We departed the border opting not to exchange money until we got to Tamale. This decision made the drive to Tamale a bit more interesting. First we were stopped at a police checkpoint where the officer went on a tangent about how it’s the weekend and he’s out in the middle of nowhere trying to protect the people and needs some “small money” for something to drink. I offered him some of my water which clearly wasn’t what he had in mind. We pulled the old “We just crossed the border into your wonderful country and have no money” routine which didn’t settle particularly well. He changed tactics saying that we are brothers and that we should be friends and as friends we should help each other out. He went on to say that he was supposed to search my car and make me hand over all of my documents but by giving him something small we could be friends and in exchange for us helping him he’d help us by letting us leave. The beauty of not having any money is that you can quite convincingly say that you have no money – which we said. And so the conversation turned into a merry-go-round in which he kept repeating “Are you going to give me something small or not?” and we replied over and over that “We have nothing small to give, really!” Finally, the ride came to an end with the officer giving up, turning his attention to the next vehicle in line.

Not long after, we hit our next snag in the road, a toll booth. Something you don’t see often in Africa, we clearly weren’t banking on this one. When we pulled up to the booth we did what any good overlander would do... we begged for forgiveness! Believe it or not, it worked and the attendant waived us through. Of course one toll booth wouldn’t be enough, so not long after we hit another one. Same story, same result. I love this country.

By the time we reached Tamale we were exhausted from all the begging and promptly checked ourselves into the Catholic Guest house before hitting an ATM (another benefit of Ghana as there are lots of them) and a good Indian restaurant where we stuffed enough chicken marsala, chicken korma, and ice cream down our gullets to leave us motionless for the next few hours.

Mole, National Park - August 28, 2006
(Jim Writes): Up early, we hit the streets of Tamale for a quick run. Along the way we picked up about half a dozen children who thought it would be fun to run with the “brunies” (Ghanaian name for white man). Afterwards, eager to get on the road to Mole National Park, we showered, packed, and hit the road, stopping on the way out of town to pickup some extra cash at the ATM. When we arrived at Barklay’s it was a madhouse. I’ve never seen anything like it. The ATM line stretched the entire length of the building and inside it was just as bad. We decided to divide and conquer. Sheri waited in the line inside while I waited outside. 1 ½ hours later we somehow both ended up at the teller/ATM at the same time. The good news... we finally had our money. The bad news... there was so much of it that the teller had to stuff it into a large grocery bag for Sheri to carry it and outside at the ATM I was stuffing wads of cedis furiously into every cargo pocket available on my high utility North Face trekking pants. Seems Ghana has a bit of an inflation problem when 10,000 Cedis equals $1 US.

Flush with cash, we setout for Mole NP. A long bumpy ride later, we arrived at the park gate around 3pm where we were met by a friendly park ranger. After paying the various park fees, we inquired about getting a map of the park. The ranger said there are no printed maps but that we could find one posted along the main road once inside. We also spent some time reading the parks rules and regulations posted on a large board at the gate. It included all the usual information found in parks like Krugar - drive slowly, watch out for animals, etc. We then inquired about directions to the Mole Motel, the only lodging inside the park. The ranger gave us directions and wished us a pleasant stay.

Inside the park we stopped off at Mole Motel to inquire about getting a room and about setting up a walking safari (highly recommended by others we’ve met during our journey). The hotel desk clerk said that all we needed to do was show up at the park headquarters at 7am and a guide would be arranged. There’s nothing special about the rooms at Mole Motel however the view from the lodge’s high vantage point overlooking a large watering hole is spectacular. Below we could see a variety of general game animals as well as several bull elephants playing in the water.

With a few hours to burn before dinner we decided to spend a little time exploring the surrounding area in our truck. Just off the main road we found a sign for a 5 mile loop through the park which we followed. With raindrops from a recent shower still glistening on all of the lush green leaves and grass, it was a beautiful drive and along the way we saw a variety of wildlife including warthogs, baboons, impala, water bucks, elephants, and vervet monkeys. Shortly before returning to the lodge we stopped off at the ranger village where we spent a long time viewing several large bull elephants grazing just beside the ranger’s quarters and photographed a large troop of olive baboons playing along the surrounding rooftops. It was an excellent start to our visit at Mole.

Back at the lodge we decided to grab a couple of beers and enjoy the beautiful sunset overlooking the watering hole. On the way to the terrace I was stopped by four men, three in street clothes and one in a ranger’s uniform. The man in the uniform immediately told me that there was a big problem and that I was in serious trouble. Having heard similar accusations one to many times from corrupt police, Sheri and I were immediately taken aback. The ensuing conversation was most unfortunate. I won’t go into all of the details. The abridged version is this: the park ranger and his three unofficial looking friends (apparently also park rangers) quite adamantly claimed that we had knowingly and intentionally broken strict park rules by driving into the park without a guide. They went on to say that there were serious legal consequences for such intentional wrongdoing and threatened to take us to jail if we did not pay them 50,000 cedis. Stinks of a bribe to me. Without going into details, let’s just say that we didn’t take well to these accusations and we were probably more upset by their claims because we’d been looking forward to visiting Mole and viewed it as a “holiday” from the bribery seen far to often on African roads. In any case, our counter was simple and honest, if delivered with a little agitation: we’re tourists who were excited to be visiting Mole NP. We were unaware of such a rule as it’s not posted anywhere and nobody, including the park ranger at the gate, informed us that driving alone was not permitted. This didn’t seem to resonate with the ranger who said that it was impossible for us not to know (despite the fact that the only place they could show us a posting was on a small board behind a door in the Motel’s registration office) and that we’d clearly done this intentionally. In chorus they seemed to all chime in, preaching about how these rules are setup for our safety (no argument there) and going on increasingly irrelevant tangents about how, for example, some city bus was now stuck in the lodge’s parking lot and that demonstrates why we shouldn’t be doing such things (seemed to me to demonstrate that perhaps we shouldn’t be going on safari in a city bus). The simple issue at hand was whether or not we knowingly broke their rules, which we didn’t. Had we known, we wouldn’t have gone. The more we tried to stick to this point and logically explain our position, the more the ranger countered with points that had absolutely nothing to do with what we were being accused of (Let’s just say it didn’t give me much confidence should I ever end up in a third world jail and find the need to defend myself). Anyway, I could go on, and on, and on. Instead, I’ll leave you with these points...

