A musical memory journey to West Africa

By Tim Woods:

It’s that warm tropical air with its overpowering scent of damp earthiness. It’s the magnificent birds and their multicoloured costumes, all reds and blues and greens. It’s the sweet relief of that first beer on a sticky evening, sipped from a sweaty bottle with the label sliding off. It’s the music that never seems to stop, whether you’re in a bar, on the beach or on the streets. These things, and so many others, are what I miss about West Africa – now more than ever. 

If the worst that happens to me during this wretched pandemic is an exaggerated case of wanderlust, then I’ll have been exceptionally fortunate. At the same time, I don’t think I’m alone in selfishly shoving larger issues aside and simply longing to escape the flat, the city, the country; in dreaming of other places; in wishing to be elsewhere. 

Last spring, as we all found ourselves adjusting to the unpleasant new reality, my yearning for the region I once called home grew stronger than ever. And so I began to travel virtually to the places I know in West Africa. While it’s not possible to recreate that heat, or redecorate Berlin’s garden birds in snazzier outfits, there are ways to take yourself there. I dug out old photos and sifted through them. I re-read well-thumbed guidebooks, picking out the places where I’d stayed and eaten. And I listened to the music, one of the best ways there is to curb the worst symptoms of travel sickness. 

West Africa has a hugely diverse musical culture, but perhaps the best-known style in Europe is the gentle, harp-like sound of the kora. And there are few kora players better than Sona Jobarteh. Her mastery of the instrument is not just admirable, it is also ground-breaking: she is the first female professional player, breaking into a livelihood that for centuries was solely for men. Born in Britain, but with proud Gambian roots, she comes from a griot family, who pass artistic traditions down through the generations. To truly appreciate the skill involved, it’s worth watching one of her concerts and admiring the speed at which she moves across the kora’s twenty-one strings. 

On a baking day last summer, I sat in the garden, listening once again to her music, hoping to be taken somewhere exotic. This time, I went to Bamako – one advantage of virtual travelling is that it’s easy to skip from Gambia to Mali in the blink of an eye – and specifically the San Toro restaurant, an oasis of calm in the chaos of that relentless city. One evening there, during a work trip to Mali, I ate falafel and drank peppermint tea from a clay cup while enjoying the sound of the kora. To my untrained ear, no songs ever seemed to start or finish, but instead the music drifted wherever the resident artist felt like going. I was even honoured with an exclusive performance: as the only customer, he was playing just to me. It felt a little indulgent, but he didn’t seem at all put out. When I left two hours later, he simply carried on. I’m not even sure he noticed me going.

Music has an unrivalled ability to take us somewhere else, often being strongly associated with certain points in our lives. It’s not just West Africa; I cannot listen to the Seekers without recalling family holidays spent driving around a rain-sodden Lake District, while any Britpop song will instantly take me to the clubs of Sheffield and my student days. It’s a welcome bonus to loving music, providing instant happy reminders of another place or time. 

Only since our ability to travel has been so severely restricted have I begun to use it actively, though. Only now, being indefinitely grounded in Berlin, do I feel a need to play this trick on myself. And, for the first time, I am starting to wonder if travelling will ever be as straightforward as it once was. I fear it may have been irreversibly damaged, whether due to the still ongoing Covid-19, or whatever virus nature has in store for us next; or maybe due to the now unavoidable climate crisis placing further, necessary, limits to our wanderings. 

It could, more simply and personally, be because that carefree period of my life is now over. I last visited West Africa on a work trip to Senegal in 2018, and back then I never once thought it would be three years and counting before I was back. My time spent living in Ghana is now nearly a decade ago, and those determined plans to return are getting hazier with each passing year. Fortunately I can go back easily enough, with a little help from the music; I just hope that I won’t need to use that trick forever.

***

Tim is an editor on Elsewhere: A Journal of Place and the author of Love In The Time of Britpop. You’ll find him on Twitter here.

