Chasing Ithaca

Gallery: Finland!

chasing_ithaca — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 03:23:00 GMT

Husky Safari

chasing_ithaca — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 03:21:00 GMT

Christmas Eve in Finland: it is cold, freezing actually, and very, very white. Far from the familiar Australian summer, I am at last experiencing a white Christmas, and it is beautiful.

Eager to sample some Finnish culture, as well as a dash of adventure, I commence my Nordic sojourn in the picturesque town of Porvoo, 50km east of Helsinki in Southern Finland, where I meet with some Finnish friends.

The cobbled streets of Porvoo’s old town meander peacefully towards the frozen river, which is lined with red timber warehouses and a forest of skeleton trees. I curiously explore the labyrinth of welcoming little stores whose sweet aromas of chocolate, hot wine and salted liquorice easily entice the euros from my pockets.

The temperature has plunged well below zero and every surface is covered in a thick layer of perfect, powdery snow, its flawlessness disturbed only by the soft light of flickering candles, carefully placed in shop windows and doorways to let passers-by know they are welcome to enter.

Excited children, buried in thick coats, woolly hats and mittens, take a last look in the windows of toy shops, wondering if their letters reached Lapland safely. We, on the other hand, are hoping to hand deliver our letters to the man himself, or at least have a look around his home turf.

Alas, it is time to leave behind the quaint delights of Porvoo, all too briefly visited, and head north in search of the wilder, tougher and colder side of the country. Piling into my friends car, complete with chains on the wheels and heated seats, we begin our road trip which will take us through the heart of Finland to Kuusamo, a remote area teetering on the southern edge of Lapland and flanked by the Russian border, some 800km north of Porvoo. Kuusamo, it is said, is blessed with ample forests, abundant lakes and rivers, and spectacular National Park.

Our road trip is long and painstakingly slow and my hopes of enjoying the scenery are quickly extinguished as the already scarce hours of daylight are besieged by an incessant blizzard, disguising the landscape and cloaking us in an impenetrable, icy cocoon. Patches of hazardous ice and frequent bouts of snow-blindness forced us to regularly pull over, the road and countryside merging into one indistinguishable blanket of white.

No shops or service stations are open during the journey, making obvious the fact that Finland is a sparsely populated nation currently in hibernation. Wisely, the Finns are safely tucked away in their houses, sheltering from the bitter cold and preparing to exchange Christmas gifts and munch on pastries, liquorice and other sweet delights.

The only other cars we pass along the way betray glimpses of jolly old men donning red suits and fake white beards, likely destined for Christmas party gigs and perhaps even a sooty chimney or two. The previous Christmas, I am told, there was a five car pile-up on the highway along which we are now ploughing. Bemused police had arrived on site to find five Santa Clauses, chilly but unharmed.

The dearth of places to stop for sustenance soon sees the packs of dried reindeer meat (consumed with ever so slight pangs of guilt) and deliriously good Fazer chocolate, originally destined for a place beneath the Christmas tree, sacrificed to stave off our hunger. Improvised toilet stops are made by the roadside, in holes swiftly dug in the thigh-deep snow. Hurried attempts are made to bare as little skin as possible and as quickly as possible, the fear of ill-placed frostbite, or a passing Santa, all too prevalent. The fuel tank is topped up at deserted self-serve petrol stations and arguments are fought out over who gets to sit in the front of the car, thus enjoying the added comfort of a heated seat.

Finally, a treacherous 800km and 13 hours later, we arrive in Kuusamo, tired and more than happy to fall into our cosy log cabin beds.

The midmorning dawn welcomes a spectacularly clear and mild Christmas Day, and we wake to the permeating and delicious scent of native pine. Munching on rye bread and beetroot salad, we don our thermals and reluctantly abandon the comforting warmth of our snug cottage.

