Travel has a unique way of shifting perspectives. As a Ghanaian, I thought I knew my country well. Its cities, culture, cuisine, and historic sites. But it wasn’t until I traveled alongside a group of African American visitors that I saw Ghana through an entirely new lens filled with emotion, discovery, and a deep connection to ancestry and culture.

Our journey began in Accra, the vibrant capital city buzzing with life. From the colorful arts and crafts markets to the stirring Independence Arch and Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum, the group was visibly moved by the resilience and pride woven into Ghana’s story. As we ventured onward to Cape Coast, the mood shifted to reverence and reflection. Visiting the Cape Coast and Elmina slave castles, standing in the very dungeons where our ancestors were held stirred emotions none of us could put into words. Watching my fellow travelers grapple with the painful history of the transatlantic slave trade was both heartbreaking and beautiful. For them, it was not just a historical tour, it was a homecoming.

In Aburi, we were greeted by Ghana’s lush natural beauty. A walk through the serene Botanical Gardens and a tour of a cocoa farm offered a refreshing glimpse into the country’s agricultural heart and peaceful landscape. For many in the group, tasting Ghana’s cocoa straight from the pod was a first and a moment of joy.

Of course, no Ghanaian experience is complete without the food. From jollof rice and waakye to banku with tilapia, I watched as they delighted in every bite, savoring each flavor with curiosity and excitement. Their open-mindedness and joy in embracing our local dishes reminded me how rich and inviting our culture is.

What made this journey unforgettable wasn't just the places we visited, but the perspectives shared. The African American travelers were on a quest to reconnect with their roots, to honor their ancestors, and to celebrate their heritage. Traveling with them helped me understand the emotional depth of returning to a land their ancestors were taken from. As a Ghanaian, it was a privilege to witness this, and it helped me appreciate our history and culture in a deeper, more profound way.

My few days with them became more than a tour. It was a shared journey of learning, healing, and connection. I am not only proud of my country, but grateful for the reminder that the story of Ghana is one of strength and it continues to inspire people across the globe.

This journey reaffirmed the power of travel to bridge cultures, heal history, and bring people home even if it’s for the first time. 
 

Traveling to a new country can be exciting, eye-opening, and filled with unexpected lessons, sometimes learned in the most casual settings. One of the most valuable travel tips I ever received came not from a guidebook, but from a frozen margarita and a friendly bartender at a local pub in Manvel, Texas.

It was my very first visit to the United States, and I was staying with a wonderful host family who often reminded me to keep my passport or some form of identification with me at all times. To be honest, I didn’t understand the big deal. I wasn’t planning to cross any borders while heading out for lunch or dinner.

Then came a laid-back Thursday evening. My host family suggested we go out for dinner, and we found ourselves at a cozy restaurant with a casual atmosphere. We decided to sit by the bar and placed our orders. I requested a frozen margarita, looking forward to unwinding after a long day.

Just as the bartender was about to hand me the drink, he paused and asked, “May I see your ID?”

The look on my face must have said it all, surprise, confusion, and maybe a bit of panic. Meanwhile, my host family gave me the classic “I told you so” expression. In that moment, a flurry of questions ran through my mind: Do I really look that young? Is this because I’m a foreigner? What now?

Thankfully, the bartender picked up on my shock, chuckled warmly, and after a brief moment, chose to serve me the drink anyway understanding that I was indeed of legal drinking age. But the experience left a lasting impression.

This simple moment highlighted a much larger truth: in many countries, especially the United States, it's common practice to ask for identification when ordering alcohol regardless of how old you may appear. As a traveler, not having your ID or travel document handy can cause unnecessary hiccups, delays, or even embarrassment in everyday situations.

It’s always encouraged to carry a valid form of identification, such as a passport or government-issued ID, while exploring abroad. Whether you're booking a tour, checking into a hotel, or simply grabbing a drink, having your documents on hand can make your experience smoother and more enjoyable.

Deborah Dankyi

Each year in the coastal neighborhood of Jamestown, Accra's centuries-old walls begin to whisper, then shout with color, sound, and stories. One moment it's an ordinary fishing district; the next, it's the beating heart of Africa's most electric street festival: Chale Wote.

If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to be inside a living, breathing artwork, this is it.