Memories of Elsewhere: Krobo, by Tim Woods

In these times when many of us are staying very close to home, we have invited Elsewhere contributors to reflect on those places that we cannot reach and yet which occupy our minds… 

By Tim Woods:

It didn’t take self-isolation to transport me back to Ghana; I’ve been visiting regularly in the seven years since I left. And more often than not, my memory dumps me on the scrubby slopes of Krobo.

At 345 metres, Krobo is far from the highest mountain in the country. Nor is it the most spectacular, a title belonging to the peaks further north in the Volta Region. There isn’t much in the way of wildlife to draw your gaze: the resident troop of baboons are the only mammals likely to be spotted, although the birds are, as throughout Ghana, spectacular. But one thing Krobo has in its favour is accessibility. In under two hours, you can escape the sweaty chaos of Accra and be out in the wild. Somewhere open. Somewhere green.

And escape I did, as often as possible during my two-year stay in the country. Along with the other Ghana Mountaineers, I spent every second Sunday hiking up the inselbergs south of the Volta River. Iogaga and Osoduku were more challenging, but Krobo was my first hike in the country and remained throughout my favourite. A short, steep scramble through sharp-bladed grass and over dry streambeds takes you onto the summit plateau, where you will find a giant metal cross, a bizarrely located family of terrapins and hazy views south towards the Shai Hills. Coffee too, if you remembered to bring some.

There are more obvious places for my absent mind to wander. England is one, being the country I called home for thirty years longer than I did Ghana. Yet despite the relative brevity of my time there, the country got under my skin with an urgency that hasn’t dulled with absence. Almost as soon as I left, I vowed to return. 

It’s not proven as easy as expected. Two children have complicated all travel plans, even those that only extend as far as the other side of Berlin. Then of course there’s the issue of climate change, that swiftly forgotten existential threat to our species that was demanding that we curb our habits long before some uppity virus turned up. I have long since felt a responsibility to tame my wanderlust, to fly far less often. Travelling to another continent just because I’d quite like to now seems an extraordinary indulgence. It will happen, because my principles aren’t as robust as I’d like. But I’m not yet sure when. 

If, when, I do go back, Ghana won’t be as good as it is in my memory. One advantage of exploring places through reminiscence is the chance to apply filters. From the comfort of my sofa, I can overlook Ghana’s traffic, dust and poverty; tune out the biting insects, the regular sickness, the power cuts. Even hiking virtually up Krobo, it’s easy to eradicate the dust in the throat, the cuts and scratches covering legs and hands, the perspiration stinging eyes. 

It will be different, too; places change when we’re not there. Accra will be shinier, busier, not quite how I left it. Will Krobo also have altered? There was talk of making proper paths up its slopes to attract more visitors, and of introducing a hiking fee to benefit the local community. Noble ideas, but they haven’t happened in my memory. Like many people’s favourite places, I want it to remain exactly as it was when I first encountered it.

But that’s the whole point of memory: to enjoy the good stuff while ignoring the different or uncomfortable or forgettable. Now, when thoughts of happier, freer times are more vital distractions than ever, or in better times when I simply fancy idling, I can relive those Sunday mornings out in the bush. Climbing with friends and catching up on our expat lives. Hoping to spot the baboons before they spot us and scarper. The crisp taste of fresh watermelon on the drive home, and the splash of chilled beer on a burning throat. Thankfully, Krobo will never be too far away for a quick visit. 

***

Tim is an editor on Elsewhere: A Journal of Place and the author of Love In The Time of Britpop. You’ll find him on Twitter here.

The Largest Mud Building in the World...

Photo: Mud Mosque, Mali – Mike Manson

By Mike Manson:

I arrived in Djenne as the Sahara light faded. Twilight was quick and grey, the air heavy with desert dust. The mosque, said to be the largest mud building in the world, sits alongside what was now an empty market square. Squat towers and a minaret were outlined against the grey sky. The pale light flattened the features. I was excited by the obvious energy of this powerful building. 

Djenne

Dotted along the milky Niger from Mopti to Kabara - the tiny river port that serves the legendary Timbuktu – are several intriguing village mud mosques. These structures are classic examples of Sudano-Sahelian architecture, an eco-friendly style of building characterised by the use of mud bricks and wooden support beams that jut out of the walls.