We are heading to Oulanka National Park, where a yuletide adventure awaits: Husky Safari! This, I am hoping, will soften the memory of our long and tedious road trip and will most certainly offer a stark contrast to the heat, sand and barbecues of which our southern hemisphere Christmases ordinarily comprise.

Arriving at the Husky camp, a fractured chorus of piercing howls greets us. Tied to their snow-peaked houses, the Huskies sense our approach and thrust their noses skywards to perform their boisterous song. Overcome with excitement, the dogs begin pulling desperately against their long chains, frenetically anticipating imminent action.

“This is what they live for,” explains Laura, one of our guides, bounding over to greet us. “Sleighing is in their blood. They just want to run.”

After carefully absorbing the sleighing instructions from our guide and heeding the warning that, due to their diet of raw meat, we may occasionally be bombarded with bouts of doggy flatulence, we are ready for our overland adventure. The dogs are organised into teams of six, the humans into teams of two. Then, sturdily strung together, we set off in convoy across an immense frozen lake, the dogs setting a blistering pace as we approach a sea of snow-covered pines on the horizon.

The sleighs are traditional, fashioned from treated timber and leather. The passenger sits inside the sleigh, huddled in animal skins and intimately feeling every bump over which the sleigh hurtles. The driver stands on the back, buoyed by the wind in their face and charged with controlling speed and direction. This requires the driver to lean heavily into corners and, when needing to stop, throw all their weight onto the clawed metallic foot-brake, straining against the adrenalin-fuelled strength of the dogs.

Intermittently swapping drivers, we weave our way through kilometres of pristine and silent wilderness, our ears filled only with the soft sound of panting Huskies and the crunch of ice and snow under paw and blade.

The energy of the dogs seems boundless, though during the more strenuous uphill runs they cheekily glance over their shoulders, ensuring that the driver has jumped off the sleigh and is helping to push.

“They’re temperamental,” shouts Laura. “They don’t like to think they have to do all the hard work!”

Leading the sleigh seems to be hot work and the Huskies sporadically plunge their muzzles into the powdery snow, seeking cool relief. The human contingent, plunging frozen hands into woolly mittens and tugging thick scarves over frozen noses, desperately wish that they were as well insulated as their furry chauffeurs.

Mid afternoon arrives and the gentle twilight succumbs to darkness as our convoy arrives back at camp. The passengers, stiff from the invasive cold on idle limbs, gingerly uncurl themselves, while the drivers enjoy the final lingering chill of the evening air on their sweaty brows. Exhilaration and exhaustion make for a satisfying combination. Much to our delight, a raging campfire awaits us, hot tea and foil-clad sausages placed among the crackling flames.

Perched upon tepid logs and warmed by the fire’s intensity, we reflect on our day. Nobody speaks as we slurp our tea and devour our well-earned fare, with more than a morsel or two being flung towards our canine companions. Our tired but content faces, glowing in flicker of the fire, say it all: what an incredible way to spend Christmas. Just magic.

If you go: http://www.kuusamon-era-safari.fi/eng/huskysafaris.html

La Lingua Franca

chasing_ithaca — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 03:18:00 GMT

Learning a foreign language is not easy. In fact, it can be extremely challenging, frustrating and, as I learned during my sojourn in France as an English language assistant, highly amusing. Especially for other people.

Having studied French at university, I left Australia and descended on the city of Strasbourg to live and breathe all that is French. Having endured two years of tedious grammatical study, I knew how to read and write in French with relative ease. Now, armed with a nasal guffaw at the ready, a pocket dictionary and a brimful of confidence, I was sure that I would have the local parlance under control in no time. How hard could it possibly be?

I found myself teaching English at one of Strasbourg’s most prestigious high schools, and while I was the sole Anglophone at the school, I was joined by other language assistants whose native tongues were varied: Italian, Spanish and German, to name a few. We were a melting pot of cultures and languages, and together we exuded a spectrum of dodgy accents. And much to the amusement of the friendly locals, our road to linguistic competency was fraught with many a blurt, stumble and highly embarrassing indiscretion.

