Somewhere on the eastern brim of Ghana, West Africa, beneath a waterfall that separates Ghana from Togo, my dampened name stays etched in a fallen tree.
As we arrived at the fall’s base, we peered up into the sky, waters ever reaching, and were floored by its majesty. Wli falls, the tallest in West Africa, roared off a cliff high into the sky. Its waters came pouring down in a steady torrent. Sunlight flickered through its mist as a smattering of rainbow crescents formed in its aura. We stood there–my fellow travelers and I–soaking in the beauty and embracing the crisp mist across our sweaty faces.
From behind us, we heard our guide, Francis, ask “Do you want to go to the top?” He was smiling at us when we turned around.
“This isn’t the top?!” we replied in shock and excitement.
“This is only half.” His loyal adventure dog, Jack, sat at his feet. “Most people don’t go to the upper falls.”
“Of course!” we screamed, not caring about the path ahead.
“Okay, let’s go,” he yelled out with a wave of his hand. He continued smiling as he turned around and started walking straight up the hills of the dense tropical bushes and trees, no evident path in sight.
In a steady, one-hour hike straight upwards through a rainforest of mud and tropical thickets, we slowly made our way. Every few minutes Jack excitedly dashed past our feet, as if to hurry our pace. It turns out the upper falls had been closed for months due to heavy rain and mudslides. But Francis and Jack were adventurers and assured us there were safe passageways to the top. With the support of thick fallen sticks as staffs, we followed in tandem as they confidently navigated the overgrown jungle.
In time, the roaring waters grew louder, and the thickets waned. A clearing opened, revealing another waterfall, wider and grander than the last. We’d arrived at the highest walkable point of the tallest waterfall in West Africa. Pleased with our success, Francis merely says, “Go ahead. Swim!”
With jubilation, we stripped our clothes and quickly tiptoed our way to the fall’s basin, which formed a big natural pool. The water was refreshing upon our skin, which was hot and damp with sweat. We splashed and frolicked, reacquainted with feelings of innocence. Finally, we made our way under the falling waters, which whipped and thrashes at our backs like dull shards of glass. Its weight was sharp and intense, almost frightening, but inspired awe.
In my travel journal, which I’ve taken on every international trip since 2009, I chronicled my experience of this particular day at the falls:
June 27th, 2012: “…As we yelled and shouted in joy and an overwhelming sense of adrenaline and wonder, I thought one thing… I’m so happy to be alive.”
It was the first time I recall saying these words. I am happy to be alive. I’d been in the throes of depression for almost a decade. But travel changed everything about me. It filled a sad boy with glee. Eliminated, even if temporarily, the anxiety-induced stomach cramps that had me in knots for years.
Everything about this existence is an unlikely miracle. I owe it to myself to better understand this place and all who call it home.
I have dozens of memories like these. Small snapshots with existential force from miscellaneous corners of the world. By the time I was 24, I’d traveled to Ghana, Uganda, Rwanda, Sierra Leone, Mexico, Sweden, Finland, Honduras, Costa Rica, and others, many of them several times. My family never had the money to fund them, but through scholarships, fundraising and my early work in international relief, I found my way to far off places. My early adulthood took me to places I’d only imagined as a child, daydreaming about the world on a park bench.
Sharing biscuits with the children of a small orphanage atop a 10,000 foot peak of Mt. Rwenzori in Uganda. Ziplining 1,000 feet over the rainforests of Costa Rica. Reading children’s books and exchanging language with the youth of Tegucigalpa, Honduras. Traversing the clear-water caves of Mexico on ATVs. One otherworldly experience after another, travel altered my relationship with the planet, its people and its ideologies. It shifted my perception of my country, family, community and religion. Most importantly, it crystallized what was most sacred to me—joy, human connection, laughter, companionship, contentment.
Now at 33, my wife and I share a pinnable cork map, which hangs over the desk in my home office. Pinned in black are all the places I’ve traveled. Pinned in white are all the places she’s traveled. And in red are all the places we’ve had the fortune of adventuring together. Every year, the board gets more crowded. Our vision is to spend our lifetime unearthing the depths of this planet together until the map is full.
We should probably save more money, but life is meant to be lived. We are alive and capable of consciousness in a ball of dust Carl Sagan famously called the “pale blue dot.” Everything about this existence is an unlikely miracle. I owe it to myself to better understand this place and all who call it home.
Questions for the Community
What place changed your perception of the world? What is a place you’ve always wanted to visit? What pin are you hoping to drop next?
To read more of the “On Living” series, visit the Overture archive here.
First of all, my very first comment has to be that you're an incredible writer. I deeply enjoyed this essay from start to end; I hummed, smiled and nodded my way through your storytelling. I'm now excited to read through the rest of the essays in this series, so thank you for such visceral writing. I also want to comment on how much of your experiences I resonate with. I especially felt joyful when I read how you rediscovered your love for life (and life's love for you). Can't wait to read more! And Ghana is actually a country next on my list, I can't wait to add that pin and see it for myself.
So glad you’re traveling. Thank you for sharing this beautiful work and these gorgeous photos.