The most splendid mosque of all is in Djenne. The building stands like a castle on a rise overlooking the town’s market square. Djenne, an ancient flat-roofed adobe town, is built in a loop of the lethargic river Bani, a tributary of the Niger.

After a night in a straw-roofed adobe hut I was eager to explore. I got up shortly before dawn to avoid the heat. The market traders were already setting up their pitches of vegetables, second-hand clothes and piles of pungent dried river fish. 

Since 2007, when a fashion photographer disrespectfully held a photo shoot in the mosque, non-Muslims have been barred from officially entering this holy structure. However, as I walked around the building admiring the construction I was quietly approached by a guide who, for a small contribution, offered to slip me in through a side door.

The ochre coloured walls of the mosque are buttressed and pierced by spiky wooden struts. The roof is supported by ninety gargantuan pillars making the prayer hall akin to an indoor maze. There are no windows. Shafts of dusty light shine from the roof through small ventilation holes which are covered with ceramic caps in the rainy season. Adjacent to the main building is a large courtyard surrounded by six metre high mud walls. 

Photo: Djenne Mosque, the largest mud building in the world – Mike Manson

Although the present structure is only 100 years old, it sits on the site of earlier mosques dating back to 1280.

Sun dried mud is one of the oldest known building materials. Adobe building (the name is Spanish for mud brick) requires few tools relying on material as local as you can get. The shape of a brick is universal - the width is half the length, so it can be used side-on to add additional strength. The tools of the trade may be simple but the skills required constructing adobe buildings are complex. In Djenne, the adobe masons train for an apprenticeship that can last for as long as ten years. The apprentices are also taught secret spells that protect the buildings.  

There are a number of possible approaches to the construction largely governed by what is available locally. The simplest technique is to build-up gradually layers of clay to form walls. To obtain the optimum combination for strength, the raw earth is moistened with water and artfully mixed with straw, dung, animal hair, small pebbles and any other suitable materials to hand. Some adobe buildings will have a supporting wooden frame, others are constructed with an unreinforced raw mud mix. A water-tight roof is essential to prevent the building from being washed away. The roof will consist of roughly hewn timber logs covered in clay. Flat roofs will have wood, pottery or tin drainage spouts. If grass or reed is available a pitched thatched roof is an option. 

In villages I saw bricks drying beside the mud pits from which they had been excavated. Mud bricks, shaped by hand or formed in wooden moulds, are left to dry in the sun. Unfired, the bricks are then laid and cemented with wet mud. To offer additional protection the wall may be covered with a mud based plaster. Before construction begins a text from the Koran will be read.

Photo: Unfired mud bricks are left to dry in the sun – Mike Manson

Aside from the use of local materials, the benefits of adobe structures are that the interior is warm in winter and cool in summer. The buildings naturally breathe; in recent cases where waterproof cement has been applied to the exterior this moisture can be trapped, which adds to problems of damp.   

There are, of course, limitations. Walls necessarily have to be thick and doors and windows small; ornamentation is basic. The biggest threat to adobe buildings is rain. Unlike fired bricks, which are hardened and hold their shape even when damp, mud bricks quickly return to their original form when exposed to rain. Over the years, if not properly maintained, unfired bricks melt back from whence they came, leaving merely a hillock on the landscape.  

In Djennne there is an annual festival when the town comes together to repair the mosque. Mud is mixed by foot and handed to agile youngsters who climb the projecting struts and pat on a new protective layer.

The oldest building in Ghana

Other fine examples of Sudano-Sahelian mosques are to be found in the North West of Ghana. Several years later I visited Larabanga, whose mosque is a surrogate Mecca for Ghanaian muslims.

Photo: The whitewashed Larabanga Mosque, Ghana – Mike Manson

I paid my respects and a handful of cedi to a sleepy mullah resting in the shade of a tree. Excitable youths escorted me down a lane. Dating back to the thirteenth century, the serene whitewashed mosque, sheltered by a huge tree, is said to be the oldest building in the country. It once stood alone in the sandy sub Saharan scrub, set in its own low walled enclosure for outside worship. Flat roofed huts have grown up around, so now it is in a back street. 