While we soon mastered the essential, every day tasks such as ordering ridiculous amounts of croissants and baguettes and asking the waiter to bring another round of vin de la maison, we began to run into trouble when, emboldened by the ever increasing number of French people who could actually understand what we were saying, we decided to dip our toes into the pool of unnecessary and unprovoked conversation.

The first major linguistic mishap belonged to my Italian colleague who, one morning joining in a conversation about the anticipated activities of the impending winter holidays, attempted to announce to the entire teaching staff her fondness for alpine sports. ‘J’adore chier!’ she expounded enthusiastically. Her zest was met with horrified stares. Unfortunately, her intended phrase, ‘J’adore skier’ (I love to ski), is remarkably similar to her actual utterance of, ‘I love to s**t!’

The next red-faced moment belonged to my Spanish colleague. Hailing from southern Spain, she pronounces the letter ‘v’ much like the letter ‘b’. What matter, one may ask? Alas, in matters of the tongue, slight variations in pronunciation can result in major deviations from the intended meaning. One afternoon, whilst summonsing her class of lethargic teenagers, she smiled innocently at the top of the stairs whilst yelling fervently, ‘Vite! Vite! Vite!’ Imagining that she was telling her class to hurry up, she realised, upon the hysterical laughter that erupted, that her innocent mispronunciation of the letter ‘v’ transformed what was a legitimate request to hurry along into a not-so-discreet repetition of the name of a certain male appendage, ‘bite.’

Sadly, I was not immune from sticking my proverbial foot in my proverbial mouth. For me, humiliation came after sharing a typical meal of cheese, wine, more wine and bread with some French friends. Oh, the bread! So soft and aromatic! Not like the stuff we get in Australia. Reclining in my chair and stroking my sated tummy, I ventured to make conversation and compliment the French on the superiority of their baked goods. With furrowed brow I began to explore the culinary intricacies which may explain such a difference in quality. ‘There can only be one explanation,’ I proffered. ‘You see, in Australia, the bread is full of ‘les preservatifs’. An awkward silence, followed by an exchange of confused glances, quickly evolved into hysterical, tear-jerking gasps of laughter. Well, I thought, there are lots of preservatives in our bread. What is so funny?!

I fumbled for my pocket dictionary. Oh bugger.

I had been well and truly booby-trapped by a language student’s worst nightmare: the false friend. This is a word which sounds and looks almost exactly like the English word but, sadly, has an entirely different meaning. Realising my error, I joined in with the raucous convulsions of laughter. Shaking my head, I decided that accidentally telling a table full of French people that Australia’s bread is full of condoms is all just part of the rough, rollicking but awesome ride that is learning another language.

Bush Fish Anyone?

chasing_ithaca — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 03:05:00 GMT

“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.

No Ordinary Castle

chasing_ithaca — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 03:02:00 GMT

There is something menacing about the way the Atlantic Ocean crashes against the murky sand of the Ghanaian coastline, giving it an eerie and treacherous demeanour. Despite the heat, I shiver as we speed along the rubbish strewn shore, the harbour town of Elmina beckoning in the distance.

Threatening clouds of the wet season hang heavily on the horizon, and powerful white-water crashes against the rocks over which a stark and imposing castle looms. The drive to Elmina is a sombre one.

Our taxi speeds along a highway which shoots like an arrow between the sea and a string of densely bundled mud huts. The inhabitants, obviously in the grip of a seamless cycle of poverty which plagues much of West Africa, spill out of their windowless abodes to cook, giving the air a smoky hue. Burned out wrecks of taxis and mini-vans appear on the highway’s edge from time to time, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

As we reach the outskirts of Elmina, we encounter a herd of goats which quickly brings the taxi to a halt, and we decide to walk last kilometre or so into town. My husband and I soon find ourselves sharing the road into town not only with goats, but an excited throng of children on their way home from school. One of the smallest comes to introduce himself and we soon have a new friend, Samuel, who proudly escorts us through the village.

