Birding Without Borders

by Noah Strycker

  “It’s all Africa to the outside world,” one person commented. “Like we’re just one big, messy country.”

  Traces of the Ebola epidemic were still evident. The airport in Accra had a temperature scanner mounted in front of the immigration line, checking for fever among incoming passengers, but at this point it was a formality. Kalu told me that, during the height of the epidemic, he had been so “angry at Ebola” for wiping out his business that he signed up for Ghana’s volunteer task force and attended emergency preparation trainings; if the disease had crossed Ghana’s borders, he would have shuttled patients to the hospital and helped fight it on the ground. But that never happened, and the tour business dried up.

  “A million people die of malaria every year, but nobody cares,” he said. “Ebola was front-page news.”

  With that, he stood up.

  “But enough of me talking. We will have an early morning,” he said, “so we should both get some rest. Tomorrow, weather permitting, will be a fantastic day!”

  ✧-✧-✧

  When most people picture Africa, they imagine the dry savannas of the east and south, but the rainforest in southern Ghana lies worlds away from those landscapes. Wet, brooding, and nearly impenetrable, the West African jungle is a tangled mess—more Heart of Darkness than The Lion King.

  At Kakum National Park, it’s hard to see the forest for the trees. The dense vegetation here reduces visibility so that you might be surrounded by exotic wildlife and never know it. Lush rainforests like this are a challenge: even though diversity is high, it’s possible to walk for hours and not glimpse a single bird. Sunlight barely penetrates to the ground, and the trees are so tall that canopy-loving species stay hidden above a curtain of foliage. The calls of invisible birds seem to mock any attempt to lay eyes on them.

  In 1995, to help visitors experience this jungle without a Kurtz-like breakdown, Ghana’s Wildlife Division came up with a bright idea: working with the United States–based group Conservation International, they constructed a series of hanging walkways 130 feet off the ground at Kakum National Park, like a trail system in the sky. They built sturdy observation platforms around seven of the tallest treetops and linked the platforms with cable and rope bridges for a heightened perspective of the forest. The 1,100-foot-long walkway was opened on Earth Day, instantly transforming a once-obscure forest into a premier eco-attraction.

  “It gives us a bird’s-eye view,” Kalu said, as we climbed into the canopy with a park guard before sunrise. “Now the birds have nowhere to hide!”

  Mist rose gently while moisture dripped from millions of green leaves; thick clouds scudded and swirled, and I could feel humidity pressing down like a moist blanket. Just a day ago I had posed in front of the Frankfurt Cathedral with Peter Kaestner, but Europe already felt like a distant memory.

  The morning chorus of birdsong was in full swing, and in the half-dawn, Kalu pointed out a few species by ear.

  “Hear that constant oop, oop, oop? That’s a Yellow-throated Tinkerbird in one of the treetops . . . And there’s a Tambourine Dove calling down below us, the accelerating series of low-pitched pu-pu-pu-pupupupu notes . . . In the distance, a Klaas’s Cuckoo—the sound quickly rises and falls.”

  I noted each of these auditory detections, though I hoped we would be able to get visuals, too. All of them were new for me.

  As the sky brightened into day, birds began to appear. A pair of enormous shapes skimmed overhead and Kalu shouted, “Black-casqued Hornbills!” The hornbills, a bulked-up counterpart to the toucans I’d seen in South America, flew slowly over the treetops, showing off their protruding beaks and black bodies with white tail tips.

  A subtle movement in a vine tangle caught my attention, and out popped a tiny bird with a streaky head and yellow belly: a Tit-hylia, Africa’s smallest bird species (hummingbirds aren’t found in the Eastern Hemisphere). I propped my binoculars on the railing of the observation platform to absorb eye-level views, more than a hundred feet high. Looking down past my feet, I couldn’t even see the ground.

  We passed slowly from one platform to the next, crossing a series of hanging spans. Each bridge had a single board, about eight inches wide, to walk on. Metal cables functioned as handrails, and ropes were knotted into a safety barrier about waist high. The length of each span varied, but most were about a hundred yards—enough to vibrate like a wobbly slackline—from tree to tree.

