Why I Travel Before My Knees Retire

It’s one thing to wake up to the sounds of the wilderness. It’s another to be woken before your alarm by “COPA CABANA, TOWN! COBRA YERED! YAUYA VIM!” (vendors working their morning hustle through megaphones). I have nothing against anyone trying to make a living. But occasionally, I’d like to remember that I’m supposed to be living too.

That, in part, explains why I keep disappearing into the bundu, the bush. Give me a mountain, a trail, a stretch of river or a sunset, and I can happily occupy myself. Sometimes there’s wildlife. Sometimes there’s a steep climb that makes me question the decisions that brought me there. Either way, it’s usually more interesting than another weekend spent looking at my PC.

People unwind differently. Some watch football. Some go to the bar. Some doomscroll. My friends Gamu and Jonah would tease me, “Muchie, uri kutambisa face yedoro.” (Muchie, you’re wasting a face made for drinking.) Apparently, my face suggests a man who should be carried away stone-drunk in a wheelbarrow.

Multiple friends have also tried sharing drinks with me, but I’ve stuck to ciders and red wine. Can’t stand lagers’ bitter taste. A lady’s palate? I don’t know. And I’m a very occasional drinker. My preferred way of unwinding involves taking in the panoramic natural scenery, panting my way uphill until my legs wish they could detach and run away from me. My idea of resting involves exhausting a different part of myself.

Before it became hiking

I grew up in the city, but during the 1990s, every December, we’d go kumusha (our rural home), in Chipinge. I later attended school there too. There were forests, hills and mountains to explore, and my same-age relatives provided company. We went hunting for wild animals and mbeva (mice), shot at birds with catapults and encountered snakes. There was plenty to keep a curious boy occupied and excited. At school, my friends Tererai, Motion and I would hop the fence and go and play in the dry riverbed.

Those childhood experiences in Chipinge gave my curiosity somewhere to grow. Years later, I’m still following it, only now I have to give up a few treats and luxuries so I can pay for the trips myself.

In 2012, I visited Tererai’s rural home in the mountains of Chipinge. We were adults by then. Talk about lifelong friendships. That visit included a hike up a heavily forested mountain, and my first encounter with a black mamba. We’ll unpack that one another day. It deserves its own space, and perhaps a little distance from the romantic paragraph coming next.

My first visit to Domboshava was with my then-girlfriend. We hiked up the hill, took photos and watched the sunset. We took a bottle of wine too and shared a little. It was a good time together, away from the usual Harare routine, with room to enjoy each other’s company.

We descended the hill late and, for a while, couldn’t find transport back to Harare. The sunset had done its part. The transport arrangements still needed work. Romance, with a small logistics department attached.

I’ve been to Domboshava three times now. The appeal remains: the climb, the views, the hypnotising sunsets and that feeling of having stepped outside the ordinary shape of the day.

When my mind needs a reset

In Harare, as in much of Africa, life can pull in several directions at once. There’s the business, work, family and personal issues. If you grew up in an African family, you’ll know your own bills aren’t always the only ones with your name on them. The clan tax is real, and somehow the clan always knows when it’s payday.

Sometimes the hustles aren’t working out as I’d hoped. Sometimes something else needs attention while I’m already trying to solve the first problem. Then there are the things I genuinely enjoy creating. I can be at my PC at one, two or three in the morning, tinkering with AI or working on another idea. Many of these turn out to be darn stupid ideas anyway. But who cares? Life is all about trial and error, right?

My mind also has a habit of opening another project before I’ve finished the one in front of me. I can be writing this story when an unrelated idea arrives. Sometimes I make a mental note; sometimes I start working on it. Add everything I’m reading, learning and experiencing, and eventually my head resembles a Chrome browser with 55 tabs open. Then three tabs start playing different jingles, and I can’t work out which ones. A proper cacophony. Meanwhile, I’ve forgotten what I opened the browser for.

Enjoying the work doesn’t make me immune to exhaustion. Eventually, I can feel myself approaching burnout. I struggle to concentrate. My thinking gets muddled. I’m still trying to do things, but I’m no longer doing them with a clear head. Sometimes I forget the simplest things, even the line I was about to type. Old age creeping in? Maybe. But it’s comforting to blame it on fatigue.

Time in the bush helps me make order out of that chaos. I can sort through my thoughts, work out what matters and decide what to tackle first. I feel happier, sharper and more energetic. Sometimes a problem begins to look different, and I see an approach I hadn’t considered at my desk. I still have plenty to do, but now I have a clearer idea of where to begin.

Nyanga gave me a good example of that. Before leaving, I knew I wanted to explore additional income streams, but I didn’t have a clear idea of what to do. After spending time there, hiking and visiting the falls, ideas began taking shape.

One was to document my travels. After returning from Mana Pools, I built Muchie Unpacked, giving that Nyanga idea somewhere to live. I’ve also been leading the work on GenX Enterprise Solutions. There’s still plenty to figure out with both. A clearer head helps.

The bush hasn’t offered to pay my bills. It has, however, helped me think about how I might pay them. “Might” being the key word.

The Japanese have a name for it

In Japan, shinrin-yoku, usually translated as forest bathing, means taking in the forest atmosphere. It involves spending time among trees, including quietly looking at the surroundings. You don’t have to summit a mountain to participate. A stroll among the trees will do. Add a little sunbathing, and that’s two forms of bathing that don’t require soap.

A study published in 2010 compared forest and city walking and viewing across 24 Japanese forests, involving 280 participants. The forest conditions were associated with lower levels of the stress hormone cortisol, lower pulse rates and lower blood pressure. Read the study.