Elmina, a small fishing community in Ghana’s Central Region, is a colourful town straddling a tranquil harbour, approximately 250km west of Accra, the nation’s capital. When the Portuguese moored here in 1482, seeking gold and ivory, they found themselves with the perfect location to build what is now known as St George’s Castle: a sturdy and whitewashed structure used to secure and facilitate their mercantile activities.

The Portuguese, however, soon began to use the castle for what they discovered to be a far more valuable trade: the slave trade. For centuries afterwards, this became a drawcard for the Dutch and English, resulting in a tragedy of massive proportions for generations of West Africans.

With the castle in the distance, Samuel takes my hand and accompanies us through Elmina’s muddy main street. The thoroughfare is lined with spot bars consisting of a few chairs and tables and a fridge full of local beer. We pass numerous merchant stalls selling smoked fish, colourful wax cloth, plastic bags full of fresh drinking water, and mobile phones. Such merchant trade, coupled with the working fishing harbour and tourism generated by the castle, represents the bulk of Elmina’s meagre economy.

The quiet urban clutter is sporadically interrupted by smaller remnants of the colonial past, such as a Dutch-built church and bell tower, seemingly ill-fitted to its more humble surrounds of tumble-down houses made from tin and mud. However, like the castle, these vestiges are irrevocably intertwined with the town’s history.

As we reach the castle, Samuel waves goodbye and runs off into the chaotic collection of fishermen tending to their nets. One of them is his father. Pirogues, traditional Ghanaian fishing boats, line the hard red sand beneath the castle, stacked side by side like match sticks. This is Samuel’s modest existence, though his beautiful smile betrays the poverty and hardships which he must endure each day.

We continue up the street until we are in the castle’s shadow. Looking up, it is hard not to appreciate the building’s languid beauty. The peeling whitewashed walls, topped with chipped terracotta tiles, exude only a hint of what one imagines must have been its former grandeur. The general state of aged degradation, though not disrepair, is an apt reminder that this colonial relic, as well as the events which occurred here, belong well and truly in the past.

Upon entering the castle, we join a small group of visitors. Our allocated tour guide, Charles, is a passionate but subdued Ghanaian, and extremely knowledgeable about the castle and its history.

As we wander into the courtyard, which is cocooned by the castle’s towering facades, there is nothing obviously exceptional about the building. In fact, it almost resembles any other European castle of the same era, albeit in more tropical surrounds. As with many dark secrets, however, we are soon to discover that the most sordid parts are very well hidden.

As we marvel at the aesthetic beauty of the rustically withering walls, Charles leads us into one of the cells.

“If you spend a few minutes in here, you will better appreciate the amount of air and light within,” says Charles, as he locks the door.

He is right. Standing in the dank and suffocating dimness of the cell, peering through the iron bars standing between us and the courtyard, it suddenly becomes much easier to imagine what went on here.

“Over the course of around 200 years it is estimated that more than 200 million West Africans were captured, imprisoned and shipped out to various colonies in the Americas,” explains Charles, as we contemplate life in the cell. “The vast majority never returned to these shores. Generations of families were stolen and sold, like cattle, and those who survived the treacherous journey across the Atlantic were doomed to spend their lives as slaves to a foreign master in a foreign land.”

Charles unlocks the cell door and we pass through the courtyard in sober reflection. He shows us the church in which the Portuguese, the Dutch, and then the English, worshipped and prayed.

“It happens to be on top of some of the cells, where hundreds of slaves were kept at any given time, wallowing in their own filth and misery,” says Charles.

We also see the balcony from which the castle’s Governor gazed down upon the captive women.

“He used to carefully select a woman who pleased him enough to be sent to him, via a private trap-door, later that night,” says Charles, drawing gasps of disgust from the group.