  I had climbed several canopy towers in other places, including Ecuador and Costa Rica, but none could compare to this system of walkways. It continued on and on, tiptoeing and swinging across the forest, draped through the treetops like a string of Christmas lights. The bridges were unstable viewpoints, so Kalu and I, shadowed by the silent park guard, spent most of our time spotting birds from the platforms in between. When a flock moved through the canopy, we used the walkways to follow along.

  Kalu pointed out a small shape hitching along a gnarly limb overhanging one of the bridges.

  “That’s a Melancholy Woodpecker,” he said. “See how it’s mostly green, streaked underneath, with a stubby tail?”

  I snickered. “That’s a funny name,” I said, as I watched the woodpecker pick off a stray grub. “Almost as good as the Shining Sunbeam, or Wandering Tattler, or Oleaginous Hemispingus.”

  “There are some strange bird names in the world,” Kalu agreed. “Just wait until you hear the Jackass Penguins in South Africa.”

  “Or the Diabolical Nightjar in Indonesia,” I said. “That one sounds scary—its other name is Satanic Nightjar.”

  Kalu thought for a moment, then exclaimed, “Don’t forget boobies and tits!”

  “Yes, yes, all right,” I laughed. “Let’s keep our eyes on this pecker.”

  The Melancholy Woodpecker, for its part, didn’t seem particularly downcast. With a sharp rattle call, it took wing and darted away through the canopy.

  A squall swept through near midday, shutting down bird activity, and Kalu reluctantly announced it was time to go. In a few hours of hanging out, we’d recorded more than fifty species of birds from the Kakum walkways, almost all of which were new to me—a phenomenal experience. The three of us descended carefully to the mud at ground level, where Yaw was waiting with the 4x4 at park headquarters. Kalu and I thanked the guard and waved goodbye. We rolled out, heading north, while a steady rain soaked the forest.

  ✧-✧-✧

  I’d agreed to cover our expenses in Ghana, but Kalu had an issue with his bank and couldn’t accept wire transfers or PayPal.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “we can get cash from ATMs.”

  At home I’m the sort of person who swipes a credit card for every tiny purchase, but credit doesn’t go far in the world’s rural corners, so I had lately become accustomed to using cash everywhere. I carried multiple debit and credit cards and survived on ATMs. This strategy worked fine, but sometimes it got a little farcical.

  In Colombia, for instance, I forgot to look up the exchange rate before visiting an ATM, where I needed to withdraw a few hundred dollars. Feeling lazy, I decided to make a rough calculation from the price of a Coke, which was posted at the next-door market. The soda was listed as two thousand pesos—wait, two thousand? If that was about fifty cents, then four hundred dollars would be . . . more than a million pesos! Hoping that I wasn’t about to bankrupt my account, I punched in a 1 followed by six zeros. It worked out to $340.

  I hadn’t had a chance to hit an ATM in Ghana before Kalu whisked me into the forest, so after leaving Kakum National Park I reminded him of this errand.

  “Yes,” he said, “I know of one machine in Cape Coast, where we can stop this afternoon.”

  By the time we reached the city, Ghana’s sixth-largest metropolis, rush hour had clogged the streets with every imaginable type of transport, from cargo trucks to mule carts. Motorbikes flowed around larger vehicles like sand in a sieve, and cows and goats wandered through traffic at about the same speed. Near the city center, thousands of people blanke
ted the sidewalks, spilling out of markets and open-air buildings.

  In the midst of this activity, Kalu stopped us on a busy corner.

  “Just around the block,” he said, “is a Barclay’s Bank with an ATM on the sidewalk.”

  “Great!” I said, and jumped out of the 4x4. “Be right back.”

  I walked briskly around the corner, out of sight, where I found the machine as described. Hundreds of people milled up and down the street, in and out of shops and stalls, practically shoulder to shoulder.

  The ATM took my card but, like many I’d encountered, it had a small transaction limit: 800 cedis, or about US$200. I stuck my card back in, making multiple transactions, while it slowly dispensed the entire amount in grimy 20-cedi notes. By the time I had withdrawn several thousand cedis, people on the street were staring at this foreigner with a growing mountain of cash in his hands.

  A man tapped me on the shoulder, and I looked up at a well-armed bank security guard.

