The Slave Castles of Ghana-Apam and Jamestown

Exploring Ghana’s Lesser-Known Slave History: A Journey to Apam

November 2019: With just two days in Ghana, I wanted to delve into the country’s harrowing past and visit some of its slave castles—remnants of a dark chapter in both European and African history. As one of the British Empire’s major slave ports, Ghana holds an undeniable connection to the transatlantic slave trade. I also hoped to experience a different side of modern Ghana by visiting the gritty street boxing gyms of inner-city Accra. But rather than heading to the more well-known Cape Coast or Elmina castles, I sought out something more obscure—a forgotten relic of history in a small coastal town. That’s how I found myself drawn to Apam.

Day 1: To Apam

After a long transatlantic flight, my friend and I checked into the Radisson Blu, met up with our pre-arranged driver and guide, and wasted no time setting off for Apam. Located about 100 miles from Accra, this small fishing village is home to Fort Lijdzaamheid, a modest slave trading outpost built in the 1600s by the Dutch and later used by the British.

The drive was grueling. Accra’s notorious traffic turned what should have been a straightforward journey into a three-to-four-hour slog. But as we finally rolled into Apam, I knew the detour had been worth it.

Apam felt different from what I had expected of Ghana—a country well-traveled by foreign tourists. Here, there were no crowds, no major landmarks drawing in hordes of visitors. It was quiet, almost untouched by tourism, giving it an authenticity that I hadn’t anticipated. Even our guide admitted he had never been here before.

This was a place I had found simply by scouring Google Earth, drawn to its secluded coastline and historic remnants. And as I stepped out of the car, looking around at the small town with its rustic fishing boats bobbing along the shore, I had the sense that I had stumbled upon something truly off the beaten path.

Location of the small fishing village of Apam

Apam: A Glimpse into Ghana’s Forgotten Slave History

As we wandered through Apam, it became clear that tourists were a rarity here. People greeted us with curious stares and warm smiles—some welcoming, others simply intrigued by our presence. Unlike the bustling cities of Ghana, Apam had a raw, unfiltered charm. Dusty roads crisscrossed through clusters of makeshift wooden shacks, their rusted tin roofs barely holding together. Streams of sewage trickled along the streets, flowing directly into the ocean, where fishermen worked undeterred, hauling in their daily catch and cleaning fish right on the shore before heading to the market.

But standing above it all, casting a long shadow over the town, was Fort Patience—a stark and haunting reminder of the past. Unlike Cape Coast or Elmina, which were built by the British, Fort Patience was a Dutch creation, constructed in the early 1700s. Initially built to defend Dutch trading interests along the coast, the fort eventually became part of the transatlantic slave trade, holding captives before they were forced onto ships bound for the Dutch colonies in the Americas.

The contrast was striking—life in Apam continued much as it had for generations, yet history lingered heavily in the air. The fort, once a site of unimaginable suffering, now stood quietly over the village, its whitewashed walls peeling under the relentless African sun. As I stood before it, I couldn’t help but wonder how many had passed through these walls, never to return.

Location of the small fishing village of Apam with a large fleet of local fishing boats lining the beaches

Arriving in Apam: A Step Back in Time

Our journey into Apam took us off the main highway and onto a small dirt road, winding its way through the outskirts of town. As we entered, it became clear that this was a place untouched by mass tourism. In many parts of Ghana, locals are wary of having their photos taken, but here, reactions varied—some people were indifferent, while others smiled and even posed for pictures, eager to engage with us.

Before heading to the fort, we stopped at a small roadside eatery for lunch. There was nothing fancy about it—just a few wooden tables, a simple menu, and the aroma of spices wafting through the air. We ordered a traditional Ghanaian meal, eager to taste what the locals ate daily. The food was hearty and filling, a perfect introduction to the flavors of the region. Sitting there, surrounded by the sounds of the town—children laughing, the chatter of market vendors, the rhythmic pounding of fufu being prepared—we felt immersed in Apam’s everyday life.