The uneven organic form of the building - low, squat and punctuated by irregular triangular buttresses - is captivating. Scraped from the earth, supported by rare and precious timbers the mosque is built on a simple wooden frame. The ends of the supporting, uncut, beams extend beyond the walls providing useful props when the mosque is repaired after the rainy season. Two pyramidal towers, a mihrab which faces Mecca and a minaret, are capped with plastic orbs. Traditionally these finials, as in Djenne, would have been ostrich eggs. 

The surrounding streets were dirty with animal dung and plastic rubbish but the yard is clean, swept gracefully by a woman with a long handled nylon broom. The Larabanga mosque is entered through a low, 5 ft high doorway. As your eyes adjust to the dim light, the impression is not of a room but of a series of interconnected passageways. Because of this only few worshippers are able to directly see the iman. Uneven steps at the back of the building lead up to a stumpy minaret and a gently cambered flat roof to allow drainage. 

Although there has probably been a mosque on this site since the thirteenth century - the age of the present structure is open to debate. Certainly the Larabanga mosque has recently been extensively restored by the World Monument Fund after the mihrab and minaret were on the verge of collapse after a severe storm.

Over the years most of the mud mosques in Ghana have been replaced by more substantial brick buildings; in 2018 just eight of these Western Sudanese style mosques remain.

In these eco conscious times these organic buildings are about as environmentally friendly as you can get. The building materials - mud, water wood and dung - are local and biodegradable. They leave hardly a footprint on the landscape.

***

Mike Manson is a writer and historian who lives in Bristol, England. His most recent book Down in Demerara (Tangent Books) is set in Guyana.

The invisible border

“Where does Togo start?”

My guide looks out across the steep scarps of Ghana’s Volta Region, a vibrant green landscape that folds and curves like velvet curtains. His eyes trace the ferrous-red roads scratched between the hills before settling on one of the villages nestled in the valleys.

“It is that one,” he says, smiling shyly.

I return the smile and point my lens in the direction indicated, the reflections of the corrugated roofs leaving a temporary blind spot on my retina. Snap snap. Camera returns to case and we share another awkward smile.

We both know he guessed. He doesn’t have a clue where his country ends and its neighbour begins.

Why would he? The border is almost meaningless here; someone else’s line marked out decades before, when the Europeans carved up a continent to their uninvited whims and ideas. It matters little in the day-to-day living of life. While one side is Francophone country and the other Anglophone, the shared Ewe language is the one used to talk to friends or family who happen to be on the other side. And an ECOWAS passport allows for easy, visa-free movement across the whole region (a privilege that no one here would ever think of giving up through a plebiscite).

The name of the hill we are on – Mount Gemi – is another colonial legacy. This is not an Ewe word, not even Twi, but a contraction of the German Mission that came here to share the word of Christ, leaving a cross on its summit. Perhaps there would be a little more acknowledgement of the boundary if the Europeans had been a little more decisive, but it has shifted many times since then. Mount Gemi’s summit was once in a country that no longer exists, German Togoland. Little wonder that most ignore it.

We leave the summit and its cross behind and set off back to Amedzofe. Most of the village’s residents are watching the local football team’s match – are the opponents Togolese? – but we continue past the pitch to the village square. Ghanaians wait for the cooler evening air to meet with friends, thus avoiding the worst of the daytime heat. This respite comes a little earlier in this hilly country – we’re at around 600m – and even though the sun is still out, Amedzofe’s older inhabitants are already congregating in stone seats, waving as we pass.

Adjacent to this rendezvous point is the small visitor centre. Inside, my guide diligently asks his boss to identify exactly where the border lies. Maps are withdrawn from a large wooden chest and the obliging superior shows me where we are, then where the border is. My guide wasn’t too far off, and his face displays a mix of pride and relief. It’s around five miles away, the boss-man says; shall I take you there?