More Than a Festival—A Movement

“Chale, wote!” loosely means “Friend, let’s go!” in Ghana’s Ga language, and that’s exactly the invitation this festival offers. Since 2011, Chale Wote has become more than just a celebration of art—it’s a bold reimagining of African identity, a rebellion against the ordinary, and a space where creativity takes over the streets without asking for permission. The festival began as a grassroots response to a simple but powerful idea: what if artists didn’t need galleries to showcase their work? What if the streets themselves were the canvas?

Today, what started with a few murals and pop-up performances has grown into a multi-day cultural phenomenon that attracts thousands—locals, diasporans, international artists, and curious travelers alike. They come for the music, the murals, the movement. They leave changed.

The Art of the Unexpected

There’s no typical day at Chale Wote. One minute, you're watching a barefoot dancer spin through clouds of dust to the pulse of traditional drumming. The next, you're surrounded by towering stilt walkers in Afrofuturist costumes, marching past surreal murals being painted live on 19th-century buildings.

Down a side street, an artist constructs a giant sculpture made entirely from discarded electronics—his way of talking about e-waste and postcolonial consumption. Around the corner, a poet performs in three languages, his voice echoing off the sea breeze.

It’s raw, unfiltered, and deeply intentional. Every wall tells a story. Every performance is a conversation. Even the silence between drums feels sacred.

A Festival That Feeds the Soul

But Chale Wote isn’t just about art. It’s about community. You’ll see vendors selling kelewele (spicy fried plantains), children chasing bubbles, elders nodding in approval, and travelers dancing like nobody’s watching. There’s something healing about the festival—its refusal to be boxed in, its joy in reclaiming public space, its celebration of Ghanaian heritage through a fiercely modern lens. It’s where the past meets the future in the most vibrant present imaginable.

Why You Should Be There

For the traveler who’s looking to do more than just see Ghana—for the one who wants to feel it—Chale Wote is unmissable. You won’t just take photos. You’ll take part. You’ll come for the spectacle and stay for the soul of it all—the colors that refuse to fade, the strangers who feel like family, the conversations that stick with you long after you’ve gone home. And when it’s all over, you’ll understand: this wasn’t just a trip. It was a transformation.

So, chale… let’s go. Let’s discover Ghana together, one mural, one drumbeat, one dance at a time.
 

Traveling internationally can be exciting, but it also comes with its fair share of surprises. I learned this firsthand during my very first trip to the United States from Ghana, accompanied by a colleague who had made the journey before.

We flew with KLM, departing from Accra with a scheduled layover in Amsterdam before continuing to our destination: Houston, Texas. The itinerary seemed perfect, a smooth 3-hour layover in Amsterdam to catch our connecting flight. However, things quickly took a turn.  

Our flight from Accra was delayed, cutting our comfortable layover down to a stressful 30 minutes. The real challenge began when we landed in Amsterdam: we had to pass through security again, and the queue was incredibly long. Panic set in. Missing our flight felt almost inevitable.  

Thinking quickly, my colleague approached the security agent at the front of the line and explained our situation, pleading for permission to go ahead. Unfortunately, the agent couldn’t allow it, citing that many others in line also had connecting flights and were equally pressed for time.

We didn’t give up. Instead, we patiently stood by and kindly shared our story with the passengers at the front of the queue. To our relief and gratitude, they empathized with us and let us move ahead. We made it through security and reached our gate just in time for boarding.

What’s the key takeaway from this stressful experience? Always account for potential delays when booking international flights with layovers.

Travel Tip:

When traveling internationally, especially through busy transit hubs like Amsterdam, choose layovers of at least 3 hours – and longer if possible. Flight delays, unexpected queues, or additional security checks can shrink your connection window drastically. A seemingly safe layover can turn into a frantic dash through terminals. It’s better to have extra time than to risk missing your flight.

And remember – kindness and clear communication can go a long way when you're in a bind. We made it through thanks to the understanding strangers who helped us. 
 

Deborah Dankyi

Long before I ever got close to it, Mount Kenya was already part of my life.

Back then, we didn’t see it as a place people visited. It was just there quiet, tall, watching us. On clear mornings, when I went to fetch firewood or walked to the shamba, I’d stop and look at it. Its white peak hanging above the clouds. Sharp. Beautiful. The elders didn’t say much about it, but they always faced it when they prayed. They lowered their voices when it showed itself. And no one ever pointed at it with a finger. Only with lips or a nod.

Even as kids, we knew it meant something.

Years later, I went to Mount Kenya National Park. Not to hike or take photos. I just wanted to see it up close to feel what had always felt far away.