  “Is everything okay, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, fine!” I said. “But you don’t have a plastic bag, by any chance?”

  Unsmiling, he produced a black garbage sack from one pocket.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said gratefully, and stuffed the piles of notes inside.

  Feeling like a drug dealer, I walked back around the corner and handed the heavy bag to Kalu.

  “This is all yours,” I said. “It should keep us going for a while. Just don’t spend it all in one place!”

  “Thanks,” Kalu said, and hid the cash under his passenger seat. Then he straightened up and said, “Hey, Noah, I want to introduce you to my friend Cobby. We just bumped into each other on the street while you were at the ATM.”

  “Oh!” I said, suddenly aware that another man, a little shorter than Kalu and wearing a polo shirt, was standing next to us. “Hi, Cobby. Good to meet you.”

  As we shook hands, Kalu explained that Cobby Kwabena Tawiah had lately become interested in birds.

  “Birdwatching is a great activity,” Cobby said. “Kalu told me all about your trip, and I am very envious of your journey. I hope you have a good experience here in Ghana.”

  “Yes, we have already seen some amazing birds!” I said. “This morning on the Kakum walkway was incredible.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Cobby said. “I should really be going. It’s good to see you, Kalu, and safe travels.” He walked away and disappeared into the crowd.

  Kalu and I climbed into the 4x4 and, mission accomplished, drove out of Cape Coast. As we navigated through traffic, Kalu said, “I am glad to see that Cobby is okay, because he recently had a frightening experience while watching birds.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Two weeks ago, Cobby was exploring by himself in a remote area, looking for new birding spots,” Kalu said, “when he was suddenly surrounded by people from a nearby village who demanded to know what he was doing. They didn’t believe his explanation about watching birds, which just made them more suspicious.”

  One of these villagers, Kalu told me, had accused Cobby of being “a kidnapper,” and pretty soon a hysterical mob had formed, wielding machetes and sticks. Cobby calmly answered their questions: he was carrying a Swiss Army knife on his belt to cut vines and protect himself from animals, not as a weapon. And no, he hadn’t asked the village chief for permission to walk there.

  “You’re a kidnapper!” the mob shouted, and they gave him three choices: either kill him on the spot, take him to their chief, or go to the police to settle the matter. Cobby picked the third option, but the villagers decided to go to their chief instead.

  When the chief heard Cobby’s side of the story, he was suspicious, too. So the chief issued a challenge: to prove that he was a birdwatcher, Cobby must produce three people within a half-hour who could vouch for him. Otherwise, he would be lynched as a kidnapper.

  Fortunately, Cobby had cell service and, with the villagers watching closely, he called the Hans Cottage Botel near Kakum National Park, where a friend answered, and he explained the situation. Two people there headed out immediately while somebody else called Cobby’s wife, telling her to call the police and hurry along, too.

  When all of these people converged on the village, the police were angry and wanted to arrest the chief.

  “But I am the one who just saved this man’s life!” protested the chief. “I gave him a chance to prove himself!”

  And so Cobby escaped a near-death experience.

  Kalu said that when Cobby got home he was pretty shaken up. “I went to his house to console him and offer sympathy. See, I told him—birdwatching isn’t easy!”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s quite a story.”

  “It is one of the dangers of exploring new territory,” Kalu mused. “I’ve had similar experiences in Ghana, but less scary.”

  He laughed.

  “That kind of thing would never happen in Nigeria, by the way,” he said. “In Nigeria, people leave strangers alone. Because they don’t know you, you might be anyone—even an angel—and it would be terrible to be responsible for harming an angel. The women will take turns cooking for you near their homes, for fear of interfering with something they don’t understand. Nigerians treat themselves and their friends in all kinds of ways, but they are very afraid of being inhospitable to strangers.”

  ✧-✧-✧

  Kalu and I spent the last day of June at Mole (pronounced MOH-lay) National Park, in the interior of Ghana. The landscape at Mole is classic Africa—flat, dry, thorny—and here, after a week in dense rainforest, I caught my first snatches of some of the continent’s better-known creatures.

  The Mole Motel, where most visitors stay, is perched on a sweeping escarpment overlooking a waterhole. First thing in the morning, when I stepped bleary-eyed outside my room, I nearly knocked into a passing baboon. Vervet monkeys, warthogs, and kob (a deerlike animal) prowled the hotel’s grounds.

