
We’re a ‘stone’s throw’ from the equator, as Ghanaians would say; one minute it’s dark, the next it’s light, every day, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year.
I sit up and notice that several new bites have appeared on my legs overnight even though I sleep under a net. Malarial bites are rumoured not to itch. These tiny red dots do not itch. I decide not to think about malaria now. Most Ghanaians have a fairly laissez faire attitude towards the whole thing. ‘Oh, it is just like catching a cold.’ Malaria shmalaria I think and get up and clip the mosquito net over my bed.
Geckoes scatter across the glass window slats when I pad into the kitchen. I cut off a couple of hunks of bread and toast them on a small fry-pan over an old gas stove with only two working burners.
Next, I take a ‘shower'. That is, I let a trickle of water drip over my body from a rusted shower head. There is no hot water. It is too hot for hot water anyway. So, first, I splash the trickle over my shoulders, chest and legs. Then I turn the tap off. I take a bar of soap and lather up all over, peering out the bathroom window at the dirt track where kids in uniform trudge by on their way to school.
If it’s one of the two days a week I wash my hair, I’ll use a bucket instead of the trickle (I’m tempted to grow dreadlocks). Then I turn the trickle on and do the shower hokey pokey – moving one body part after another under the drip, taking turns to wash the soap off. I have to remind myself not to swallow water from the tap – that’s just asking for trouble. I manage to use a tenth of a bucket of water during these washes, saving that which drips off me to throw over whichever vegetable Appiah is growing; now, it’s maize. My hair dries in ten minutes, curling into ringlets in the humidity. No more whiz-bang dryer or Velcro rollers for this obruni.
The sensation of squeaky clean skin, a luxury, lasts for the hour I potter about the house before stepping outside into the ninety-nine percent humidity.
“Good morning/how are you?/I’m fine/thank you,” chorus the women and men, legs spread apart in the dirt, breaking rocks with rocks to earn a pittance of a living, when I walk out the front gate at eight-thirty.
“Good morning,” I reply, once more in awe of their cheerfulness in the face of endless, sweaty labor and no prospect of an easier life anytime soon.
“Good morning,” greets the man walking past in suit and tie, swinging his briefcase, headed to an office in Elmina, probably.
“Good morning,” I reply.
“Fine,” smiles the lady carrying small pastries in a glass case on her head.
“Fine,” I reply, smiling. The baby wrapped on her back bounces in time to her footsteps, head lolling backwards. He’s fast asleep.
I stand at the junction in the morning glare and do “the hitchhiker,” pointing towards the Atlantic Ocean just over the rise. My aim is to get to the office by nine o’clock. I’m hopeful. You’ve got to be hopeful—there ain’t much else to latch onto when it comes to transport in Ghana.
A share taxi pulls over. I squeeze in the back seat next to two fat market ladies cradling baskets of smelly, silver fish on their laps.
“Good morning,” the three passengers and the driver greet me.
“Good morning,” I reply.
It’s fair to say that Ghanaians place great stock in greetings. A simple rule is to do so when you enter a room or a vehicle, and always return a greeting, wherever you are.
Different lives. Different mornings.
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