The people, the climb and the things you bring home

That Nyanga trip was particularly refreshing. There were four of us: my brother, his wife, my niece and me. We hiked, visited falls and pools, and spent time together. I’d always wanted to hike to the top of Mount Nyangani, despite all those stories about aliens and people disappearing. All four of us were there for one another, urging each other on and helping each other along. The company was as much a part of the experience as the scenery.

I’m not a gym person. The long walks and steep climbs are my way of exercising, and they push me hard. I get the scenery, and my body gets a workout it didn’t ask for.

I’ve had hikes with cramps, panting and sections steep enough to have me climbing on hands and feet. Somewhere in those moments comes the thought: “Kana ndikakunguruka or ndikarumwa neMamba kuno, ndoti ndaitsvagei shuwa?” (If I roll downhill or a mamba bites me out here, what on earth will I say I came looking for?)

Then I reach the top, take in the views, enjoy the fresh air and forget the pain that got me there. A bit like a woman who gives birth to her first kid and says, “I’m not doing this again.” A few years later, she’s discussing names for baby number four. Me, I’m already planning another hike. I can’t be trusted with a recovered pair of legs. Paying for pain, coming back for the pleasure.

Travel also brings people into my life. On one trip, a 25-year-old fellow traveller and tentmate took me through trading basics. I was the older brother when we talked about heartbreaks. When the subject changed to trading, I became the student. Age had given me a head start, apparently not in every department. Some of the things I bring home are contacts, ideas and knowledge I didn’t leave Harare with. It helps to remember that the person beside you may know something you don’t.

Enjoy it. Respect it.

For all this enthusiasm, I’m aware that wild, beautiful places can also be dangerous. Enjoying them includes recognising the risks and knowing what I can and cannot do.

In Chimanimani, there were sparkling pools with super deep sections. I’m a terrible swimmer. I can manage the basics, but I know my limitations, so I stayed in the shallower areas and skipped the deeper parts. I had come to enjoy the water, not to taunt my ancestors.

I stayed alone in a thatched lodging in the woods in Mavuradonha. Walking back from the campfire, I lit my way, mindful of where I was putting my feet in case there were snakes. Inside, I also checked up into the thatch. I’d seen videos of pythons in thatched roofs, and apparently my mind had kept those for precisely this occasion.

I’m not telling you I found a python. I’m telling you I looked. There is a difference, and I would very much like it to remain that way.

I like wild places: camps, tents, animals in their natural surroundings and the occasional absence of cellphone service. A luxurious lodge isn’t the main attraction for me.

The trouble with “one day”

After reaching Nyangani, I thought I might be done with Zimbabwe’s mountains. Then I saw more places I wanted to explore. Most recently, Zaka’s green hills joined the list. Chilojo Cliffs gave me some of the most stunning views I’ve seen in Zimbabwe. Somehow, going places keeps producing more places to go.

The danger is leaving all of them under “one day”.

One day, when the business is doing better. One day, when there’s more money. Perhaps when I have a million dollars. It’s a respectable plan, except I don’t know whether I’ll ever have a million dollars. And who said I’ll still be alive to do the things I enjoy?

I want to do these things while I’m physically able: climb the mountain, reach the top and get down again on my own two legs. I could wait for retirement, but having more free time won’t automatically come with knees willing to use it. I don’t want to finally afford the trip and discover that the hiking part is beyond me. So, where I can make room financially, I go now.

And if I’m fortunate enough to live a long life, I want memories to look back on. I don’t want to sit there thinking, “I wish I’d climbed those mountains in Chimanimani when I had the energy.” I’d rather have a few regrets about things I tried than spend my old age regretting the things I kept postponing. Money isn’t guaranteed. Time isn’t either. Neither are knees with a lifetime warranty.

Mana Pools took twenty years. A photo I found in 2006 became my wallpaper, and the place behind it remained somewhere I wanted to visit. In 2026, I finally went. I’m grateful I got to make that journey. I’d prefer the rest of my wish list to move a little faster.

There are responsibilities and real limits. Every two or three months would suit me, funds permitting. Unfortunately, wanting to go and being able to pay remain two separate things.

The photos are not my bank statement

Before you investigate the grey GenX T-shirt appearing everywhere from Victoria Falls to Mana Pools, these photos span several years. I own MULTIPLE grey T-shirts. Please stop calculating how many kilometres one shirt has travelled without seeing a washing line. 😂 I’ve adopted the Mark Zuckerberg approach to dressing: same colour, fewer decisions. Unfortunately, the billions weren’t included in the starter pack.

Travel gets a budget because it matters to me, just as liquor or eating out might for someone else. Food and other responsibilities have their budgets too. For all my trips, I spread the payments over several months to make the cost easier to manage.

I come back from trips broke, but clear-headed. Then I start again, one dollar at a time. The photos show the trip. They don’t show the saving, sacrifices and planning that helped make it happen.

Packing up, again

Each time I go into the wild, I genuinely hate the packing-up-and-leaving part. After Gonarezhou, looking at my bags ready to go was a miserable moment, as it has been with all my other bush escapades. I had enjoyed being there. I wanted more time: lions roaring in the distance, hippos grunting, and my imagination insisting that a leopard might tear into our tent house. Eventually, though, there’s work to return to. At least I have memories and stories to bring back with me.

Life is for the living. I want some of mine to happen out there: with people who are wild at heart too, on trails I haven’t walked, beside water I’m sensible enough not to swim too deeply into, and watching sunsets I still haven’t become tired of.

I’ll come back, count what’s left and start again. While my legs can still carry me.

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