We have gone remarkably quiet, burdened by the realisation of the horrors which unfolded here. Finally, Charles leads us to a tiny door through which we climb in almost complete darkness. We find ourselves standing before ‘the door of no return’: a tall, narrow opening in an exterior wall through which one can see the sway of distant palms and the endless horizon of the Atlantic.

As I peer out the door, which is just wide enough for one very slender, or emaciated, person to fit through, an overwhelming sense of sadness sweeps over me, and I am grateful for the darkness around me. I try to comprehend the fear, indignity and helplessness which must have been felt by those who had been forced through this very door hundreds of years ago, destined for ships and an existence of servitude, never again to set foot in Africa. The group lingers for a while, pensive, before emerging into the stark brightness of the courtyard.

Standing in the glaring sunshine, I am relieved to be out of that room and away from the weight of the past which hangs so heavily in the damp air. I cannot shake, however, the grim sentiment evoked by standing in front of a portal which, for so many, signalled the end of a free existence. This feeling stays with me long after leaving.

“Thank you for coming,” says Charles, as we make our way out of the castle. “It is vital to come here in order to understand the magnitude of the tragedy witnessed by this place. Understanding will ensure that such things never happen again.”

As we meander thoughtfully back through the streets of Elmina, I glance over my shoulder at the castle, domineering and omnipresent in its waterfront locale. There truly is something menacing about the way the Atlantic crashes against the murky sand of the coastline. Now, I understand why.

A Walk in the Treetops

chasing_ithaca — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 02:57:00 GMT

“Don’t worry,” says my guide Aggie. “It is virtually impossible to fall, unless you are trying to commit suicide.”

As I peer out across the treetops at the rope and timber walkway on which I am about to place life and limb, I am not so sure.

“Just don’t walk too slowly,” adds Aggie with a grin and a distinctly used car salesman-esque pitch. “Otherwise the walkway will start to bounce and you may fall over. If that happens, just get up and keep on going. It’s perfectly safe!”

I am at Kakum National Park in Ghana’s Central Region. The park, protecting more than 357 sq km of some of Ghana’s most diverse and dense forest, is situated 33km north of Cape Coast and is one of the country’s biggest tourist attractions. The biggest drawcard to the park, and at which I am now nervously gazing, is the masterfully constructed canopy walkway.

The walkway, constructed in 1996 by a team of Canadian and Ghanaian engineers, consists of a network of suspended trails which lead to numerous platforms perched high in some of the Kakum’s oldest and tallest trees.

Aggie gives me the nod and I inch towards the edge of the platform. As the walkway takes my weight, I feel the bounce of the cable. Wishing I hadn’t had a second serving of breakfast, I cling to the rope handrail for dear life, edging forward into the mass of green and trying to conjure light thoughts.

Deciding that it is better to look up, as opposed to into the gaping chasm of nothingness between me and the tree tops, I pause and take in my surroundings. As I try to distract myself from the thought of plummeting headlong into the jungle below, a sense of awe at the beauty of my environs gradually descends on me.

My trepidation at the sturdiness or otherwise of the structure across which I am sliding soon dissolves and I feel somewhat akin to Indiana Jones on a grand adventure, minus the band of marauding, sword-wielding villains on my tail.

I soon find myself in the middle of the walkway, suspended between two of Mother Nature’s finest and sturdiest trees. Beneath me, the forest canopy is thick and impossibly verdant. I can barely see the ground and am further comforted by the fact that, if I fell, it is likely that I would end up dangling from a leafy green tree-top, rather than hitting the turf.

All around me, the oldest and tallest of the forest’s trees strive skywards, leaving the younger ones in their cool, damp shadow. Birds and butterflies flitter around me. Suspended in mid-air, I feel as though I am as close to nature as I could possibly be, and I am seeing it all from a wonderfully unique angle.

