The Geography

of Belonging

A Love Story

"The Geography of Belonging is a gorgeous adventure of the heart and spirit, across cultural and species lines. This is a riveting and unusual love story of persons and of place told in sensuous, muscular prose."

Erin Robinsong, author of Rag Cosmology

"There is precious little left right now, of the magic that arises from relating to extraordinary animals in healthy wild settings. The Geography of Belonging is, in part, a realistic fresh-from-the-field portrait of an increasingly grim situation regarding the greatest of land mammals and the ecosystems they inhabit."

Douglas Chadwick, author of Fate of the Elephant

and National Geographic contributor

Absolutely no doubt about this, Oriane Lee Johnston is a gifted writer. Her memoir reveals, with anguished directness at times, the longing for identity after a dramatic life-shift. The reader applauds her, is intimidated by and in awe of her courage, her openness to experience, and her many very real gifts of character. This is a lovely, deeply touching and above all, a serious book about the possibilities in life that many of us close ourselves off to, far too soon.

Sharon Butala, author of Perfection of the Morning. This Strange

Visible Air and many award-winning best-sellers

Oriane Lee’s writing, about the seasons of life and death, and the frailty juxtaposed to the strength and endurance in the safari horse, is one of the best epitaphs to the horse I have ever read.

Karl Van Lauren, DVM,

southern Africa’s prominent veterinarian

"Beginning with a dark horse dream, a respect for all layers of consciousness continues through every page of The Geography of Belonging. In that luminous space, we see that we already know what a land asks of us – to remember."

Odette Auger, Indigenous journalist.

Sagamok Anishnawbekwe, living in the Salish Sea.

"The Geography of Belonging is gripping, complex and very moving; flowing gracefully from the personal to the political/cultural and back again, in a voice that is sensitive, intelligent, and alive with the details of life. Oriane Lee writes beautifully, her spirit infuses the page, drawing the reader's sympathies and keeping us engaged all the way. This is a worthy book and one that deserves to be widely read. The philosophical asides are economical and poignant and invite the reader to consider the heart of the ethical dilemma of a white woman with a black man in an African country alongside the injustices of post-colonial Zimbabwe itself. If you care about what it means to be human in an increasingly inhumane world, and how to live an awakened life in an imperfect world, you will love this book."

Mark Matousek, author of Sex Death Enlightenment:

A True Story, and Ethical Wisdom: The Search for a Moral life

"Having been born in Southern Africa, I love The Geography of Belonging, travelling in my imagination with Oriane Lee Johnston on her amazing journey with Zimbabwe. She opens us to many questions about class, race, nature and the courage to follow love beyond our comfort level in order to discover the heart of another culture. The svikiro, a spiritual medium of the Shona people, said to her: To see our traditional ways kept alive with your interest and your writing. That is what you can give us. Oriane Lee has indeed given that gift to all of us."

Ann Mortifee, author of In Love with the Mystery. Composer of

Into the Heart of the Sangoma

Copyright © 2022 by Oriane Lee Johnston

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information and storage retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewer who may quote brief passage in a review.

Library and Archives in Canada Cataloguing in Publication

ISBN 978-1-7771492-0-8 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-7771492-1-5 (ebook)

Permissions:

Excerpt from The Fate of the Elephant by Douglas Chadwick reprinted by permission of the author.

Excerpt from Nine Gates by Jane Hirshfield. Copyright © 1997 by Jane Hirshfield. Used by permission of Harper Collins Publishers.

Just Sit There, from the Penguin publication The Subject Tonight is Love: 60 Wild and Sweet Poems of Hafiz by Daniel Ladinsky, copyright 1996 and used with permission.

Pale Sunlight, Pale the Wall, version of Rumi, included by permission of Coleman Barks.

Published by Salmonberry Arts & Publishing

www.salmonberry.ca

Credits:

Cover Design by Saki Mafundikwa

Interior Design by SpicaBookDesign

Printed and bound in Canada

Contents

Kind Words

Part One

Baptism in the Wild

The Beginning

Breakfast in Africa

Rendezvous With the Wild

Restless Liminality

The Bedroom Dress

Part Two

Beneath Our Feet

Questions of Identity

Invitation to Kumusha

Animal Nation

All My Relations

At Home in Harare

Come As You Are

Part Three

Mbira Stairway

Dorje Ling and the Stardust Ballroom

Africa’s Finest: a Disappearance

Kadoma Kumusha

The Spirit House

Zambezi Paradise

The Ethics of Generosity

Ziva: Wisdom

Impermanence

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Cover

About the Author

Horses come in the night. Into my dreams in the dark hours.

In a vast sun-filled field, I lie down in the middle of the grassland and begin to stretch my arms and legs, spiraling my torso, twirling my hands and feet.