We tried to bring closure to a very painful, very heated discussion by simply saying that we did not know that such a rule existed and that perhaps, if they’re so concerned about public safety, they might want to add this rule to the list of rules posted at the entry gate. Moreover, perhaps they might want to instruct their rangers at the gate to also point this out when visitors are doling out their entry fees. One of the plain- clothed rangers responded by saying: “Information doesn’t just come to you. You have to seek it out.” He then handed me my Lonely Planet West Africa Guide and pointed to a page in the front of the general Ghana information section under “Tourist Offices” that reads “There are no official tourist offices outside Ghana but the Ghana Tourist Board website (www.africaonline.com.gh/tourism) has some useful information.” Hmm...

They also informed me that they had seen us twice during our drive and could tell us exactly where we were at certain times. So I simply asked, If you’re so concerned about our safety then why did you not stop us when you saw us rather than wait until we got back?” Hmm...

Also, I asked, but never received an explanation, why if we intentionally were breaking such a rule would we drive into the middle of the ranger village and sit in our truck (in plain view of the entire village, which was teaming with people) watching, and photographing wildlife. After all, we were there for at least 30 minutes. Hmm...

Finally, sick of dealing with a very ugly situation, we paid them their 50,000 cedis. When I handed it to the ranger in the uniform, he began to laugh. I told him that this was a most unfortunate situation as we’d been looking forward to our visit to Mole and planned to stay 3 days but now planned to leave first thing in the morning (we’d have left immediately had it not already been dark). Our experience ruined over something that we didn’t intentionally do wrong. His reply... “I don’t care. We will make our 15,000 visitor quota whether you are happy or not.”

And there you have it. A good experience gone rotten.

Techiman - August 29, 2006
(Jim Writes): Our premature departure from Mole gave us some unexpected free time and we decided to re-tool a bit. Originally, our plan had been to leave Mole and head east back through Tamale and then south along a rough track to Ho, gateway to the Volta Region. Having not quenched our thirst for wildlife however, we hatched a new plan which would take us west to Bole and then south along the border of Ivory Coast hitting Bui NP, followed by Boabeng-Fiema Monkey Sanctuary and finally Bia NP. We woke up with a sour taste still lingering in our mouths from the previous night and set out early for Bui NP. Overshadowed by Mole, Bui’s a lesser known NP located along the border of Ivory Coast that offers the potential to see lions, buffalo, elephants and other African favorites. Now let me clarify, by lesser known, I mean to say that no one really seems to know where or what Bui is. And by potential to see lions, buffalo, etc., I mean to say that at some point in history researchers have documented their existence in the park however that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to see any of them. Nevertheless, we setout on a snipe hunt of sorts, bouncing aimlessly along suspension breaking dirt tracks for miles on end. Along the way we asked for directions at countless villages, police checkpoints, and customs stations. Always we received the same response ....”Bui?? You mean Bua?” “No”, we’d reply, “We mean Bui. Bui NP. How do we get to Bui?” With a long pause and a puzzled look they’d reply “Uhh, I don’t know.” And so we continued along, loosing hope with each bone jarring mile.

Along the way we found ourselves low on fuel. With no other options available we were forced to fill up using drums. Not exactly like pulling into an Exxon we pulled off the side of the road and up to a man standing beside a handful of 55 gallon oil drums. From one of the drums (which I made sure was fairly full first so as not to get the sludge on the bottom), he began siphoning diesel into a 5 gallon bucket. He then started dipping a 1 litre bucket into the larger bucket and transfered the desired amount of fuel into a second 5 gallon bucket. Once full he poured the fuel into a funnel attached to our filler neck and when the bucket was empty he started all over again until he’d topped us off. Easy enough. Now let’s just hope the truck keeps running.

Back on the road, we continued our wild goose chase. We bounced from village to village seemingly never getting any closer to Bui. Along the way we helped two AK-47 wielding police officers meet up with their buddies and chatted with the locals as we passed an endless sea of villages. Eventually, we seemed to be onto something. A group of villagers actually knew what and where Bui was. Better yet, they gave us detailed directions. We followed the directions down a narrow track through beautiful rainforest towards the Ivory Coast border. It was getting late now but we were making progress. We could smell Bui just ahead. And then, we reached the proverbial and literal end of the road. The bridge was out and, as a group of friendly road workers explained, the only way to Bui was to go all the way back the way we came and around the other side. A long haul to say the least. With it too late to attempt the detour, we weighed our options and decided that our snipe hunt was, well, just that, a snipe hunt and we decided to bail on the plan and head for Techiman, which is only a short drive from nearby Boabeng-Fiema Monkey Sanctuary.

As it was only noon and the best time to see wildlife is in the early morning or afternoon, we ate lunch, washed clothes, and relaxed until it was time to meet our guide, Sedou. When 4:00 rolled around we drove into the village where we met Sedou under a large tree on the edge of the forest. As we stepped into the forest, Sedou started “calling” the monkeys and very slowly, one by one, they started to appear. The monkeys are habituated to humans and will roam the village in search of food. Soon they were right beside us, content to eat the fruit and tiny insects from the surrounding trees. We found the Mona monkeys to be adorable, with large patches of fur on the cheeks and a small beard. Unfortunately the colobus monkeys don’t get nearly as close, but rather live high in the treetops, only allowing you to catch a small glimpse of them. On our walk through the forest, Sedou showed us a sacred monkey burial site. As the monkeys are highly regarded, they each have names and when they die, are buried in a special grave, complete with headstone. Even more impressive is the grave of a 120 year old man—a very long time for anyone to live, much less an African villager who has little access to good health care.

