I’m not doing that again…

Well that’s the last time I ever follow a 15 year-old into the African Bush…

I remember one summer a few years ago, I was still living in Colorado and drove up to Frisco to hang out with my mom.  She was in town doing her thing, and wanted to go hiking.  I’ll take any opportunity I can get to explore anything and everything Colorado, and was excited to hear see what she had in mind.  It wasn’t a particularly unique hike on the way up, but it’s what happened on the way down that made it memorable. Both of us were itching for an adventure, and thought it might be nice to try and take a different way do the mountain side.  We split off from the path (sorry Colorado, I know you don’t like that) and started to do a little trailblazing.  It was a huge open field down to a stream that then ran down the valley towards our car, so we didn’t think it would be all that hard to traverse.  Big mistake; We soon learned that paths exist for a reason.  The field ended, and the stream began.  And so did a seemingly endless patch of thorn-covered flora.   To make matters worse, I had also been wearing shorts and forgotten (read: carelessly made the decision not to use) sunscreen.

At least this time I was wearing sunscreen. 

What started out as a trip to the Carpenter with one of my neighbors (I’m trying to make some shelves for my closet), turned into a bushwhacking trek up and down the miniature mountain behind my house. During our visit with the Carpenter, we learned about a path that went up through a few machambas, almost to the top.  I’ve been desperately trying to find some time to go hiking outside of town recently, so when Orlando, my neighbor, turned to me after the Carpenter described the camino and asked “Queres ir?” (Do you want to go?), it took me all of two milliseconds to enthusiastically say yes.  And just like that, our adventure began.  We said our goodbyes to the Carpenter, thanked him, and went on our merry way walking along.  Worn down by the bare-feet of the people who have used it for years, the rugged, dirt path easy to follow. 

As we started to gain some elevation, I turned around to examine the view.  Wow.  We weren’t even up that high, but what I was able to see what nothing short of fantastic.  Rolling Plains painted in massive forests of medium size trees. They engulf intermittent inselbrooks (I think that’s the word, it’s a type of rock formation they have here but I can’t remember how to spell it) that seem to pop up out of nowhere, for no reason at all. The mountains here just happen, there’s really no other way to put it. Massive monolithic pieces of rock hundreds of feet high shoot out of the earth sporadically and look fresh, as though they breached the crust just days before. We're it not for the jungles of trees and moss that covers them, it would actually be hard to believe otherwise. Every so often you can see the humongous bodies of Baobab trees (your classic example for an African tree; like the tree where Mustafa lives in the Lion King) breaking through the canopy, as if it were trying to one-up what the mountains they share the land with.  They are everywhere and it’s a good thing too, because their massive limbs extends out past their even more massive trunks to produce enough shade for two or three chapas full of people to comfortably descancar under after the inevitable breakdown of their minibus.

I could spend all day in this one spot looking out, analyzing the scene.  I’ve never seen anything like it before, and even though I’m here for two more years and know that I’ll have plenty of additional opportunities to sit and stare, I can’t seem to force my eyes away from the view.  Orlando has to literally pull me in the right direction in order to bring me back to reality.

When we’re almost to the top, we find ourselves out the beaten path (literally) and sitting in the middle  of someone’s mountain-side machamba.  Although we’re only a hundred vertical feet from the top, the rest of the way up is impassible and shrouded in an impenetrable forest of trees, plants, bushes and vines.  Also, probably snakes.  Big ones.  We can go no further.  Our path has ended, but the fun has just begun.

Orlando points out Montepuez’s new Universidade Pedogogico at the bottom of our hill, not too far in the distance and asks if I want to go.  It’s starting to get a little late (probably 4pm or so) and I can already see that the sun starting to make it rounds.  But, it doesn’t seem like too far of a trek, so I happily consent making the assumption that he knows some path to get us down there and back home in time for dinner.  Nope.

Five minutes later, I find myself having flashbacks to the hike I went on with my mom in Colorado, wandering through a thick field of tall grass, fighting thorns, stickers, and the various cousins of American poison ivy, all the while praying that this isn’t the point in time that I spot my first Black Mamba or Mozambican Spitting Cobra.  Or any other snake for that matter.  If you haven’t noticed yet, I’m not a huge fan of snakes.

Orlando doesn’t seem to know where he’s going.  He knows our destination, but doesn’t seem to have any knowledge about a path we can take to get there.  That doesn’t to matter to him though, as in Africa, paths aren’t necessary.  You just walk. 

My mind starts to race through all the possible scenarios that could happen.  We have no food, no water, and no path.  Soon, we’ll have no light either.  What we do have though is a whole lot of bush and a general sense of direction.  Even though my mind is starting to race through all the horrific scenarios that could potentially happen (most of which involve getting being slowly eaten alive by a family of black mambas), I take comfort in the fact that he’s hiking in shorts and sandals, and seems o be carrying an uncanny confidence all the while walking through the bush. He’s not even sweating.

After jumping across a small gorge, we find ourselves walking through a machamba where someone’s recently planted peanuts.  Good, I think to myself, at least we are somewhere where someone else has been too.  There’s got to be a path out of here somewhere.  We walk to one end, only to run into another impenetrable wall of forest.  At this point, I decide to take charge.  My adrenaline is pumping, and I’m not willing to bushwhack again if we don’t absolutely have too.  Orlando is still cool as a cucumber. 

We follow the border of the machamba for a little while, when we finally see it: an outlet.  There, wedged between two trees, is a small path heading down the hillside.  Hallelujah, I think to myself and crack a small joke about how we’re still alive. I look over at Orlando.  He’s void of any emotion.

So maybe my emotions got the best of me.  Maybe we weren’t in as much trouble as I thought.  Maybe I just need to get more used to this carefree African lifestyle.  Or maybe I just shouldn’t ever follow a 15 year old into the African Bush.