A fortnight ago saw us begin a lifelong challenge we’ve dreamed up, to climb the highest mountain in every country in the world. ‘A little difficult’, you may be thinking ‘for there are 196 countries in the world’. True, but in our book any form of transport goes, and we plan to clean up any remaining countries at aged 90 in our private helicopter. Until then we’ll be seeking out the peak in any country we happen to find ourselves in…
Which two weekends ago was Togo. A short car ride up to the Ghanaian city of Ho put us just across the border from our Eastern neighbour. After a lovely evening meal and a good night’s sleep we set off at the crack of dawn to the local tro-tro station looking for a ride across the border. Sure enough, after the usual 2hr wait, the bus was full and ready to go.
Bald headed vultures circle over the trotro station feeding on scraps
Ghanaian border control, outbound, no one except us has passports:
“All Ghanaians over here please” (there were some Togolese on the bus)
-Pointing to the poor looking people- “You, 1 cedi to cross.”
-Pointing to the slightly less poor looking people- “You, 2 cedis.”
Nothing corrupt about that then, although for some unknown reason the Togo folks were let off. Ten minutes then followed of driving through ‘no man’s land’ between border control posts. Bizarrely there were villages in here, whose inhabitants must have suffered sorely from an identity crisis.
Togo border control:
“All Togolese over here please”
“500 seefas” (1 cedi 50 pesewas equivalent).
How interesting we’re thinking, Ghanaians pay on the Ghana side and Togolese on the Togo side. We’re not sure this is 100% right because it would be prone to ‘nationality swapping’ in no-man’s land, but it truly appeared to be the case.
“You two over here, you’ll need visas” (to us)
“10,000 seefas each.”
Well that was predictable.
“Actually we’ve run out of visas, you’ll need to pay, and leave your passports here with us and we’ll give them back to you tomorrow with the visas”
Not good. Neither of us fancied being in north-west Togo climbing mountains without passports. We argued, and eventually turned to leave to go straight back to Ghana.
“Ok, ok, pay, take an entry stamp, keep the passport and we’ll add the visa when you return tomorrow.”
A good compromise (by the way this is all in pigeon French. We were pretty pleased with our ability to communicate). Fifteen minutes and two stamps later the bus pulled into Kpalime, Togo.
The Ewe people of Togo and Ghana were once the same tribe, but colonisation and the artificial placement of a border has moved them apart over the past fifty years. The Togolese are huge fans of motorbikes and moto-taxis, where Ghanaians prefer cars. French speaking, Togoans are also great cooks, and we ate the most delicious peppercorn steak for our one dinner in the country. They also make tasty fresh bread, and negotiate more gently, which made the whole experience across the border very pleasant.
After a quick bag drop at the hotel we jumped on the back of two motos and rode the 20km to the base of Mt. Agou (998m). What followed was a lesson in how not to climb the highest mountain in a country.
The informally arranged guide told us the round trip would take about 2.5 hours. The sun was beating down, on the other side of the mountain (it was midday), but our side was in the shade, and we set off with three litres of water and a couple of cereal bars.
Two hours later we were still climbing. Our route had wound round the mountain and the sun was now blazing down on our necks. The step-like path was excruciating, and our legs were failing underneath us. Water was down to half a litre, and the cereal bars proved to be inedible. Our light breakfast eaten earlier in the day now seemed ridiculously small and the summit was still not in sight.
Twenty minutes later, with the water just about exhausted we were seriously considering turning around. We knew the top could not be far away, but then climbers do not tend to die on the way up high mountains, they die on the way down, having expended too much energy and supplies on making the summit. We didn’t fancy falling on our first attempt at our new challenge.
Even so we agreed to press on for another twenty minutes. There were villages on the way up and we hoped we could pick up water easily enough on the return journey.
Fifteen minutes later the stepped path levelled off, and it was a short and easy walk to the summit.
The view out South over Togo
With shaky legs and a fair thirst we made the call to have the moto taxis come up the winding, pot-holed road and collect us from just below the top. A slight cop-out, but like we said, any form of transport goes, and we really didn’t fancy another two and a half hours in our weakened state. ‘Three-up’ on the bikes (driver, Richardson, guide) we coasted down the mountain and returned to the hotel. Quite a day.
Refuelled on peppercorn steak, delicious bread and a good night’s sleep we returned to the tro-tro station the following morning, helped tie a goat to the roof, and set off back to Ghana. The 'delayed visa entry' went smoothly at Togo border control and we watched in amusement at Ghanaian immigration as one woman was judged wealthy and was taken to one side for ‘discussions about the need to have a passport’.
The following day we tackled the highest mountain in Ghana, this time prepped to the full. Six litres of water and plenty of food came with us, and we made the peak of Mt Afadjato (885m) in just over an hour.
A pineapple grows at the base of the mountain
WAO! We were very glad
At the peak
Valuable lessons were learnt by Lydia on the way down about having grip on the soles of her walking boots (now six years old), which made Savlon a welcome addition to our in-car medical kit, but aside from some bumps and scrapes we both returned home in good shape and high spirits.
2 down, 194 to go.
Love, Tim & Lydia
Love, Tim & Lydia