After an enjoyable 2 hour walk, Jim and I stayed around a bit longer to take photographs and then returned to the guesthouse to make dinner. A wonderful end to a relaxing day in Ghana.

Before heading to Kumasi we went back to photograph the Mona monkeys in early morning light. They were everywhere—in the trees, on rooftops, inside houses—trying to find food. This made Jim’s job a bit easier! Content with our photos, we wondered around the village capturing some photos of village life. As Jim was photographing a particularly interesting house, we were stopped by a 50-something villager who was curious about what we were doing. Jim explained that he thought it had a very interesting look, to which he replied that it is his father’s house. We were soon invited inside to meet his father, a very kind and very young looking man who’d recently celebrated his 100th birthday. The man was unable to speak English however his son translated what turned out to be a very pleasant conversation in which we learned that he was one of 17 children and had been in the same house for almost 100 years. A man who’s seen a lot in his 100 years, it was evident that he was very proud of his house, village, and the surrounding monkey sanctuary.

When we finally got on the road to Kumasi we found the roads in horrible condition. Construction was underway to repair the damaged road and we found ourselves hopelessly bogged in traffic. With all of the delays, we inadvertently broke our golden rule and found ourselves trying to navigate our way to the Presbyterian Guest House in the dark. In typical African fashion, the road was littered with goats, chickens, pedestrians, and some of the worst taxi and tro-tro drivers. Trying to maneuver the truck through this chaos in the daytime is a nightmare. Trying to maneuver the truck through this chaos at nighttime is, well, hell. As we’re driving through this madness, I’m doing my absolute best to navigate while Jim dodges the many forms of life winding in and out of the streets. We comment that at least we don’t have to go through the Kejetia market. In the same breath I find that my limited maps of Kumasi (limited to the tiny map in the Lonely Planet book) weren’t adequate for the job, and sure enough, we found ourselves dead in the middle of the market. It was a claustrophobic madhouse with roads clogged by men, beasts, machines, and every manor of cart. The worst place you could be at night in a new city in a truck. Knowing we were off-track, we re-oriented ourselves and basically followed our nose. Our first order of business was to get the hell out of the market, which amazingly we did without killing anything. Then in the absence of any visible street signs, we queued off of train tracks and other landmarks. It worked and we eventually made it to the Presbyterian Guest House. Jim did an excellent job driving through the madness, confidently navigating Betty through tiny, crowded streets.

Happy to have made it unscathed, our thoughts quickly shifted to satiating our hunger. Lucky for us, the Guest House has a small restaurant. Famished, I decided to try fufu (basically plantains that have been beaten into submission) a popular local dish highly recommended by our Ghanaian server. Against his better judgement, Jim opted for the fish and chips. Jim’s fish arrived first. He should have known better. It was a bone riddled, deep fried, meatless, chunk of the least desirable fish parts. The fufu came out next. In retrospect, I should have gone to bed hungry because what turned up made even Jim’s iron clad stomach churn. It was a spongy mass of dough-like substance bathed in a vile-tasting brown fish broth. And, to make matters worse, the server was so confident that this prized Ghanaian dish was a gourmet delight that she commanded me to return the very large and very full bowl to her, completely empty. “ I want to see you eat all of this. It’s very good.” Good I thought? Are you kidding me? I knew that I needed to get rid of this stuff somehow. After all, I didn’t want to offend her. The question was what should I do with it. First I tried the obvious… I dug my spoon into the thick globulous mass and tried to eat it. Bad Idea. It took me all of the strength that I could muster just to gulp down 5 spoons full. Next I turned to my ringer, Jim, who was just finishing off his bone-riddled minnow. One bite and he’s been cursing me ever since. It will take years just to undo the damage I’ve done to our relationship. With my options dwindling I considered dumping it in the toilet. No way, I’m sure it would clog the cities entire sewer system. I could bury it, but then again, some poor dog might come along and dig it up. Now I’ve got a dead dog on my conscience? No way. After some further thought, I did what anyone would do in my situation, I tossed the money on the table when the server was in the kitchen and I ran. Just as I disappeared out of site I could hear her calling after me “But you didn’t eat any.” I’m just glad we made it out alive.

(Jim Writes): Our agenda today was to drive to Bia National Park, located on the border of the Ivory Coast. Bia protects the only old-growth rainforest in Ghana and is home to forest elephants and chimpanzees among other wildlife. The drive to Bia was a rather long 183 miles, primarily on wet muddy roads. The scenery as we neared the park turned into lush, dense, tropical rainforest with massive mahogany and other hardwood trees towering high above the dense rainforest vegetation. Sadly we saw many of these beautiful trees being hauled away on the backs of large logging trucks. The first time we’ve seen, first hand, such deforestation during our travels in Africa. Judging by the number of trucks we passed, it’s hard to imagine any trees being left for future generations.

After a long day on rough roads, we finally arrived at the park headquarters. There we met with the head ranger and discussed our desire to view some of Bia’s resident forest elephants and, if possible, some chimpanzees. He indicated that the chimps aren’t habituated to humans and therefore would be hard to see. However, there was a good chance that we could successfully track elephants. With that, he gave us direction to Camp 12, located just beside the Ivory Coast border post. When we arrived at Camp 12, we were greeted by Frederick, the resident park ranger. Frederick, a rather small and enthusiastic fellow, excitedly rushed out to our truck and said “are you Mr. James?” A bit confused I replied that I was. He went on to say that it was wonderful to meet me as he’d been expecting us for some time. As it turns out, Frederick had mistaken us for a researcher that was expected any day. Once we cleared up the confusion, we met with Frederick and discussed our goals. We told him that we were here to track forest elephants and explore the rainforest. As we poured over a large map tacked to the wall in the ranger station, Frederick explained that we should explore the area around Camp 12 first and then head to Camp 7, a 1 ½ hour drive away, since the probability was high that we would see them there. He went on to say that he was supposed to be going on leave but that he was an excellent tracker, the best ranger in the park, and as such, he would delay his vacation to guide us over the next three days. It seemed like a reasonable plan, however there were a few logistical problems. For starters, Frederick would need a ride to and from Camp 7 and he asked us to take him and then pay for the tro-tro to carry him back. Then there was the matter of food. Since he wasn’t at his normal post he would need money to buy food. Then there was the standard guide fee mandated by the park, and the camping fee to pitch our tent at Camp 7. I’ve put together less complicated deals with Fortune 500 companies.

