Ghana (2)


	In the Benin embassy at Accra we hooked up with a couple of overlanders, Simon and Marjon in the Landcruiser and Ian and Jacqueline in the Landrover and followed them to ‘Pit Stop’, a garage run by expat Ian Webste (4th Crescent and Assylum Down, Accra: N 05˚34.160’ W 000˚12.316’. Mobile: 00 233 (0) 244 277 722; email: pitstop2006@yahoo.co.uk). Through Ian’s wonderful hospitality we were able to camp out in the yard for a couple of days while having some work done on the truck. As the next leg of the journey was heading for muddy climates we decided to invest in some new tires.

	Arriving late in the day, our choice was somewhat reduced by the American embassy who had just bought all the B F Goodrich T/A tyres in the size we wanted. We opted for the wider ones that were left, and handed over the Visa card. “I’m sorry sir, but cash only” says the vender. “OK Bud, what’s the damage” I enquire. “Seven and a half million cedis”. This was actually £106 a tire and not a bad price, so we popped over to the bank. Now the Ghanaians are in the process of a currency change and for good reason as we were to find out. The bank was closed and it was only possible to withdraw 800,000 from the cash machine (£44) as this seemed all the notes it could cram out of the slot in any one go, that is forty 20,000 notes. So we stood at two machines stuffing wads of cash into any available pocket, feeling like a muggers wet dream. At Pit Stop we spent the evenings drinking cold beer with the other overlanders and Ian sharing experiences of living and travelling in Africa before moving on and finally reuniting with Campbell and Linnéa at a fabulous beach camp in Ada. The campsite is about 2 km along the beach from the end of the road, a veritable tropical paradise set on a peninsula between the roaring Atlantic and the calm warm waters of the estuary. The Dutch guys from ‘pit stop’ were also stopping here for a few nights and we all had an evening Pow-wow, discussing tactics for the future transit of Nigeria.


			With what seemed like the first breathing space for a long while on our hectic schedule I finally got the chance to break open the fishing tackle that Jim (Jools dad) had supplied. I started with a little spinning from the beach and when this proved fruitless, moved on to live bait (hermit crab) on a float. Eventually two young lads passed in a boat and offered to take me out to deeper water and I offered promises of great rewards should the trip be successful, but as we bobbed gently in the middle of the estuary I gave up all hope of success and watched as the sunset painted the sky orange and reflected in the still water.

	I returned to the camp empty of hand but full in spirit, so thankfully the goons had bought a big fish from the locals which we stuffed with butter, lemon grass, lime leaves, garlic and lemon, and had a braii (barbeque).

I know the phrase ‘ship wrecked’ on a beach, but can we say ‘pinz wrecked’ on a beach. The last time we were on a beach was in Western Sahara with Campbell and Linnéa and the truck wouldn’t start, and now after 6000km we were reunited with them on a beach again and the truck refused to go again.

We spent 3 days trying to get the bastard to start and when eventually we were successful and jubilant during retreat from the beach, large clunking noises shook the truck.

Thankfully, we had bumped into Francis, a Bwana Kubwa (big man) in Ghana with some great connections. We spent the next morning at the Forest Commission headquarters changing the clutch plate before running for the border (Not bad going to change your clutch plate and country on the same day).