Reaching the first tree platform, with an undeniable element of relief, I strain to see any sign of wildlife stirring below. I know that the forest is home to a huge range of species, including elephants, monkeys and antelope. I peer into the dense foliage, as still as can be. There must be something down there.

Suddenly, something stirs. I catch a glimpse of colour and movement below. I hold my breath and quietly turn on my camera. But alas, an elephant or monkey it is not. Instead, a group of Danish tourists make their way along one of the nature trails, led by their camouflaged guide. Aside from the birds, bees and butterflies, there is no wildlife to be seen.

Alas, it seems that Kakum’s blessing has also become its curse. The canopy walkway is such an attraction that visitors, both local and foreign, flock to the park. It is widely known as an experience not to be missed in Ghana, and rightly so. Unfortunately, the animals inhabiting Kakum are not as keen for an encounter as the human contingent, and wildlife sightings are extremely rare.

“The animals are hiding. They don’t like the noise,” says Aggie. “You might see some at night time, but even then it is difficult.”

But, quite frankly, this is okay with me. I know that the animals are out there. Somehow, it adds to the sense of natural majesty, evoked simply by being on the walkway, to know that I am being watched by the African wildlife, hidden, unseen and protected in their natural environment. Up here on the canopy walkway, I am safe.

As I complete the 350 metre network of walkways, I find myself wishing that it were longer and that I could cross the entire park swinging from tree to tree. My disappointment is eased with a bottle of locally brewed palm wine, a heady concoct of sweet, bubbly, goodness which is boot-legged just within the entrance of the park, accompanied by some piping hot pancakes with lemon juice, served up by the relaxed and friendly staff at the Kakum Rainforest Café.

As I enjoy the sensation of the palm wine’s light bubbles on my tongue, I watch a bus-load of school children arrive and I am glad that I got up early to beat the crowds. Foreign tourists and Ghanaians alike flock to Kakum, and it is not hard to see why. The canopy walkway, swinging its way through a serene and languorous forest, is a rare and exciting find, though, it has to be said, not for the faint hearted. Once the first step is taken, however, it truly is a unique experience providing a wonderfully alternative way to see some of Ghana’s most beautiful natural gifts.

Gallery: Cape Coast Region

chasing_ithaca — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 02:52:00 GMT

Gallery: Sahara Desert

chasing_ithaca — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 02:30:00 GMT

Of Dunes and Dromedaries

chasing_ithaca — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 02:24:00 GMT

Her name is Mustafina. And what a lovely camel she is. As I sit on her hump, with only a crude saddle fashioned from an old carpet to separate us, I marvel at the affection I have come to feel for this creamy-coloured Moroccan dromedary.

As we trek rhythmically together through the dunes of the Sahara, showered by a hot, sandy wind and bathed in a soft pink light, I admire Mustafina greatly. She, like our guide Omar, is made for the desert, fashioned by nature to be a perfect vehicle for crossing the vast sand dunes which stand between us and the oasis in which we will spend the night.

A hot wind rages across the sand, sucking the moisture from our skin and creating a nagging, unquenchable thirst. I pull my turban across my face as I turn to see the sun dropping behind the tiny town of Merzouga, where we had joined Omar and the camels, and the last rays of golden light hit our backs as we abandon civilisation.

Unlike Mustafina, who is blessed with long and sinewy legs, Omar is not more than five feet tall. He wears a long blue robe and bright orange turban which is the traditional garb of his tribe: the Tuareg.

“We are a nomadic people,” says Omar. “We have always belonged to the Sahara. I have been exploring these sands since the day I could walk.”

Now it is his job to take travellers, like us, into his domain.

After an hour of blustery trekking, we are shrouded in complete darkness. The wind’s ferocity has diminished and the constant lurch of Mustafina’s long steps, paired with the residual heat of the Moroccan sun, provides a restless calm.