With the deal struck and our guide secured, Sheri and I retired to our tent to cook dinner and enjoy Bia’s evening rainforest symphony. The only guests at the camp, it was wonderfully peaceful. A wonderful end to the day.

2 ½ long, steamy, hot hours and countless miles later we were still bush whacking our way through the forest with no end in sight. We were soaked in sweat, covered in bugs and generally filthy. We’d bush whacked through seemingly impenetrable growth, climbed down slippery ravines and over giant fallen logs. We’d forged small rivers. All while lugging two huge cameras, lenses, and a tripod. And our reward… Frederick led us to a rock in the middle of the forest. Not just any rock mind you. Rather a rock where water bucks have been known to come and drink. Now, let me put this in perspective for you. In case you’re not familiar with a water buck, it’s like a deer. A “nice to have” if you happen across one while on a game drive. If you ran over one on the highway, you’d feel bad, kind of like if you ran over bambi. It wouldn’t be the same, however, as running over say, a lion. Now, how ‘bout a plain Jane, run of the mill, nondescript gray rock? That’s something, don’t ya think?

Oh, and I almost forgot to mention the other highlight of our little jaunt through the rainforest… we were attacked by African soldier ants. I guess in a strange way, it’s been a goal of mine since I was a kid (or at least it’s been a goal of mine to see them). I’ve seen National Geographic documentaries where they overran entire African villages. I’ve read books on them. I’ve always considered them an exotic part of wild Africa, right alongside killer bees and the dung beetle. To be attacked by them was really something special. We were bush whacking through the forest (you know, dripping sweat, climbing over trees, forging rivers, all that stuff) when I heard a weird noise. It sounded like crackling coming from all around us. Before I could figure out what it was, Frederick yelled “Run! Ants!” As I started to run I looked down and there were ants everywhere. As I was running I could already feel them biting me. By the time we reached Frederick we were all jumping around and grabbing at our legs. We pulled down our pants and literally had to pull some of the savage little beasts off as they were grabbing onto our skin with their sharp little pinchers. It was painful to say the least and now I can truly say that I know what it’s like to have ants in my pants.

Afterwards, Frederick explained the level of respect that the locals have for African soldier ants. He told us the story of how his uncle had too much to drink one night and passed out on the side of the road. He was found the next morning dead, completely covered in soldier ants. Now, in fairness, I should also point out that Frederick told us the reason you don’t see snakes in the forest is because the elephants hunt and eat them. Hmm… It seemed a bit strange at the time, however I’ve since met a man near Dixcove who thinks the reason you don’t see chimpanzees is because they are all homosexuals that run around having sex with the villagers, spreading aids. As a result they’ve all been killed off.

Back at Camp 12 we took a break from bush whacking to have breakfast and prepare for the trip to Camp 7. When we were ready to go, Frederick climbed in the truck and perched himself on the small Tuffy Box located between the two front seats. Fortunately, he’s a little fellow and fit perfectly into the tiny space between the seats and the gear shifter. A long rough and tumble ride later we arrived at a small village a few kilometers from Camp 7. From there we continued down a badly eroded track for a short time before Frederick instructed us to stop in front of a handful of mud and thatch huts. As curious villagers came out to greet us, Frederick told us that we’d reached the end of the road. To get to Camp 7 we’d have to leave the truck and hike through a nearby cocoa plantation. This little tidbit of information came as a bit of a surprise since Frederick had already informed us that we could camp in our truck at Camp 7 and we’d even negotiated the price as part of the huge “guide” deal we’d brokered with him. We reminded him of this fact and he replied, after a long pause in which he seemed to be deep in thought, “It’s no problem, you can camp here on the road for the same price.” So now, we have to pay the National Park mandated camping fee for camping at Camp 7, only we’re not camping at Camp 7. We’re actually bush camping in a nearby village, outside the park, with all of the associated hassles? What??? Anyway, we decided to let it go for the moment as Frederick was now trying to introduce us to Isaace and Kofi, also park rangers who are apparently based at Camp 7. After meeting Isaace and Kofi and going through all of the usual greetings and formalities with the local villagers, we left Betty behind and hiked off into the cocoa plantation.

A short time later we arrived at Camp 7, a small nondescript assembly of mud and thatched huts located just on the edge of the rainforest. Once settled, Frederick informed us that he had talked to the other rangers and learned that the elephants were no longer in the area. Apparently, after ransacking several of the local farmers’ cocoa harvests, the elephants had moved on to greener pastures and hadn’t been seen in over 2 weeks. Frederick continued, saying that to have a chance of successfully tracking the elephants, we’d need to drive another hour plus down a bad track to Camp 8. Moreover, we’d need to hire on Isaac and Kofi as trackers.

But, wait a minute. I thought Frederick was “The best ranger in Bia”, a trained expert on forest elephants, and a highly skilled tracker?? That seemed to be the line when we hired him as our guide and negotiated the great “guide” deal. As it turns out, Frederick is indeed a self-proclaimed expert on forest elephants (remember, he’s already passed on useful information about the elephants hunting and eating habits – snakes as you’ll recall. That alone was news to me as I thought elephants were herbivores:). It’s just that Frederick, failed to disclose the small fact that he doesn’t know anything about the rainforest around Camp 7 or Camp 8. In retrospect, I think the great “guide” deal bought us a guide only capable of guiding us to other guides. In any case, we told Frederick that we’d already hired him as our expert guide and didn’t plan to spend more money for what seemed to be turning into another snipe hunt. He replied that the national park service wouldn’t require us to pay for their services however it “would be a good thing” as they would actually be doing all the tracking. And oh yes, I almost forgot. Should we decide to agree to all this, there were of course all the same logistical challenges including how to get our growing expedition to Camp 8. I’m almost certain Shackleton had less to contend with as he tried to sort out getting his stranded crew to South Georgia Island.

