I had that pre-holiday feeling of excitement, where you’re so excited you can’t sleep, the night before our trip to Togo’s tourism capital, Kpalimé.
It was with great anticipation that I boarded our bright red minibus the next morning in Atakpamé, to begin our two-and-a-half hour journey West across Togo. We passed through village after village, the previous blurring into the next, with women selling fruit and wares from baskets on their heads, framed by cloud-topped mountains misting together in the background. Fields of teenagers were playing football, and coconut and palm trees speckled the sides of the roads. Occasionally, we drove for a stretch on tarmac, as the road between Atakpamé and Kpalimé is under construction, but most of the time we bounced around on the dusty potholes and gravel, swerving around motorbikes carrying passengers and all sorts of bric-a-brac.
Our driver, who looked like an out of place Mexican drug lord, donning an impressive hat and shouting down the phone like a cartoon character, seemed to be involved in some sort of drag race with the driver of the other bus from Sokodé, who we were travelling in convoy with. We nearly careered into the back of the other bus on several occasions, after many a hairy overtake. Our team repeatedly erupted with nervous laughter as our driver slammed on the brakes and the horn, clearly not happy about conceding.
Thankfully, we arrived in Kpalimé in one piece. The town itself was a mash of roads, lined with tourist stalls selling jewellery, key rings and paintings, and hotels and restaurants, competing to serve the most European food. We passed several German-looking buildings from colonial times, sitting like ghosts amongst the warm painted townhouses and the wood and corrugated iron-roofed shacks of the poorer townsmen. Our minibus bounced it’s way through the back streets of Kpalimé and spat us out on the road into the mountains, which we snaked our way up passing touristy bars and quaint little B&Bs, until we reached our destination, Hotel Campement.
The mountain air smelt sweet and damp like rainforest and vegetation and I took in the surrounding views as we pulled up, wilderness and jungle as far as the eye could see. Fields of crickets hummed for our arrival, birds flitted from tree to tree and beautiful butterflies fluttered around our van, as we unloaded our cases from the roof. I had been told before coming to Kpalimé, that the mountain is nicknamed ‘Butterfly Mountain’, and it was evident why as they hovered around us in all sizes and colours. We spoke to some locals later that day, who also told us there were lots of snakes and scorpions in the area, and sure enough, that night, we spotted a snake slithering into the bushes as we were walking the dark road back to the hotel from dinner.
We finished the evenings in Kpalimé with a Castel or Pils, or three, at the outdoor hotel bar, watching shooting stars in the sky above us, enjoying the silence of the mountain. [It was the second most beautiful night sky I had ever seen, after Mount John near Lake Tekapo in New Zealand.] From the bar, the path sloped down to the courtyard, decorated with huge, luscious pot plants and intricately carved tribal statues. Wings of hotel rooms split off from stone stairways leading off in different directions. Our room was comfortable and cool, and though the shower was absolutely freezing, it was still an absolute treat after six weeks of bucket showers in Atakpamé.
Kpalimé has a lot more touristic offerings than Atakpamé. Just down the road from our hotel was a local art workshop, run by a couple of Rastafarians. A lot of what they were selling was utter tourist fodder but a few pieces looked quite contemporary. We had a lesson with them where they taught us how to paint using natural colours, scratching at tree bark and squeezing flowers. I was nominated by my team to paint something, as I am usually the one leading our art activities at the Atakpamé YMCA, so I made an attempt to mimic our teacher’s style, painting a gathering of people around a coconut tree, signed ‘JK’. It made for a special gift for my host family.
In the evening, we walked further up the mountain to a large clearing, where a great bonfire was lighting up the starry night sky. We were greeted by drumming, singing and the smell of meat spit-roasting over the BBQ. A little shack was serving beers and soft drinks, so we grabbed bottles and took our seats to catch our breath after the long hilly ascent. It didn’t last long, as dancing quickly spread through the circle, and we were all on our feet again, following the lead of the dance troop and singing at the top of our voices. The atmosphere was a mood of infectious joy and after several songs of lost inhibitions, we left the floor to the professionals and watched a show of fire juggling, drumming and tribal dancing, before our feast of spit roasted calf.
The weekend climaxed with our visit to the waterfall, Cascade de Woeme. We nearly didn’t make it after unofficial border controls told us we didn’t have permission to drive through, but after a solid effort from our supervisors, while the rest of us waited in the sun with our favourite FanMilk ice creams, the rope was dropped and we were allowed to drive on.
The stepped walk down to the waterfall was tough though, and we scrambled our way down massive steps, as big as a metre high. It was about a ten minute descent, to the sound of drums, singing and rushing water as we approached our destination. Our path wound down through the jungle, with huge tree roots forming oddly well-placed handholds and thick vegetation shading most of the route. As we finally neared the waterfall, with legs trembling from the difficult climb down, the trees parted a little and a line of stepping stones led us across a stream, into a small clearing where the water lapped onto a gravel beach.
I stripped down my swimwear and raced into the water after my friends, treading carefully across the slippery bedrocks. It was truly a magical moment, as I took in my surroundings, fallen logs on the stones behind me for spectators to sit, and white water relentlessly cascading into the greeny pool. A large cave had opened up to the left, with tourists drinking and laughing in the dimly lit shadows. I stood at the edge, letting the water drip from the cliff onto my head and shoulders, taking in the scenery, before swimming up current to feel the awesome power of the waterfall, as I followed some of the boys through it and was washed out the other side. I have no idea how long we spent in the pool, I totally lost track of time and myself, exploring the waters under the overhanging rocky edges behind the rushing water, and playing in the currents. It was a really special place, well worth a visit if you find yourself in Togo or across the border in Ghana.
The next day, we drove the treacherous road through the jungle, into the clouds of the highest mountain in Togo, Pic Agou. The road was mostly mud, and large potholes again made the drive a difficult one. Branches and grasses swiped at us through the open windows of the minibus, as the road narrowed to a single track on the climb to the peak. We were greeted by locals who taught us about the history of the area and pointed out the two different spots marked as the highest point in the country by the two countries that had previously colonised Togo, Germany and France. After exploring a little, we tucked into a picnic of sandwiches in the mist, before taking group photos and saying our farewells to the other volunteer teams from Sokodé and Lomé. I made sure to gulp in my last breaths of the damp, cool mountain air, knowing we would shortly be emerging below the clouds into the heat again, on the road back to Atakpamé.
Kpalimé was a beautiful area and one of the highlights of my time in Togo. I would recommend spending a couple of days here, though even with the relative amount of tourism, there is not that much to do or see. Having said that, I am sure that it is the people that make a place, and the Togolese will make you so welcome you will never want to leave.
A Londoner Abroad 