I plodded eastwards winding along little paths. Most of it was burnt. The bigger trees were all just stumps sticking up out of the ground. The rest was scrubby with little huts scattered here and there. The people were desperately poor. There were no schools or clinics or government wells.
It was hard to think where I might sleep as I tried to skirt Mutare, Zimbabwe’s third city. It’s barren with very little cover and the population density grows the closer you get to town. Somewhere in the hills might be an option. Mutare is blessed with many hills and as such is in a picturesque position - probably the most picturesque natural landscape of any city in Zimbabwe.
Here and there a gaggle of children would follow me for a few kilometres. None spoke English. In a country that had had the best education in Africa, it was constantly so sad to see how unschooled children are now. It is a terrible legacy of the destruction that has taken place as a result of the justice system collapsing. A country without justice is a country that will never thrive.
Just before dark Tsedeq and I went over a ridgeline and started descending the other side. It was low thorn with dry grass clearings. I found a small clearing at dusk and waited for a short while before off loading to make sure nobody was following us.
Eventually I realised we were in the clear. The thorn offered excellent cover and there were no paths worth speaking of that anyone would follow in the darkness.
I put up the long line and off-loaded before eating a most meagre cold supper of bread and water and fell soundly asleep. I knew the next day could be the last before Zimbabwe’s eastern border.
From my fortress amongst the thorns on the outskirts of Mutare I saddled Tsedeq early and headed east to cross the river that flows out of Mutare.
I was sure it would be dry but soon realised I was wrong. It was flowing strongly with evil smelling black sewage. I turned upstream and looked for a place to ford it. After a little way I found a reasonably shallow crossing place and took off my shoes and socks and tied them together and slung them around my neck. I then rolled up my trousers and tried to lead Tsedeq in.
After his marsh experience, Tsedeq’s Matabeleland fear of water had returned in a very emphatic way and I didn’t blame him for a second. The water was horrible and I was in complete sympathy with him.
I tried to coax him for a while with the last of some biscuits that I had in his saddle bags. Then a couple of men arrived who distracted the process and I decided not to push it.
I asked them where the nearest bridge was but they said they didn’t know. “We are not from this area,” they said.
I wondered how they had got to other side of the river and was a little unsure of them. I moved on upstream and they followed me.
They were well turned out and fit looking young men; but they were thin. They said they were part of a football team.
After about an hour we eventually got to a narrow footbridge. There was a two-and-a-half foot step to get onto it and the railings were missing. I could see it would be a non-starter to try to get Tsedeq up onto it and decided to move on. I was told there was a road bridge fairly close.
I had come to know the two young men quite well by now. “Can you stop? I want to tell you something,” one of them asked me.
He looked around him a little furtively and I stopped. Even if I wasn’t sure of them to begin with I knew we had got to know each well enough for them not to try to rob me now.
I stopped.
“We are deserters,” he said simply. “We were not being fed. We are not coming closer to Mutare.”
We talked for a while. They said there were a lot of other army deserters as well.
Eventually we said our goodbyes and I moved on. Then I stopped.
“Come over here,” I said. “I want to give you something.”
I gave them some US dollars and then prayed for them. I knew they needed every little bit of help that they could get. It wasn’t going to be an easy road for them as fugitives from the law in a poor and broken country like Zimbabwe. They would probably end up with the millions of gold diggers eking out their meagre livings destroying the country’s river beds.
Further along the river I eventually found a bridge and so was able to start heading east once more.
There was now a range of hills to the south, between me and the route up into the Vumba Mountains that I was intending to take. The area was dry and burnt and there was little grazing so we hurried through.
Riding Tsedeq near the Inn on the Vumba
A veld fire had Tsedeq a little flustered but we walked through the smoke feeling a little of the heat, without incident.
With the remaining battery charge left in my phone, I let Lynne James know that I would soon be at a place accessible by road. My battery then ran out. My two power packs had died in the marsh. We had not found a tuck shop for a while and I had promised Tsedeq that by now we would be in the land of carrots and apples and other delicious things.
Lynne found us and made my promise to Tsedeq come true. She also brought a magnificent picnic lunch and even food for when I arrived in the mountains. We found a beautiful glade that had green grass and water and Tsedeq and I both ate our fill before the last stretch which we made with bulging saddle bags.
(Left) A delicious picnic lunch; (Right):Giving Tsedeq well-deserved treats
There had been a couple of inches of rain up there and as we climbed higher the grass became greener. Soon, well before sunset, we got to the small green lawn of my cottage from where the beauty of the sun rises over Mozambique are unrivalled.
(Left) Tsedeq relaxing in the Vumba on a long overhead line; (Right) An exquisite mountain backdrop
The adventure was not quite over though.
After a glorious bath in which I also washed my clothes, I made myself my first proper meal for nearly a week. I then fell into bed between cotton sheets and slept. At about two o’clock in the morning I heard a struggle. I had put the long overhead line between the two poles of the garage. On one side of the long line was lovely green grass. On the other side was some river sand I had for building. I had given Tsedeq a little more halter rope than I usually did so that he could have a good roll in the sand.
I jumped out of bed and saw him in the moonlight. His front leg was up by his head and he was struggling. I grabbed a knife and ran out barefoot, with nothing on. He had caught his foot in the halter rope and then wound himself around the garage pole a few times until the rope was iron bar tight.
It twanged like a bass guitar string when I cut it. Tsedeq’s leg was very sore and he lay down on his side for a while. I felt awful as there wasn’t a lot I could do except sit with him - naked under the glorious moon.
He’s such a tough little horse though, and it wasn’t too long before he was up and grazing again. I could see he would need a few quiet days - but he recovered quicker than I thought. I was able to walk him up to church on Sunday.
At church I reflected on the question that was asked of me by almost whoever I met. The question was “where are you going?”
I spoke about how important it is for us to ask that question of ourselves. At so many levels it’s so important. Ultimately, for me, it is a question that can be answered very simply. On one level I was going home to my little piece of heaven perched on a mountainside. At another level, by God’s grace, I was going home to my Heavenly Father. I have no idea when that moment might be; but sometime in the next number of decades I shall get home.
In the meantime I still have two journeys to make that are connected to this long ride for justice. One is from the mountains down to the Indian Ocean. The other is from Windhoek to the Atlantic Ocean. Those rides will have to wait for next year.
Tsedeq in the orange glow of sunset
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