In any case, we were in it deep now and, after great deliberation, decided to move forward with our sinking expedition. With the decision made, Frederick reviewed the plan. Later that afternoon we’d mount one foray into the rainforest at Camp 7 to track the elephants. If that failed, we’d return to Camp 7 to sleep for the night. The next morning we’d meet at 4am and with Frederick perched on our Tuffy Box and Isaace and Kofi perched on our roof, we’d head for Camp 8. At Camp 8 we’d bush whack our way to a small pond hidden deep in the rainforest where the elephants are known to come and drink. And with that, we retired to our truck to have some lunch.

At 4pm we hiked back through the cocoa plantation to meet up with our growing team of trackers. When we arrived at Camp 7 we found Frederick and the others armed like soldiers going into battle. Clad in olive green ranger uniforms and knee high rubber boots, our ranger team was now armed with large machetes and a high powered rifle. I on the other hand, had scaled down a bit, ditching a camera body, lens, and tripod. Suited up and ready for bear, we all marched off into the rainforest in search of elephants. Inside the rainforest it was stifling and we quickly began to have flashbacks of our trek earlier in the day. As Isaace lead the way whacking away with his machete, we followed close behind trying to protect our camera gear. At first there was nothing. Then the team stopped. They’d found elephant tracks! Now we were on to something. As we continued, they stopped again. This time inspecting a massive pile of elephant dung. We continued on. More tracks. More dung. We stopped again. This time inspecting the remnants of fruit which the elephants had devoured. As we ventured deeper into the forest the signs increased. Broken tree limbs. More tracks, dung, and eaten fruit. The signs were now everywhere. It was exciting. Our senses now acute as we scanned the forest. And then, the rangers stopped and huddled around one another whispering. Several minutes passed before Frederick turned to us and said “The elephants have gone. We’ll try Camp 8.” Ugh!

Back at the truck we tried to settle into our evening routine. This proved difficult as we seemed to be the only show in town and everyone – men, women, and children, tons of children, came out to visit. In a show of warm Ghanaian hospitality, the villagers invited us to camp amongst them and insisted that we relocate our truck to a tiny clearing between two huts. Wedging Betty into such a tight space had disaster written all over it and I could just picture driving into one of the mud walls and toppling the entire house. But they insisted, going to great lengths to clear a small path from the road to the clearing. Maneuvering Betty into position was tedious work. Just as I was backing in, the roof rack caught the thatched roof of one of the huts and I cringed just waiting for the whole thing to rip off. Somehow it didn’t and we managed to get into position and pitch our tent without causing a riot. The balance of the evening was spent visiting with the village – taking photos of everyone and showing them their pictures, chatting about Ghana, and trying to convince a local woman that, while her little boy was lovely, we really couldn’t take him with us. There just isn’t enough room.

The drive to Camp 8 turned out to be longer than expected and we didn’t arrive until 5:30am. Knowing from past experience that our team was a bit inept at calculating distances, I asked Frederick again how far he thought it was to the elephant pond. He responded that it was 6 kms round trip. With the sun just coming up we set out for the rainforest, hiking about 45 minutes through cocoa plantations before we reached a seemingly invisible passageway into the forest. A few whacks of the machete and we were in. For another 45 minutes we hiked and bush whacked our way through beautiful, lush green virgin rainforest. Like our previous forays it was hard work and we were drenched in sweat within minutes of setting out. Along the way, we stopped to examine tracks, and dung, and remnants of fruit. This time however there was a difference. It was fresh. The tracks and particularly the dung looked like they’d just been left. We continued through the forest, now following a path carved by the very elephants we were tracking. 45 minutes later we were within 100 meters of the elephant pond. You could just make it out through the dense vegetation. As we closed in, the clearing began to open up to us. With the early morning light just breaking through the canopy, the pond seemed like it was part of an enchanted forest, something out of a Tolkien tale. As we scanned the pond we saw an amazing sight. Just on the other side you could see, well, elephant tracks, and broken trees, and fruit remnants, and piles of dung. It was like an elephant playground. An elephant playground void of elephants. Ugh! It was obvious they’d been here. It was obvious in fact that they’d been her very recently. But, we were too late. Another dead end. I’ve learned through experience that, outside of the big reserves in Southern and East Africa you’re guaranteed nothing. Jaguars in Central America? Tigers in Nepal? Manta Rays in Cape Verde? All are present however they’re incredibly elusive. It’s their elusiveness that adds to the adventure. And our adventure will have to continue into Gabon, where we’ll no doubt try again.

And so we hiked out of Bia for the last time. By my estimate, our little rainforest trek ended up being about three times as long as the 6 kms quoted by Frederick. All the better I guess as it was great to get some exercise and we saw an amazing, captivating place that’s sadly being deforested at an alarming rate. Just take the road to Bia and you’ll see for yourself.

After dropping Isaace and Kofi off at Camp 7, we carried Frederick to Wiawso where we paid for his tro-tro back to Camp 12. Then it was out of the rainforest and back to Kumasi, our stopover for the night.

Suddenly our temporary bliss was transformed to our version of hell as bad seemed to quickly go to worse. We hadn’t a clue. Not the slightest clue where we were. Tro-tros and taxis were fighting one another in what appeared to be total anarchy and before long, the road seemed to run out all together leaving us, and droves of other vehicles, in a sort of mixing bowl. The only thing I could make out were roadside vendors dimly lit by oil lamps. It was such shit and when we thought it couldn’t get any worse it got much, much worse. People started pouring into the streets signaling for everyone to turn around. The road had ended! We found ourselves smack in the middle of a complete free-for-all. Tro-tros, taxis and other vehicles were all turning around with no semblance of organization. We did our best to manage the situation. Forget finding Big Milly’s (our destination) we just wanted out of the madness. No such luck. We were stuck, dead stopped in total gridlock.