I thank him and decline. Time to move on; there are more hikes to be had further along this invisible border.

*

The border is much closer at Wli (pronounced ‘Vlee’, another linguistic leftover from the Germans). There’s even a checkpoint at the end of one road from the village, where the guards will happily mark your passport with Togo’s stamp and let you potter about in another country for a while, all for just a few cedis.

A more popular activity for the growing numbers of tourists – mostly young volunteers who comprise Europe’s present-day, less disruptive mission to Ghana – is to the double-drop Agumatsa waterfall, the highest in West Africa (although not the only one to claim this title). An easy path meanders through fruit farms and forest to the lower falls, where you can swim in the plunge pool and sip coconuts after. But I opt for the harder route along the steep-sided cliffs of this natural amphitheatre, which leads to the upper falls.

It’s a steep, sweaty climb, and its unpopularity relative to the signposted lower route is evident as my guide hacks constantly at the overgrowth – grasses, vines, saplings – barring our way. Eventually, after ninety minutes of slipping and sliding, swishing and swearing, we reach a viewpoint overlooking the hidden upper falls. Any waterfall is a captivating sight, but this one is flavoured with exoticism by being glimpsed through a thick frond of creepers and ferns. And it has further novelty to its name: the water leaves Togo, crashing down an 80m drop into Ghana. A truly spectacular border crossing.

The path continues beyond the viewpoint, and at some point along it enters another country. But there’s no border post, no fence, no wall up here; nothing except a leaf-covered footpath and a neat stack of felled trunks, about a hundred metres ahead.

Are those in Ghana or Togo?

I don’t bother asking out loud this time. It’s just forest.

*

Only when the border is close to running out of land does it assert itself. Lomé snuggles into the corner where the line meets the sea and here, things are done properly.

I’ve always wanted to walk across a national border. Perhaps it’s a legacy of growing up on an island, where our neighbours are all a boat ride or tunnel away. And Ghana/Togo indulge me in style. Late one Friday evening, two hours after departing the heat and hustle of Accra, a taxi drops me in Aflao, a town whose main purpose is to wave goodbye to those leaving the country or welcome those arriving, the lines of snack stalls ready to provide sustenance on their way.

From here, I proceed on foot beneath a crumbling arch, Ghana’s signatory black star on top, and wait for a stern border guard to scrutinise my passport for … what, exactly? Once waved through, I approach his Togolese counterparts. They usher me through without question; it’s late, they’ve evidently checked enough passports for one day. I raise a hand in acknowledgment and walk into another country.

Now this is a border. There is change, distinction, separation. A city springs up immediately around you; no suburbs, no urban sprawl, at least on this side. Just a few metres from the neatly farmed fields that surround Aflao are high-rise buildings, crowded streets and that distinctive scent of city tarmac warmed by tropical heat. There is a busy hum of horns and engines, the chaos of a thousand people in each street, an urgency that only urbanity provides. It feels a long way from Mount Gemi and Wli, where the border is little noticed.

Other changes, too. Motorbikes, largely absent in Ghana, zip all over; the bread sold by street vendors is long and crusty, not soft and stodgy. And the language of the capital, into which people from all corners of the country pour, is the communal French, local languages reserved for when you meet someone from ‘home’. Yet just a few metres back that way, barely a word of French is understood. I hail a motorbike, ignoring the common-sense warnings about riding on one without a helmet, and struggle to summon enough schoolboy French to get me to the hotel.

*

Two days later, my brief sojourn over, I walk back across the border. The same taxi driver is waiting, as agreed, and we soon head west.

‘Do you know how the border is marked beyond the checkpoint?’ I ask.

‘It is a fence, I think. Yes, a fence.’

‘Do you know how far it goes? Because I was in Wli a few weeks ago and there isn’t a fence there, so I wondered where it stopped.’

The driver gives me a bemused glance in his rear-view mirror, then turns up the radio so that it is loud enough to drown out any more daft, irrelevant questions from the back seat.

***

Tim is an editor on Elsewhere: A Journal of Place and the author of Love In The Time of Britpop. You’ll find him on twitter here.