The falls guy – Harry Leach is moved by a humbling adventure in an unforgettable African land when he experiences the intoxicating, chaotic charm of Ghana
Thousands of fruit bats whirled in a tornado, spiralling 300ft above as Ghana’s tallest waterfall crashed in a thunderous beat beside me – its mist cooling the heat on my skin.
We had hiked through a sweaty tropical forest to get here – ducking under vines, stepping over startled reptiles, brushing off bold insects, crossing nine clanging bridges. Each footstep sank into rich, red earth as the path narrowed underfoot and the sound of falling water grew louder.
Then, suddenly, the trees parted and there it was – Ghana’s famous Wli Waterfalls, the tallest in West Africa. Wild and beautiful. The bats squeaked as the 262ft-high fall poured down a jagged cliff into a pool over which butterflies scattered, their wings glowing in flecks of sunlight.
The noise was deafening, and yet the moment seemed utterly still.
If this were Europe, a sea of phones would block the view. But here, deep in Ghana’s Volta Region, it was just us and nature – raw and unspoilt. The fall’s soft waves didn’t just cool my body, they stripped back life’s pressures. This wasn’t just a trip; it was unfiltered adventure.
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I was travelling to West Africa with Intrepid Travel, a firm that threads you into the fabric of Ghana as well as taking you way off the beaten track. That was evident that very morning when we broke bread with a family living in Liati Wote – a beautiful, remote village hugging the Ghana-Togo border. Our hosts welcomed us with open arms in the way I quickly learned all Ghanaians do: with a warmth and effortless generosity that is rare to find wherever you go in the world.
As goats wandered past, and the sun beat down, we chatted about sport, family, our passions, as mighty Mount Afadjato leaned over us. “Everything is focused on each other,” said 16-year-old Elizabeth, while her sister Precious served omelettes fresh from the pan.
She spoke of her yearning to explore Accra, Ghana’s capital, but her love for her village was deep, palpable. I understood why. In this community of just 600, everyone plays a part. Later we met Charles, tending his farm. Together we planted corn and watched him work his charcoal ovens – delicate, smoky earth mounds that collapse if oxygen sneaks in.
Elsewhere, Emmanuel, the village’s chief farmer and palm wine-maker since 1991, tapped sap from a fallen palm tree. I drank it sharp and fresh, then again later when it was fermented, sweet and dizzying. That night, we rejoined our hosts to dine in their home. We shared plates of jollof (rice, vegetables and/or meat), akple (fermented dough balls), watermelon, and grilled drumsticks.
It was the kind of hospitality that makes you feel like you have slipped into someone else’s life… just for a moment.
As we laughed and sang together, including a slightly off-key rendition of Wonderwall, conversation paused when the beat of drums began to creep through an open window.
We broke away from the table, unable to ignore it any longer. Outside, a group of 30 was rehearsing an Ewe drumming performance. The ensemble had packed up to leave for a funeral, but then graciously unpacked to play once more, just for us.
We jived under stars to their captivating tempo because, in Ghana, when the beat calls, you don’t just listen – you follow it. The next morning, I danced again, this time with a machete in my hand at the village of Tafi Atome. I was taught the “hunter’s dance” by the Akpi performers, as they pounded drums behind a statue with a lit cigarette hanging from its stone lips.
“They’re showing their strength in the forest with this performance,” said Isaac, our endlessly insightful guide and native Ghanaian who knows his country inside out. Behind us, monkeys stirred. “They live together with the people,” he explained.
After spicy snails and grilled fish at Afrikiko River Front Resort, we cruised down the shimmering Volta River – part of Lake Volta, the largest artificial reservoir in the world at 3,283 square miles – completely relaxed. Then we moved on to the lively town of Elmina, where we checked into charming hilltop cabins at Golden Hill Parker Hotel, above Ghana’s largest fish market.
After sunrise, we ventured through its heart. Women balancing bowls of fish on their heads encouraged us to dance with them, smiling ear-to-ear, as traders in every direction shouted prices over crates of squid and the bleeding sharks on the wet concrete.
It was loud, chaotic, intoxicating: Ghana at its most tactile and authentic. But nothing felt more real than our visit to Cape Coast Castle. Inside the silent dungeons, history closed in from every side. No light or airflow. Just thick stone walls and the memory of thousands of slaves held captive before being trafficked as human cargo.
Our guide Kojo spoke with the gravity of someone who had told this story too many times, yet aware it must never stop being told. “It cannot be repeated,” he said simply, standing by the plaque that now marks the “Door of No Return” –once the last threshold before Africans were forced onto ships in the dark days of the transatlantic slave trade.
My final days in Ghana unfolded in the busy and electric capital Accra. One minute you’re weaving through the packed Osu night market, eating smoked fish and waakye (rice and beans), next you’re standing in a workshop staring at a coffin shaped like a Nokia mobile phone. That was Eric’s creation – a master craftsman of fantasy coffins. From sneakers to Club beer bottles, he carves caskets that reflect lives once lived.
In Ghana, death isn’t feared, it is a “celebration”, said Eric. Funerals honour those lost with colour, music and flair. What struck me most about this country wasn’t any one place. It wasn’t even the food – although I’d fly back in a heartbeat for palm nut soup or “red red”.
It was the way people let us in; their smiles; how they embraced us into their world and homes. It was truly humbling.
On my final day, I stood in the impoverished Jamestown, watching children play basketball near a beautiful lighthouse. A battered speaker played Afrobeats as we moved through tiny streets, when a barefoot girl spun and waved with a grin so infectious, it made me smile too.
This is why you travel. Not for the Instagram pictures, but for the people who turn the unfamiliar into something unforgettable. “Kwame is your Ghanaian name,” Isaac said after finding out I was born on a Saturday. “Take this with you.”
I will.