As we were sitting motionless, trying to keep our calm, we felt a jolt and heard the crunch of metal against metal. Ugh!! A crazed taxi driver, unhappy with his place on earth, decided to force his way through, hitting us in the process. Ugh!!! All the tro-tro drivers were yelling and screaming to let us know that we’d been hit. Too mentally and physically fried to care, we just ignored it. We knew the driver had no money to pay for any damage and frankly we weren’t up to dealing with it. It was hell on earth and there was no light at the end of the tunnel.

Eventually we began to make some headway. A couple of educated guesses queuing off of our GPS’s compass and a line of more orderly looking traffic that appeared to be looping towards a major road and we somehow, miraculously, found ourselves back on track and heading east out of Accra and towards Big Milly’s. A quick stop for directions and we were finally home.

It was such a relief to be out of Accra and inside the protective walls of the campsite. Starving and in need of a beer we made a B-line for the restaurant. No luck. It was already closed. The bar was open and we decompressed over a couple of beers before turning in. Totally spent!

The next couple of days were spent NOT driving and NOT bush whacking through dense rainforest. Rather, we relaxed. We ate great food. We did laundry. We washed mounds of mud off of Betty. And oh yes, we checked for damage on her rear end. It was only minor. All the crunching of metal that we heard must have been the dilapidated taxi coming apart at the seams. One can only hope:)

The next morning we got up early and before setting out for the hike, Jim spent a good hour taking macro photographs of an exotic looking grasshopper (God bless the poor little grasshopper). After breakfast we met up with Chris and crew and headed for the park headquarters where we met up with our guide, a hardy 40-something Ghanaian armed with a machete. The hike was very challenging and strenuous, taking us along a little-used path that ascended steeply up the side of an adjacent mountain and across a ridgeline to the top of the falls. It was tough going and required hours of bush-whacking, scrambling up slippery, wet rocks, and navigating through head high grass. At the top we enjoyed fabulous views of Wli to the west and Togo’s lush green countryside to the east. On our way down we visited the Upper Falls, a powerful force of water that soaked us to the bone…very refreshing after our hot, sticky climb. The descent proved ten times more challenging than the climb up, as we had to negotiate extremely steep, slick muddy paths dotted with even slipperier rocks. Dirty, hungry, and tired, I was relieved to be on flat ground again once we reached the Lower Falls. Again, we let the water from the falls give us a good soak to clean off some of the dirt and grime and then headed back to the lodge to shower and fill up on cheese and egg sandwiches. The hike, while difficult, was very much worth the effort as it gave us the opportunity to fully appreciate the beautiful surroundings.

That evening we joined our new German friends for a hardy dinner under the stars. It was delightful – a great opportunity to get to know some friendly, interesting folks with whom we hope to catch up again in Benin.

The next day we decided to veg. a bit and just soak up the wonderful atmosphere around the lodge. When we weren’t lazing about watching the falls we were playing with the family pet – a beautiful genet rescued after its mother was killed by a hunter. A wonderfully relaxing day!.

Sidebar: How do these things happen?? A taxi driver hits me and I let the driver go. Somehow this leads to me hitting a taxi and now I’ve got to sort out how to pay for his bashed quarter panel and bumper which is dangling behind the car.

Anyway, as one would expect, a large group of bystanders began to collect around us and quickly one man emerged as the taxi driver’s negotiator. He said “You need to pay the man for the damage you did to his car.” I feigned ignorance, saying “ But look at my car. There just wasn’t enough room for the two vehicles.” Unfortunately, logic prevailed and the driver said “But I stopped so you could pass.” A bit surprised that in a world seemingly void of traffic rules, he’d come up with this argument, I conceded the point. I said to the negotiator, I understand but I’m not sure what to do about his car. The negotiator replied “The problem is that it’s not his taxi and he needs something small to fix the damage.” “How much is something small?” I asked. “200,000 cedis ($20)”, he said. We knew 200,000 cedis would go a long way in Ghana but also felt bad since it was our fault, so we didn’t spend much time going back and forth. I said “Let me see if I have any money.” While Sheri was digging around for some cash we got our first real glimpse of why Ghana is such a special place. Instead of the situation being confrontational, or worse violent, the bystanders started asking us questions about our travels. Taxi driver included, they were all very friendly and seemed more concerned that we were having a great time in Ghana. We talked football (World Cup of course) which had everyone cheering for Ghana. It was incredible. When Sheri returned with 180,000 cedis the driver was happy and I apologized for the inconvenience. We left with everyone waiving and still cheering for Ghana. A bad experience turned very good!

(Sheri Writes): The next few days were spent working our way down the coast. After a quick overnight at Big Milly’s we headed for Brenu Beach Resort, where we heard we can get cheap lobster. Cheap and lobster in the same sentence are what I like to hear! Brenu Beach Resort turned out to be a little lackluster, with generally unfriendly staff (bar tenders serving beer in curlers and pulling last calls at 7pm) and a somewhat sterile atmosphere. A shame because it is situated on a nice palm-lined beach and reeks of potential. Unfortunately the cheap lobster was equally as lackluster…maybe cheap and lobster shouldn’t be in the same sentence. The two days that we spent at Brenu were relaxing as we lazed in hammocks catching up on some reading. Just not paradise!

We left Brenu and made a visit to St. George’s Castle, a former slaving fort and Unesco World Heritage site. Touring St. George’s dungeons, punishment rooms, and holding cells and hearing of the inhumanities that took place was a sobering experience that provided some insight into West Africa’s tragic history of slavery. From Elmina we continued to James and Angela’s place, a secluded beachfront hideaway called Safari Beach Lodge located 10kms west of the fishing village of Dixcove. When we arrived we were in a hurry, our minds already half-focused on our upcoming race through Nigeria and the horrible roads in Central Africa. I remember meeting Angela and telling her we’d probably be there for 2-3 days. That was September 13. Four wonderfully relaxing, overly indulgent weeks later we were glued to the place. Drawing up our own blueprints and scouting out land. So powerful was the magnetic pull that we just couldn’t get free. We tried. We tried several times. We got as far as packing the truck and saying our good-byes only to be sucked right back in.