  “This place looks like a movie set!” I said.

  “No, you’ve got it backwards,” Kalu replied. “The movies are supposed to look like this.”

  The two of us were joined by a park guard named Robert Tindana, dressed head to toe in green khaki and outfitted with a rifle, and a friend of Kalu’s named Ziblim Illiasu. At twenty-eight, Illiasu was less than a year younger than me and had been birding for about three years, partly inspired by Kalu.

  “It makes you crazy,” Illiasu said, when I asked him why he liked watching birds. “And it’s such an adventure!”

  He told me that he had never met another birder his own age.

  “This is very inspiring for me,” he said, wonderingly. “I thought they were all really old.”

  After a quick breakfast, we all crowded into Yaw’s 4x4 pickup for a full morning on the park lands. Red dirt roads spidered into the bush. Kalu picked a route that looped between several waterholes and an area of dry flats, where he hoped to find a few specialties.

  Birds abounded: bushshrikes, babblers, and sunbirds sang from the scrub; a Rose-ringed Parakeet flew over; and African Palm-Swifts fluttered against the sky. We had great views of a pair of Oriole Warblers, their scalloped black heads contrasting with olive green bodies. At one small waterhole, a Lesser Moorhen—the only one I would see all year—emerged long enough to allow a close study of its yellow bill, distinguishing this bird from the much more widespread Eurasian Moorhen.

  Almost every species was a lifer for me, and I did my best to keep up. Some names, like the Red-cheeked Cordonbleu—a tiny, pastel-blue songbird—were evocative, but others challenged the limits of memory. One family of drab skulkers, called cisticolas, was especially confusing: each species looked similarly brown, so they had all been named for their sounds. In Ghana I recorded Whistling, Winding, Zitting, Singing, Siffling, and Croaking, and that was just the beginning; I’d soon add the Trilling, Wailing, Piping, Chattering, Rattling, Wing-snapping, and Rock-loving Cisticolas, among a dozen other species. If Snow White’s seven dwarves were bo
rn identical twins, they’d still be a cinch to keep straight by comparison.

  Near the end of the morning, before returning to the hotel for lunch, we stopped at one last waterhole. Robert, the park guard, led us quietly through a stand of trees where the view opened into a wide, shallow lake.

  I caught my breath. At the water’s edge, like a living sculpture, stood two enormous African elephants—the first wild elephants I’d ever seen. They were just a few hundred yards away, facing us with long, curving tusks. One slowly filled its trunk and hosed gallons of water down its mouth, swishing its tail at the flies. They didn’t seem to mind us watching from this distance, and we halted until the elephants moved off with slow, loping strides.

  “Wow,” I said. “For a minute, I forgot all about cisticolas!”

  “Yes,” Kalu laughed. “But, you know, we wouldn’t have seen the elephants if we weren’t looking for birds.”

  Robert explained that poaching is not a big issue at Mole National Park, partly because of regular guard patrols, and that these elephants live a relatively peaceful, unthreatened existence. Later, elsewhere in Africa and Asia, I’d see so many elephants that they would almost seem normal, but I luxuriated in this first encounter.

  Illiasu and Robert bid goodbye after lunch, and Yaw, Kalu, and I hit the road again, heading south toward Accra. My week in Ghana was nearly finished. Tomorrow the calendar would flip to July. Exactly six months had passed since the New Year, and with half the world still ahead, I had seen 3,334 species of birds, including nearly 300 new ones in Ghana. If I maintained this pace, I would surely exceed my goal of 5,000.

  For now, I settled down to watch the colors of west Africa slide past in a vivid stream: red dust, black soot, flowery dresses, straw-yellow roofs, green foliage, bowls of ripe fruit balanced on shaven heads. Judging by the roadside shops, Ghana was quite a God-fearing country. As we drove through a city called Kumasi, I noted the Saint Computer Service, By His Grace Phones, With God Carpentry Works Shop, God Is in Control Sewing and Decoration, the Sweet Mother Bar, and—leaving nothing to chance—the Holy Driving Institute. I pointed out a store called the Nothing But Christ Electrical Shop to Kalu.