Fort Patience

View from the top of Fort Patience

Old decaying windows of Fort Patience

Exploring Fort Patience: A Haunting Reminder of the Past

After finishing our meal, we made our way up the hill to Fort Patience, its weathered white walls standing in stark contrast to the deep blue of the Atlantic beyond. The fort wasn’t bustling with tourists or guides waiting to give tours—instead, we had to ask around the village to find the guard who held the key. A local boy eagerly ran off to retrieve him, and a few minutes later, the guard arrived, key in hand. We paid the modest $2 entrance fee, and he led us through the heavy wooden doors into the fort’s silent, empty corridors.

The guard didn’t speak English fluently, instead conversing in Akan, so our guide translated as we walked through the crumbling passageways. He led us to a small, dark chamber—a space so grim it was difficult to stand inside for long. This, he told us, was where enslaved Africans were shackled, sometimes as many as a hundred at a time, awaiting the ships that would carry them across the Atlantic. The air inside felt heavy, as if the suffering of the past still lingered within the stone walls.

Unlike the more restored and touristic slave castles of Ghana, Fort Patience had an eerie, abandoned feel, making it all the more powerful. There were no polished exhibits or information plaques—just the unfiltered weight of history. Standing there in the dim light, looking at the rusted iron rings embedded in the walls, I could only imagine the horror that had taken place here centuries ago.

Dungeun room where slaves were kept

Old Wooden Fort Patience Door

Fort Patience

Room for Guests that want to sleep in Fort Patience

A Night in a Slave Castle? Almost.

As our tour of Fort Patience came to an end, the guard casually mentioned something unexpected—the castle was available for overnight stays. For just $15 a night, visitors could sleep in one of its simple, no-frills rooms, high above the town with sweeping views of the ocean.

For me, this was an opportunity I would have jumped at in a heartbeat. The idea of spending the night in an old Dutch fortress, perched on a hilltop overlooking the crashing waves and the quiet town of Apam, felt like the ultimate off-the-beaten-path experience. The atmosphere, the history, the solitude—it all seemed incredible.

But my travel companion wasn’t quite as enthusiastic. They preferred the comfort of our modern hotel in Accra, with air-conditioning, plush beds, and running water. So, reluctantly, I let the idea go. As we made our way back down the hill, I took one last look at the fort, imagining what it would have been like to watch the sunrise over the Atlantic from its weathered stone walls. Maybe next time.

Typical scene of a local woman carrying merchandise on her head

Small fishing village of Apam

Fishing boats with American flags

Local checkers game, Apam

Location of the small fishing village of Apam

A Not-So-Pleasant Parting Gift from Apam

Before leaving Apam, I decided to take a stroll along the beach, soaking in the last bit of the town’s coastal charm. But what should have been a relaxing walk quickly turned into an absolute nightmare. I stepped directly into human feces.

It was caked deep into the tread of my brand-new hiking shoes, and no amount of scrubbing in the ocean or scraping with a rock seemed to make a difference. The stench was unbearable, and the thought of what I had just stepped in made my stomach churn. Defeated, I had no choice but to remove my shoes entirely to avoid smearing the filth all over our driver’s car. So, for the long, traffic-clogged journey back to Accra, I sat barefoot, trying to suppress my disgust.

As if things couldn’t get worse, Accra’s traffic was at a complete standstill. With just a mile left to our hotel and no signs of movement, we made a call: sitting in the car was pointless. So, we grabbed our bags, got out, and walked the final stretch to the hotel. Barefoot, exhausted, and still reeling from the day’s misfortune, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Ghana had given me a fascinating look into its history, a taste of its local life, and—unfortunately—a very unwelcome souvenir from the beaches of Apam.

Back at our 5-star hotel, I knew I had one final battle to fight. Armed with all the spare towels I could find, I set to work scrubbing the rank, foul-smelling filth from my shoes in the bathroom sink. The stench was overwhelming, and I had to fight back waves of nausea. Every scrub only seemed to reactivate the horror of the situation.

But in the end, I was victorious. My shoes were finally clean. The soiled towels, however, were beyond saving—I left them in the hallway, wanting to remove every last trace of the ordeal from my room. I doubt many guests at this luxury hotel have had to decontaminate their hiking shoes from human waste in the bathroom sink, but that night, I certainly did.