So what happened? Life slowed down a lot. Waiting on our care package to arrive, we had time to relax, to indulge, and to take the place in. And in the process we fell in love. We fell in love with the warm people. We fell in love with the exotic locale. We fell in love with the food. And we fell in love with the dream, a very African dream that was already burning inside us.

We arrived not knowing exactly what to expect. After all, we’d never met James and Angela and had only communicated a few brief times through email. What we found was a couple who are passionate about each other, about life, and about chasing their dreams. They’d met in the wine industry (James is an award winning sommelier). They’d traveled, owned a spa in Mexico, and lived in Colorado (always a plus). Most of all they were just plain passionate and believe, as we do, that you should suck the marrow out of life. We realized this during dinner with them our first evening at Safari Beach. Nothing special. Just your typical everyday candlelit beachfront dinner. James prepared a wonderfully perfect pan seared chicken over mashed potatoes paired with a fantastic red wine. What we quickly learned was that this dinner symbolized everything that they are. Two people who savor every moment. Every meal. Every glass of wine. Every day. And so we learned that we have much in common. Through our common interests a friendship emerged and through this friendship we discovered the many treasures that make the area around Dixcove so magical.

They introduced us to fascinating people. A British couple who, after traveling the world, had landed just down the beach where they started The Green Turtle Inn, a popular backpacker hangout. A Swedish couple who, on their own overland journey across Africa, had fallen in love with Ghana as James and Angela had and are now building a lodge at Cape Three Points. An eccentric Brit, worth writing a book on, who lives in the old slaving fort just up the road in Dixcove. And the list goes on. We drank with these folks, ate with them, and played poker with them. All part of a vibrant and growing expat community that now call Ghana home.

And then there’s the locals. Villagers from places like Bebe and Aquadae. Lovely, warm, and friendly people who still live a very traditional African life. They are primarily farmers and fishermen who’ve largely never been past Dixcove and who ask questions like “Jim, can you see the moon in Europe?” We fell in love with these people as much as anything. They charmed us and stole our hearts. Always happy and never without a smile on their faces, they demonstrated boundless hospitality. They’d talk to us for hours on end. Teach us their language and their customs (I’ve almost got their handshake down). They’d offer to show us around their villages and even try and convince us to settle there permanently.

The locale ain’t too shabby either. Safari Beach is situated on one of the finest beaches in Ghana – palm-lined beaches backed by miles and miles of lush rainforest. During our stay we found tranquil lagoons, hidden coves and the perfect site to build a hilltop retreat overlooking the ocean. Each day seems to end with a perfect sunset which, even James and Angela’s dog, Chloe heads down to the beach to watch. And dotting the picturesque landscape are perfect little African villages where time seems to have stood still.

Perhaps more than anything else however, our time was spent indulging. James is a wonderful chef who takes food very seriously. Crepes for breakfast, shrimp fritatas for lunch, and dinners.... we spent most of the day just reminiscing about past dinners and dreaming of what was on tap that night. Lobster. Red Snapper. Grouper. Quail and Ostrich just to name a few. Each and every night was a glutinous affair. Wonderful wine was always present and often we’d top off the evening with an aged scotch, and the occasional Coheba. It was world class dining by any standard and a striking contrast to the rice and sauce that’s defined our diet for the past few months. We’ll never be the same again.

And of course there’s the dream. Seeing their courage was inspiring. They’ve clearly taken the bull by the horns and are living their dreams. Dreams that are so similar in many ways to our own. Being around James and Angela, you can’t help but dream big. After all, they had me drawing up blueprints and scouting out beachfront property (a little hilltop retreat overlooking the ocean wouldn’t be so bad. Would it?) Had we found our Ghana? Perhaps. It’s too soon to tell. There’s so much of the world begging to be explored!

The balance of our time was spent playing. James and Angela introduced us to secluded beaches, a more cosmopolitan Accra (which has the only good sushi we’ve found in Africa), and Texas Holdem. A study in fine African art, James also put us through African art 101. We joined them for their grand opening, a memorable evening in which they invited close friends to their place for a fantastic dinner party.

On our weekend jaunt to Accra, we had the opportunity to try grass cutter (picture a forest rat the size of a small capybara). It’s a Ghanaian delicacy sold throughout the country, typically by a man waiving it by it’s tail on the side of the road. I can’t say for certain if we got a good or bad cut of beef as Ghanaian’s eat some pretty weird stuff and I’m not sure how they view what appeared to me to be an elbow. It came submerged in a spicy hot soup that gave Sheri’s fufu broth a run for its money and was accompanied by fries. In any case, once I got the meat separated form the cartilage and excavated from the soup, it was tender, flavorful, and I believe, with proper preparation and enough beer, would make a lovely addition to James’ dinner menu.

In addition to Accra, we made regular runs to nearby towns including Agona, Busua, and Takoradi. Generally these were pretty lackluster affairs – market runs mainly. One such run to Takoradi did provide a bit of excitement. We were headed for an internet café and shortly before reaching the center of town hit a minor snag. We made a U-turn in an intersection without any of the usual signage indicating No U-Turn. Halfway through the turn I noticed a small hand painted sign stuck on the side of the road (perpendicular to the road). It was about waist high and read “ No U Turn.” Ugh! We knew immediately we’d just fallen into a trap. Sure enough, no sooner had it hit us than a police officer jumps up from his hiding spot under a shady tree and races out to intercept us. “You’re arrested! You’re arrested! Let me in the car. We’re going to the police station!”, he said. He seemed angry and before I could even say hello, he was already opening the back door and trying to climb in the car.

