The Wrong Direction

In the misty morning light we exchange our remaining meticais to US dollars at a small roadside shop. The Mozambican border guard waves us off with a plea for “something to remember us by”. We gift him with our most dazzling smiles and head over to the Zimbabwe side. After getting our visas and explaining “our mission” of tourism to the border guard there we’re finally off.

It feels a little bit like we’re moving through various wormholes. At first we are cycling through a tree-lined avenue on an English country estate, then through the forest behind Lina’s home village, then the Ugandan jungle and finally Dartmoor and Australian farmland. What unites all these places is either a dirt road or “skinny tarmac” (a small strip of tarmac left in the middle of the dirt road) as we like to call it.

It’s mid-August and halftime of the trip. We therefore fret (and not for the first time) about our route for the next six months. Though it often seems like we’re crawling to Cape Town, we’re actually on track to get there way before Christmas. On the one hand that would be quite nice since we could be back in time for Plätzchen and Glühwein. But on the other hand, once we’re back we’re no longer on holiday, just unemployed slackers.

Thus we have decided to add a big squiggle to the map of the trip. We are now heading northwest to Zambia, in the wrong direction. Our first stop: The Chimanimani Mountains in the east of Zimbabwe. Of course we can’t just take the main road there. We need to add some adventure (and elevation gain) before our days off. So, for two days, we take the dirt road through the banana and timber concessions.

We (of course) chose poorly as day one reveals. Everything starts out fine as we cruise along on an unexpectedly asphalty road through a valley with spectacular views. By lunchtime we are done with the downhill part of the day and also the asphalt. With our bellies full of sadza (the universally available maize porridge) and kale, we begin the long sweaty slog up.

1400m of elevation gain have to be mastered before we find ourselves some water and a cute little spot to wild camp. More often than not we have to push Jo and Olive up the steep and loose inclines. The sun beats down on us relentlessly and everyone gives us incredulous stares. Twice we have to backtrack, adding over an hour to the total, because the road on our map doesn’t exist anymore.

The day is getting old as we cross muddy streams from which we can’t filter any water. By now we are contemplating to forego dinner to have enough drinking water. As the sun is setting we come across a little timber camp with a shop. We buy snacks and filter some water from their tap before chasing the last bit of daylight to find somewhere to camp.

But the terrain is quite steep and all we can find is a little ditch with brambles and tussocky grass very close to the road. We constantly have to switch off our lights to hide from passersby. While Ben prepares our dinner feast of instant noodles, Lina uses what strength she has left to break the tent pole. With no quick fix at hand there is nothing left for us but to cowboy camp under the stars. It’s not as romantic as it sounds.

After rolling from one stick onto another all night we wake up at 5am the next morning and quickly pack away the dewy sleeping bags. Of course we find many better camping spots just down the road. The going is easier today and by midday we’ve reached Chimanimani town and a cute little paddock complete with dogs, horses, geese, cows and invading sheep. It sports a stunning view of the mountains worthy of one of Ben’s sketches.

We have a great chat with Tempe, the owner, and her husband Doug expertly manufactures a splint for the tent pole. We place our bets on when it will snap again; the tent is cheap, old, well used and from China after all. Then we commence the much needed 4-day rest (after one day of hardship). Stuffing our faces with nice home cooked meals (at a neighboring farm) also takes energy.

In the early mornings we listen attentively to the dog and rooster chorus. We give the bikes a much needed wash, hike to the aptly named Bridal Veil Falls and up Pork Pie Hill. We scamper through a canyon with cave paintings and swim in frigid Tessa’s pool, the surroundings of which are almost too picturesque. It’s like the forest is trying a bit too hard to imitate the Jungle Book.

Back at camp we marvel at the stamina of churchgoing folk. They are singing and listening to increasingly angry preaching all day long. Later in the evening the pastor seems to have put the flock into a veritable frenzy. They scream bloody murder as they either find Jesus or perform an exorcism. We’re not quite sure. We hide in the tent anyway, in case it occurs to them that the puny atheists make a good sacrifice.

Well fed and rested and more importantly still alive, we get ready to leave the next day. The road seems especially hot and dry after frolicking in our little oasis for so long. Thankfully we see much dairy in the immediate future. We are headed for a place famous for cheesecake and a supposedly “batshit crazy lady” who sells milk tarts in the northern part of the mountains. Thank god for dairy!