The forest was cool and quiet. I walked slowly. The trees were tall, the air smelled like wet soil and leaves. Birds sang somewhere high up. I heard water flowing and monkeys calling in the distance. I didn’t rush. I wanted to take it all in.

Then I saw it. The mountain. Clear and full. Just standing there, the way it always did, but now I was close. I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, the same way I used to stand as a child, looking up at it from home.

There was no crowd, no noise, no guide explaining anything. Just the mountain and me.

I bent down near a stream, scooped water in my hands, and drank. Cold. Fresh. It tasted like home.

In that moment, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Like the mountain knew me. Like it had been waiting.

Some places don’t speak loudly. But they stay with you. And when you finally return, they welcome you without a word.

Mount Kenya is one of those places.

 

I still remember the first time I stepped into Nairobi. The moment I got off the matatu, everything hit me at once the honking, the shouting, the rush of bodies moving in every direction. The city felt alive and overwhelming, a far cry from the quiet I was used to. But even in that chaos, something inside me stirred, curiosity, maybe even excitement.

The smell of roasted maize lingered in the air as I made my way toward the Giraffe Centre. I had seen giraffes in books and on TV, but standing that close to one, with its long eyelashes and gentle eyes, was something else. I stretched out my hand, a pellet between my fingers, and watched in awe as a giraffe leaned in to eat. There was a quiet calm in that place, so unlike the city’s loud energy, and yet it made me feel like both belonged to the same Kenya.

Later, I visited Nairobi National Park. It still amazes me that just a short distance from tall buildings and busy roads, there’s this vast space where lions, zebras, and buffaloes roam free. I stood there, watching a herd of zebras move slowly across the plains, and behind them, the city skyline stood tall. It was like two worlds meeting, nature and concrete, without clashing.

I stopped by the Karen Blixen Museum, where I felt like the old house was holding onto stories. The wide veranda, the tall trees, the view of Ngong Hills it all felt deeply rooted, like the kind of place that remembers everything. Walking through those rooms, I thought of the people who had passed through, the voices, the dreams.

By the time hunger crept in, I found myself at Carnivore, the famous nyama choma spot along Langata Road. The scent of sizzling meat filled the air as waiters brought endless skewers to the table. That first bite smoky, hot, and perfectly charred tasted like something familiar and festive all at once. It wasn’t just about the food. It was the atmosphere, the laughter around me, the music in the background it all made me feel like I had stumbled into a celebration.

Before sunset, I wandered into Karura Forest. The city noise faded behind me as I followed the trails, listening to birds and the crunch of leaves underfoot. There was peace there, the kind that reminded me of childhood, the simplicity, the stillness, the air untouched by smoke and noise.

That day, Nairobi surprised me. It wasn't just tall buildings and busy roads. It was giraffes and forests, nyama choma and stories in old homes. It was wild and tender at the same time. A city that, in its own way, quietly pulls you in and says you belong here too. 

 

I grew up in an area where nature was not considered a destination but a way of life. The river lulled us to sleep. The trees gave us some secrets as we sauntered to the shamba. We lived among the hills, valleys and birdcalls.  

Wonder was not part of our vocabulary. It was never a necessity. Everything that surrounded us was part of our routine while heading out for grazing, fetching firewood, or even swimming on the hotter days.  

There was a waterfall quite close to home but even visited it wasn’t highly regarded. In fact, it was just a place where water falls. It had no special name, which was just the way we liked it, as it allowed us to cool off, wash our legs, and let our voices blend with the roar echoing around.  

Now, just descripted without any embellishment turn it into a gated tourist site or an amusement park. Cameras became a long traveling necessity in order to truly capture the raging waterfall. Ironically Enough, people traveled extremely far just to stop where, to soul search, as I could just pay to be free. This roar was ever present, and all that needed to change was me.  

As we so often say “a single oak” has not altered at all, but the beauty surrounding it is unfortunately hard to come by.

There are moments when I question how many locations such as this we have passed and left behind—fragments of beauty we failed to appreciate at that point of time in our lives. What number of rivers, hills and forests still silently wait for us to recognize them?  

If you have stayed away for an extended period of time, perhaps the feeling of reddish-brown soil beneath your feet, or the pungent scent of rain falling on parched land is something you have forgotten. But nature always has a way of remembering you.  

It’s time to return but not for a trip, rather, for a complete immersive experience. Not to snap pictures, but to breathe in the reality surrounding you. Perhaps the earth still cradles your name in its arms, even if you do not recall how it resonates. 

