“Mr Sam! Mr Sam! Would you like to buy some bush fish?” said our guide Richard, taking my husband by the hand and leading him to a small mud and bamboo hut from which a plume of delicious smelling smoke billowed.
“Bush fish?” asked Sam, throwing me a perplexed glance as he followed Richard towards the hut.
“Yes,” said Richard, “it is very good. You can take some back to your home.”
Standing in the shade of a bamboo awning with Patience, the village matriarch, I watched with curiousity as Sam crossed the muddy courtyard of the tiny riverside village. A young man emerged from the hut, surrounded by small children clad in worn and grubby clothing, proudly holding the freshly slaughtered bush fish high in the air for all to see.
Dangling by its long, sinewy tail, blood dripped from the bush fish’s furry nose and over its giant bucked teeth, forming a rich red pool on the murky yellow earth. Its four clawed feet, complete with little pink pads, jutted out from its hairy white underbelly.
“Oh my,” I gasped to Patience as I realised that the bush fish was not nearly as scaly, limbless or sea dwelling as I had expected, and did, in fact, resemble a giant rodent. “That ain’t a fish!”
We were in Bonsie, a lonely, agricultural village on the edge of the Pra River in central-southern Ghana. We had been hiking for over three hours through stunningly green forest, following our young guide, Richard, through dense thickets of banana trees and cacao plantations. Richard, who could not have been more than 15 years old, was, as is custom, assigned to us by the chief of Domama village, another tiny rural settlement around ten kilometres from Bonsie. Having arrived in Domama with our taxi driver, Michael, we were ushered to the old chief’s house to discuss the things we were able to see and do in the area.
“I think you might like to see the big river,” said the chief with a toothy grin. “This is no problem. I will find you a boy with nothing to do and he will take you!”
Soon enough, Richard was standing with us on the veranda of the chief’s house, looking young and timid behind his incredibly white and gappy grin. Having thanked the chief profusely for his assistance, we filled our backpacks with water and prepared for our adventure. This included a swift visit to the village toilet, which consisted of a small, dark, cement cubicle with a roughly chipped-out hole in the ground, complemented by a pile of German language newspapers with which, after perusal, one could wipe one’s bottom. Preparations made, we piled into Michael’s car and drove the last five kilometres or so to the edge of the forest.
As we left the rough dirt road behind and parked the old station wagon, Michael said it was better if he stayed with the vehicle.
“I want to come with you, but there are robbers in the area and I don’t want to leave the car. Otherwise, when we come back it will be gone!” laughed Michael as he waved us merrily goodbye.
Gazing into the thick greenery ahead, virtually in the middle of nowhere, and then at the barefoot young man with whom we were being accompanied, I felt my anxiety levels rise ever so slightly at the thought of being mugged in the jungle. Nonetheless, we had come too far to let this deter us and we set off along the muddy and humid trail.
As Michael’s car became a small dot in the distance, the silence of the forest descended. Half expecting to be accosted by machete wielding bandits at any moment, I soon relaxed as we trundled through vast fields of maize, leading into sheltered groves of cacao trees, dripping with fruit ripe for the picking, and filled with deliciously sweet and tender flesh. We were all alone in this Ghanaian forest, with only Richard’s quiet but confident presence, and the rustle of green and orange lizards fleeing into the undergrowth, signalling that we had company.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by a flurry of approaching laughter, the type that only comes from the sound of happy children playing together. We had reached the outskirts of Bonsie, where five local children, carrying buckets atop their heads, were on their way down to a small swimming hole, which we had passed just minutes earlier.
Spotting us filing along the path, they stopped in their tracks, their wide eyes betraying their excitement. I gently approached the children and crouched down to speak to them.
“Akwaaba,” I said, greeting them in their local dialect. “This is Sam and Richard, and I am Claire.”
This greeting was enough to draw some timid smiles and the children soon gathered round. It did not take long for them to take a liking to us and before long we had made some firm new friends. As the children eventually wandered off towards the swimming hole, Richard explained that we were going to visit their village and we might see them later. Waving, we continued our hike to Bonsie, five sets of shining eyes on our backs.
A few minutes later we entered the village, which appeared out of nowhere amidst a sea of green. As we wove our way through clutches of mud huts, topped by thatch and bamboo roofs, our presence soon became noticed amidst the sounds and smells of a community going about its everyday business. Bonsie was quiet, given that it was the middle of the day, with only the pygmy goats milling about in the sticky heat. Soon, though, as we entered the main courtyard, a cluster of children of all ages was milling around us, shy but overtly curious.
A young boy of about eight came towards us, asking if we were there to go canoeing on the Pra River. When we answered in the affirmative, the young boy explained that unfortunately, there was a hole in the village canoe and we were unable to use it. Disappointed, we followed the boy down a boggy trail to the river, just to see what might have been. The river, which was easily 200 metres wide, created a murky torrent which roared past the muddy banks on which Bonsie was perched. The boy pointed to a barely visible speck on the opposite side of the water.
“That is the canoe,” he said. “But I cannot take you out in it. Maybe when you come back?”
Gazing at the size of the unexpectedly wide and powerful river, the state of the old canoe, and the height of the boy who was supposed to take us out in it, I was secretly grateful that the canoe had, in the days before, lost an argument with one of the many boulders jutting menacingly out of the water.
And so, assuring the boy that we would be sure to engage his business should we return to Bonsie, we happily left the raging mass of water behind us and returned to the safety of the village. As we re-entered the courtyard, a beautiful, confident woman dressed in a stunning pink, green and yellow dress came and took me by the hand. I had met Patience. Leading me away from Sam and Richard, she took me to meet the other village women and their brood of bubbly, chubby babies, strapped comfortably onto their backs with traditional Ghanaian cloth.
Now, where were we? Ah yes. Bush fish.
Hearing Sam tell Richard that, unfortunately, due to the stifling midday heat and the long trek out of the village which awaited us, it was probably not a good idea for us to take the bush fish with us, Patience and I exchanged a bemused look.
“Many thanks for the kind offer,” said Sam with a smile, looking over his shoulder at Patience and me as we laughed together like a pair of old school friends. “But, like the canoe trip, maybe next time.”
Saying our goodbyes to the inhabitants of Bonsie, and promising Patience that we would return some day, we headed off into the forest, hoping that Michael and the car had not been carried off by a troop of nomadic thieves. As we retraced our steps, the tranquillity of the forest was once again broken by the sound of happy children playing and laughing.
“Mr Sam! Mr Sam!” we heard as we approached the swimming hole to see our five friends splashing about in the cool, clear water. “Come and have a swim!”
“Only if there are no bush fish!” laughed Sam, smiling and making his way to the water’s edge.