As we continue our slow march, the stars burning brightly above our turbaned heads, shadows begin to play tricks with our eyes. Several times I think I see wild camels or small tents in the distance, only to arrive and find an inanimate clutch of reeds or a lonely desert shrub.

For around three hours we plod our unmarked desert trail, with Omar expertly and instinctively leading the way. Speaking in gentle Arabic to his camels, Omar chides them when they want to spit, and encourages Mustafina to stand up again when she decides she needs a rest and abruptly sits down, front legs first, stunning me out of my rhythmic reverie and almost flinging me into the night.

At last we arrive at the oasis, weary from the strain of rarely used muscles, and wishing camels’ humps were just a little softer! In the darkness I can make out a line of twenty dromedaries resting on their long haunches, snuffling, snorting and farting merrily in the darkness. I can also make out a cluster of trees and a small gate with a rusty sign hanging overhead, welcoming us to “Bivouac Timbuktu.”

We gingerly dismount our noble steeds and hobble towards the camp, our legs stiff and sore from the idleness of camel riding. Muted laughter and the cheerful clinking of glasses greet us as we enter the camp, where weary travellers are sipping on tea and sharing their desert tales. Omar shows us to our tent - a thick Hessian structure with a flap door and two mattresses within. Outside the tent is a tattered carpet on which stands a small, rustic table topped by a faded red table cloth and candle lantern.

I can see more Tuareg scurrying around the camp in their long robes and turbans. Something smells delicious and the flicker of candles gives the camp a magical and incandescent quality. Soon enough our table is host to a delicious ensemble of salads and couscous. A mouth watering dish of lamb, almonds and prunes follows, slow roasted in a traditional Moroccan tajine until they are soft as butter. Thinking we could not eat another morsel, we change our minds when a platter of fresh figs and melon arrives, along with two pots of warm, sugary tea.

As the chatter and laughter dies down along with the candlelight, we drag the mattresses from our tent and lay them on the old carpet. It is simply too hot to sleep in the tent, and the stars are simply too magnificent to consider doing anything but sleep beneath them. The wind has died now, as it does when the heat diminishes.

“It is the intense heat which creates the desert wind, so without one there will not be the other,” explains Omar, as he bids us goodnight.

We fall into a restless sleep. I wake during the night to see that we are lying in front of a massive red dune, which my previously unadjusted eyes had not seen. The stars and moon bathe the camp in a stunning, luminescent glow. Whether it is the heat, the magnificence of where we lay, or the occasional scurrying insect crawling over my mattress, sleep does not come easily that night and I lay on my bed, wide-eyed and marvelling.

In the wee hours of the morning I wander out of the camp, the moon perfectly lighting my way. Silence reigns, and the sand is cool between my toes. I sit for a while in the nothingness that surrounds me, feeling incredibly privileged to be here in this strange and enchanted place, thinking about all the people who have passed here throughout the centuries, and thinking that when I get home, I might like to buy a camel!

The next morning we are plucked from our sleep by Omar.

“It is time to climb the big dune to see the sunrise!” he says, in a tone far too bright for the early hour.

We unfurl ourselves from our sheets and, exiting the camp, make our way up the dune where we find a place from which to view the beginning of a new day in the Sahara.

With gritty eyes we watch as the sun begins to make its entrance. At first it is a giant, pale disc breaking through a string of low lying clouds. Rapidly, it transforms into an intense, burnt-orange bulb which casts its brilliant hue over us and the endless sand. We do not speak, nor do the other visitors and desert men who bear witness to this daily, spectacular ritual. It is too beautiful to tarnish with words.

The sun risen, it does not take long for the heat to stamp its authority on our surrounds. It is time to go. Soon it will be too hot to go anywhere. As we leave the oasis we are doused in sunshine so golden that, before coming to the Sahara, I would not have thought it possible. With the sun on our backs and the gentle rising breeze on our faces, we soon relax into the gentle plod-plod of our camels and make our way back through the silent dunes.