From Rainforest to Ancient Ruins: Epic Adventure Journey Across Continents

My journey began with a chartered flight from Georgetown to Kaieteur National Park, home to the world's largest single-drop waterfall by volume. At 741 feet—nearly five times higher than Niagara—Kaieteur Falls commands a presence that's difficult to convey even through a professional lens. I arrived just after the rainy season when the falls roar with magnificent force, yet before the heavier autumn rains that can obscure visibility.

As a photographer, I've learned that capturing such massive natural features requires both technical preparation and patience. I spent three days near the falls, waiting for that perfect moment when early morning light creates rainbows in the perpetual mist. My Gitzo GT1545T Series 1 Traveler proved invaluable here—lightweight enough for the humid trek but stable enough for the long exposures needed to capture water's silky movement.

The local guides, many from indigenous communities, shared knowledge about the falls' spiritual significance that added profound depth to my photographic narrative. They pointed out tiny golden frogs living in giant tank bromeliads and the elusive Guianan cock-of-the-rock birds that flash brilliant orange against the green canopy.

After Kaieteur, I journeyed deeper into Guyana's interior to the Iwokrama Forest Reserve, where the convergence of my passions for photography and astronomy found perfect expression. The Iwokrama Canopy Walkway, suspended 100 feet above the forest floor, offers not only unprecedented wildlife viewing but also, as I discovered, an extraordinary platform for astrophotography.

Having photographed night skies across five continents, I can confidently say few locations rival Iwokrama for celestial observation. The minimal light pollution and position just north of the equator allowed me to capture both familiar northern constellations and the Southern Cross in a single frame—a photographer's dream.

For this segment of my journey, my headlamp with its red light mode proved essential. The red illumination preserved my night vision while allowing me to navigate the walkway safely during predawn astronomical shoots. I spent three unforgettable nights photographing the Milky Way arching over the rainforest canopy, occasionally capturing the silhouettes of awakening howler monkeys against the starlit sky.

During daylight hours, the canopy teemed with life: toucans, macaws, and the elusive harpy eagle all made appearances. The local conservation officers shared their extensive knowledge about sustainable ecotourism efforts that are helping preserve this biodiversity hotspot.

The journey from South America to the Middle East represented not just a physical transition but a psychological one—from primeval wilderness to ancient civilization. Rather than rushing this transition, I deliberately chose a slower path: flying from Georgetown to Barbados, then taking a transatlantic cruise that allowed me time to process the Guyanese experience while preparing for Lebanon.

During the seven-day crossing, I conducted impromptu astrophotography workshops for fellow passengers, sharing techniques for capturing the particularly dark Atlantic night skies. The ship's gentle movement presented challenges for long exposures, so I relied heavily on my image stabilization gimbal to maintain crisp star trails in my photographs.

The Atlantic crossing provided an unexpected benefit: gradually adjusting to the significant time difference between Guyana and Lebanon. By the time we docked in Marseille, France, I had already shifted my sleep schedule to align with Eastern Mediterranean time, avoiding the productivity-killing jet lag that would have otherwise impacted the Lebanese portion of my journey.

From Marseille, I flew to Beirut via a short layover in Athens—a fitting transition point between Western and Middle Eastern cultures. Throughout these transitions, my travel document organizer kept my international permits, photography licenses, and astronomy site permissions meticulously organized—a necessity when crossing multiple borders with professional equipment.

The final destination of my transcontinental journey brought me face-to-face with what many archaeologists consider the most impressive Roman temple complex in existence. Baalbek's Temple of Bacchus stands as one of the best-preserved Roman structures anywhere, its massive columns and intricate carvings defying both time and the region's tumultuous history.

I arrived in Baalbek after spending three days acclimating in Beirut, making the two-hour journey through Lebanon's fertile Bekaa Valley just as the fall harvest was beginning. The timing proved fortuitous—autumn brings softer light that enhances the honey-colored stones of the temples without the harsh shadows of summer.

For serious photographers, Baalbek presents a fascinating technical challenge: capturing the immense scale of structures built to honor Roman gods. My approach involved arriving at the site by 5:30 AM, well before other visitors, allowing me to set up my remote trigger system for capturing the first light illuminating the temple columns. This device, which can trigger multiple cameras simultaneously, allowed me to document the changing light from different perspectives.

What struck me most about Baalbek was the juxtaposition of ancient engineering and celestial alignment. The Temple of Jupiter was constructed with precise astronomical orientations—something I documented using my sun tracking app to predict exactly how light would interact with specific architectural elements during my visit.

The local guides, many with archaeology backgrounds, shared insights about how the temples' alignment with celestial events would have created dramatic light effects during ancient Roman religious ceremonies—a fascinating connection to my work photographing modern observatories.

While photography drives my travel, I've learned that the most meaningful experiences often happen when I lower the camera. In both Guyana and Lebanon, I made deliberate efforts to engage with local communities beyond the tourist experience.

In Georgetown, I connected with a women's cooperative that creates traditional textiles, spending two days learning their techniques and stories. The intricate patterns they weave tell cultural narratives that predate European arrival—a visual language that resonated with my photographer's eye. I purchased a hand-woven hammock that now hangs in my Minneapolis studio, a daily reminder of Guyanese craftsmanship.

In Lebanon's Bekaa Valley, I participated in a fall grape harvest with a family that has produced wine since the Ottoman era. Working alongside three generations of Lebanese winemakers offered insights into how ancient traditions adapt to modern challenges—from climate change affecting growing seasons to how political instability impacts export markets.

These experiences were facilitated by my pocket translator device, which helped bridge communication gaps when English wasn't spoken. The device proved particularly valuable in rural Lebanon, where I could record conversations in Arabic and receive instant translations, allowing for deeper connections than would otherwise be possible.

For couples undertaking similar transcontinental journeys, I recommend building in these unstructured days for cultural immersion. The shared experience of learning traditional skills or participating in local harvests creates memories that often outshine even the most spectacular landscapes or monuments.