 

I grew up in rural central Kenya, in a small village in Murang’a County. Shoes were a luxury for most of us. If you had a pair, they were probably hand-me-downs from a cousin in the city; worn out or too big, but you wore them like they were gold because they meant someone remembered you.

Shoes were only for special occasions like church, weddings, or burials. To school, we went barefoot. The classrooms weren’t even cemented, and during dry seasons, the dust would choke the air. We would carry water in jerrycans just to try to keep it down, but that didn’t stop the jiggers. The fleas from the bare soil would burrow into our feet, and it hurt to walk. But we still showed up. Limping, dusty, barefoot, but we were there.

In some homes, even the fathers didn’t own shoes. One pair would be shared among the family if the feet were close enough in size. I never had shoes that fit properly. They were always too big, “so you can grow into them.” And we never washed them after one wear. You didn’t risk wearing them out too fast.

When I turned ten, things started to change. My parents could afford to buy me shoes, but even then, wearing them to school felt odd. We were so used to being barefoot that shoes felt like something for other people. Sometimes we would carry them in our bags and only wear them when we had to.

Then, a philanthropist from our community began donating shoes and organizing campaigns to teach hygiene and how to keep the fleas away. We went home with a pair of shoes, and it wasn’t just about the shoes it was about being seen, about knowing we were worthy of something more.

Shoes taught me that true wealth is not in what you wear, but in how you walk through life. Whether barefoot or in the finest shoes, it’s your heart that matters. 

The journey from walking barefoot to wearing shoes mirrors travel. At first, travel can feel uncomfortable, and the path ahead may seem uncertain, but each step shapes us. Travel teaches us resilience, pushing through discomfort and embracing the unknown. It also reminds us to appreciate the small comforts we often take for granted and highlights the importance of community, connecting with others and sharing experiences. 

 

The first time I went to Malindi, I didn’t even know what I was looking for. I just wanted peace. The moment I arrived, everything felt different. The breeze was warm, people looked relaxed, and the ocean moved like it had all the time in the world.

I stayed in a small guesthouse with coconut trees and a sandy path to the beach. In the mornings, I walked barefoot along the shore. The sea was calm. Fishermen pulled in their nets, kids laughed and splashed in the water, and life just moved at its own slow pace.

The town smelled of fish frying, spices, and salty air. One day I went to the Gedi Ruins. It was quiet. Old coral walls stood among trees. I touched the stone and imagined the people who once lived there. It felt peaceful, like the place was still breathing its old stories.

Evenings were for slow walks. I would grab some roasted cassava or fried fish and sit by the ocean. Watching the sunset over the water made everything else fade away. And at night, when the stars came out, I didn’t need anything else.

Malindi doesn’t try to impress you. It just welcomes you. And if you let it, it gives you something back—quiet, calm, and space to think. 
 

I grew up in rural Kenya, where you spoke your mother tongue Kikuyu, for me. It’s what we spoke at home, in the market, everywhere. Swahili? It was something we learned for exams, nothing more. English? Only for when a visitor came around. Life was simple, everyone spoke the same language, lived the same way.

Then I came to Nairobi.

And everything changed. The first time I walked into the city, I felt like I had stepped into another world. People spoke so many different languages. Luo, Luhya, Kisii, Maasai, Somali sometimes I just smiled and nodded because I couldn’t understand a word. Swahili became my only lifeline. It wasn’t always perfect, but it worked. It was what helped me ask for directions, buy food, or even just talk to someone when I didn’t know what else to say.

But beyond the words, what hit me was the different cultures. You could see it in the food, the way people greeted each other, how they named their children. One guy says niaje, another says sasa, and yet you still get by. I ate omena with a Luo friend and had no clue whether I was supposed to chew or swallow it whole. I had mursik with a Kalenjin and pretended like I knew what was going on. I watched a Luhya friend bring home a chicken and realized there’s no one way to cook it. There’s always something new to learn about food, names, beliefs, customs.

It’s like Kenya is made of all these little pieces; different languages, beliefs, traditions but somehow, we find a way to live together. Sometimes it’s rough, sometimes it’s smooth, but we always find a way.

So, when people come to Kenya, I tell them yes, visit the animals, see the beaches. But don’t forget to sit with the people. Ask them what they eat, how they greet, what they believe. That’s where you’ll find the real Kenya. Not in the common things, but in the differences, the stuff that makes us unique. And yet, somehow, it all ties us together.