Before I continue, let me provide you with some background... A few days prior, Angela had shared a story with us. It seems they have been arrested too. They’d made the mistake of towing their broken down Land Rover to a mechanic. A serious offense! Fortunately for them, they’d learned a thing or two during the past year and knew just what to do to get out of the mess. As Angela explained, Ghanaians are by and large very friendly, easy going folk. They love to make friends and don’t do the “intimidation thing” very well. Without going into the details, the gist of her advice is this... when the bribery card is played simply kill them with kindness, make a friend if you can, and if necessary beg for forgiveness. In other words, friendship will set you free.

Armed with fresh resolve and a bag of new tricks, we greeted the officer with an overly friendly, seemingly naive, “Hello, officer!” that would have made Ned Flanders proud. He was not having it. He played tough and seemed to really have it out for the white man. “You white people think you can do anything. You can’t just come here and make illegal U-Turns. You could get yourself killed! That’s why they put me at that intersection. To protect the people! Let’s go! We’re going to the police station! You are in trouble. You will have your car impounded for two days until your trial and you will have to pay 2.5 million cedis ($250)!” In an “awe shucks” sort of way, we told him we were very sorry and that we certainly didn’t mean to break the law. We then asked him for directions to the station. As we SLOOOWWWWLY drove towards the station, buying as much time as possible, our conversation continued. He was still ranting and raving about how “You just can’t do this sort of thing in Ghana!”, while we were doing our best to lay the groundwork for a lasting friendship. We told him that we were tourists and that we just arrived in Ghana. We told him how much we loved his country. We told him how much we loved the people. We told him how impressed we were with their football team (all true btw). We also told him that we certainly didn’t want to get ourselves killed.

When we arrived at the police station, we asked him where we should park. “The impound lot is over there.”, he said, pointing to a fenced off parking lot to the right of the building. I drove towards the lot. When I arrived at the entrance he quickly said, “If they impound your car you will have to see the judge and you will have to pay 2.5 million cedis. I know the impound officer. I can talk to him and arrange for you to only pay 600,000 cedis ($60) and you will not have to go to jail.” Wow, that’s a lot of money I said. I just don’t have that type of money.” He then said, “Hurry, we must get out of here. If they see you here they will arrest you and impound your car.” I found this pretty humorous as the officer was sitting in our back seat behind black limo glass and there was no way anyone outside would even know he was with us. OK, I said, where would you like to go?” Go! Go!” he said. And off we drove, now driving aimlessly around Takoradi.

At this point we knew we’d just called his bluff and had two options: 1.) Go back to the police station and force his hand – probably ending the game. 2.) See if, indeed, friendship would set us free. We went with option 2 (keeping option 1 for later should we need it). Around and around we went, working our angle as we drove along. He continued to rant and rave. You must pay 600,000 to me or go to jail and pay 2.5 million cedis. With unwavering friendliness, Sheri replied that we didn’t have that type of money and would have to go to jail and plead our case in court, BUT, she continued, we wouldn’t be able to stay overnight or leave our car because we had to get back to Dixcove. She went on to say that maybe while we were driving around we could go back to the intersection so he could show us the “No U-Turn” sign. He replied by saying “You are wasting my time! Now you have to pay me 800,000 cedis!” We asked politely to see the sign again,. After all, we’d certainly like to know how they indicate No U-Turn in Ghana. “You think I am trying to rip you off! I am a good Christian! I would not do that!” Sheri replied, “And we are good Christians too and God would not be happy with us if we made an illegal U-Turn.”

By this point, we’d been driving around for a good solid hour and were getting tired. Friendlier than ever I told him that he would be considered a very good man in the United States because he clearly understood our situation and was trying to give us alternatives (we were now laying it on so thick I was starting to make myself sick). Finally, little by little, Angela’s miracle potion started to take effect. He began to calm down. The conversation shifted to other subjects – most importantly America and football. We were on a first name basis. It was working. We could now taste victory. Sheri went in for the kill... when the moment was right she said “Daniel, we came to Ghana to make new friends. But if you arrest us, how can we be friends?” Dear God, I couldn’t believe it. It was as if Angela had cast the spell herself. The very words were so powerful that it elicited a response neither of us could have predicted. Daniel said “ I want to be your friend. We were meant to meet. God has brought us together!” He was now very excited. He continued, “When are you going back to America? I want to go with you!” I replied we’d probably be back in the US in a couple of years and he said “Money doesn’t matter anymore. We’re now friends! Let’s go! I want you to come meet my family!” Wow! This stuff really does work. It’s like some sort of voodoo magic!

So off we went to meet his family. On the way he instructed me to turn onto a one-way street. We were going the wrong way. I said, “But Daniel, this is a one-way street. I don’t want you to arrest me again.” It’s OK” he said. “Go!” There were tro-tros coming at us one after another and Daniel was hanging out the window yelling at them to get out of the way. He then said to me “Look. See those people. They are staring at you. Do you know why? Because you were born different. You were born rich.” I couldn’t help but think, no, they’re staring at us because we’re going the wrong way down a one-way street! As we were getting out of the car to go inside, Daniel taps Sheri on the shoulder and points at her pocket telling her to take care of her cash (a huge wade of it was falling out of her pocket). Oh the irony!

The next hour was spent in his apartment visiting with his wife and children. Truth be told, we had a very nice time. We watched Nigerian soaps on TV (the worst form of television) and played with the kids. Sitting in his tiny one room apartment, so small that there was only room for one double bed, sofa and TV (no kitchen or bathroom), I couldn’t help but feel a little bad. I don’t agree with bribery however, after spending time with him I definitely have an understanding of what motivates it. Police officers make so little. I believe he said about 600,000 cedis ($60)/ month.

In the end, I think he tried to play us and we tried to play him back. I’d call it a draw. We made it back to Dixcove. Not jail. Not bribe. He made a friend and I’m sure is packing his bags to come with us to America. We all ended up having a nice, if a bit bizarre, time together.

And so that pretty much sums up our time at Safari Beach. It was wonderful. Relaxing. Almost impossible to leave. James and Angela were the most gracious of hosts and we were very fortunate to have spent time with them. Alas, all good things must come to and end. Nigeria and the muddy roads of Central Africa are calling our names.