Locals in Apam

17th Century British James Fort

Day 2: Exploring Jamestown – A Morning Buffet and an Unexpected Condom Shower

My travel companion, as is his tradition in big cities, had chosen a nice hotel with a sprawling breakfast buffet, and there was no way we were going to let it go to waste. So, after loading up on eggs, fresh fruit, and enough pastries to fuel us for the day, we set off with our driver-guide to explore Jamestown, the old heart of Accra, stretching along the coast.

For once, the notorious Accra traffic was merciful—it was Sunday, and the streets were unusually clear. As soon as we entered Jamestown, the contrast with modern Accra was striking. Crumbled British colonial buildings, relics of the past, lined the roads, their faded facades telling stories of a bygone era. But just as we were taking in the scenery, our driver abruptly stopped.

Up ahead, a large procession of people was making its way down the street, and we had no choice but to wait. It wasn’t just any procession—this was a lively, high-energy parade of teenagers, drumming, dancing, and singing. As they got closer, I noticed their signs: “Stop Teenage Pregnancy” and “HIV is Real”. Then, to my surprise, I realized they were throwing condoms into the crowd.

Before I could react, dozens of condoms came flying through my open car window, pelting me like hail. One bounced off my shoulder, another landed in my lap. I looked at my travel companion, who was struggling to contain his laughter.

I had experienced many things while traveling, but getting ambushed by airborne condoms in the streets of Accra? That was a first.

Jamestown beach

Jamestown’s Beach Slums: A Struggle Against Displacement

After parking, we were immediately swarmed by aggressive guides, all vying for our business. Exploring Jamestown’s slums without one wasn’t wise, so we hired a guide for a small fee.

Our first stop was the beach slums, a dense shantytown sprawled beneath Fort James, a former British slave castle turned prison. Thousands live here with nowhere else to go, surviving off fishing and small trade. Amidst the harsh conditions, children played, women balanced baskets on their heads, and fishermen cleaned their catch along the polluted shoreline.

But the community faces an uncertain future. A controversial Chinese fish processing plant is set for construction, threatening to displace all residents with no clear relocation plan. As we walked through, the weight of their struggle was palpable—a community on the edge of erasure in the name of development.

Fisherman in Jamestown

Beach slum Jamestown

Anger, Boxing, and the Tunnels of Jamestown

Many in the Jamestown slum, including our guide and the local fishermen, were furious about the impending Chinese fish processing plant. Beyond the mass displacement, they feared it would wipe out the fishing industry, their only source of livelihood. Their frustration was palpable, a community feeling powerless against forces beyond their control.

Jamestown is also famous for producing world-class boxers, known for their grit and toughness. Most come from the streets, where they learn to fight in gang rivalries before finding discipline in the boxing gyms, which offer an escape from crime. We visited one, but since it was Sunday morning, it was eerily empty.

Nearby, our guide pointed to a dark opening in the ground and motioned for us to follow. Stepping inside, we found ourselves in a narrow, humid tunnel, stretching into the darkness. He explained that this passage, which ran for over a mile to Fort James, was once used by the British to store and transport slaves to the castle before their forced journey overseas. The air was heavy, thick with history and suffering. It was a chilling reminder of Jamestown’s past—a past that still lingers beneath its streets.

Jamestown slum and Sign showing new fish processing center that will be built here by the Chinese

Jamestown boxing gym

Mile long slave tunnel leading to Fort James

Gangs of Jamestown: A City Divided

Walking through Jamestown felt like stepping into a real-life version of Gangs of New York. The area is divided among rival street gangs, each with its own territory, leaders, and unwritten rules. Among them are the English-speaking gang and the French-speaking gang, along with several others. Each has its own “king”, and violence can erupt at any moment.

While exploring, we witnessed a brawl between youths escalate rapidly. Within minutes, police swarmed the scene, and our guide immediately ushered us away. His warning was firm: “No photos—unless you want trouble.” In Jamestown, respect for the rules isn’t optional—it’s survival.

Local king’s residence in Jamestown