All at once, I sense, something, coming, through the trees on the far side of the vlei. A dark form materializes.

An immense, gleaming, black horse thunder-gallops toward me. I press into the ground, terrorized, in the split-second of being trampled, to death.

But the trustworthy beauty leaps over me. Underbelly arcing above, as if I am a river.

He does this again and again, thundering and leaping, thundering and leaping, until my fright dissolves in the sound of his hooves, the sheen of his body, the pureness of his power.

PART ONE

HWANGE WILDERNESS. ZIMBABWE

Baptism in the Wild

Bloomer, the young park ranger, packs a modest Cobra smg 8 mm in his saddle holster.

I am here to protect you. He grins at me, hand on the firearm.

James Varden, safari head guide, has a Colt Python handgun and a Winchester rifle—one for loud noise, one for business. Stephen Hambani, Shona horseman and tracker, carries a braided bullwhip. Noise only.

Nine humans ride single file on horseback in the African bush; day four in a seven-day wildlife safari into the wilderness of Hwange National Park, Zimbabwe. We’re on a thirty-three-kilometre ride to our next camping site, Jambili Pan, setting out just after sunrise to arrive before nightfall.

James leads on his strong buckskin gelding Munhondo, whose thick black mane and tail shine in the early light. I’m on the dark bay, Manini, who is wide-girthed and comfortable, assigned to me for his steadfastness. In front of me, Theresa Warth rides the grey mare Bhura, as she does each day in this position, a reassuring familiarity by now. The lively Theresa is about fifty and though Swiss-born, she is most at home in the bushveld, having married a Zimbabwean and lived in this country all her adult life.

A stroke of luck, in response to my desire to see wildlife up-close, that one space remained open in this safari planned for her relatives’ visit from Switzerland. Though I haven’t met Theresa or the Vardens before I feel like one of the family. James’ Australian-born wife and safari co-director, Janine, has expertly matched each of us with our mounts. The horses are specially trained for riding in the wilderness and for encounters with the animals of Africa. In stories round the campfire I hear how their sensitivity alerts the tracker, and the rider, to the presence of wildlife. And how their instinct to flee from predators is replaced by trust in the rider’s leadership.

We travel not on footpaths made by humans or trails etched by horses but on red dirt tracks trodden by generations of elephants through the thick bush. We come across the elephants time and again, always stopping to make way for their traversing. Most captivating is their bath time at the watering holes—our horses motionless and hyper-alert, riders beaming or teary, profoundly touched by the pachyderm families at play.

But, at the moment, we’re tracking fresh lion spoor: paw prints, a dropping of dung, and here, on our left, a big patch of flattened grass. Silently we ride on. Stephen, in front now, leans out of the saddle as he looks at the ground and then scans the bush. James rides alongside the rest of us and Bloomer follows close in the rear. My stomach is tight, gripped by an unfamiliar vigilance. Anticipation builds with the morning heat. Crossing open grassland, we curve toward a watering hole. Brush obscures the far side.

Nearing the water’s edge Stephen’s hand goes up. Stop. Be still.

Softly I hear from behind, Look for a patch of yellow in the green brush across the pond.

James rides Munhondo round to the side of the watering hole and points. There she is—one lioness. I can see the shape of her head, the tawny blonde of her fur, the flex of her ears, the curve of her muzzle—and her what-I-imagine-are-amber eyes fixed in our direction. She lies perfectly still, the rest of her body just visible in the shadow of the brush.

James beckons us in his direction. He abruptly stops and points again. Another opening in the scrub brush. Another patch of yellow. Mama number two. There will be cubs with her and a big male in the vicinity.

"Shumba," Stephen says beside me, steadying my horse. Lion.

Unable to look away, I barely fumble my camera out of the saddlebag. The only sound is my thumping heart and the others’ whispered ohhh’s and ahhhh’s.

Something shifts. I sense it, subtle and intense. We are no longer observers, but the observed. And by a predator, not only of humans, but, more certainly, of our horses, prey.

The lion mother rises from the ground, opens her jaw—I can see her teeth—and stretches her front paw and shoulder, as if to take a step forward.

In the corner of my eye, a flash of green shirt. Janine, beside me.

Go! Now! she commands, and streaks ahead.

Instinctively I urge Manini forward with my legs, fast. I’m on Bhura’s tail, eyes glued to Theresa. All our horses gallop at once toward an opening in the bordering trees. Fast. Manini is huge and thrusts a powerful forward impulsion. This is no time to tense up or fall off and every shred of awareness in my body attunes to the purpose of staying in the saddle. Nine horses lined head to tail, one lightning wave of motion, race through the dense underbrush.

What distance brings us out of range of lion curiosity?

Breathless, exhilarated with long hard riding, we stop for a moment in a small clearing of grass, horses snorting and blowing. The uncontrollable trembling of my legs is about to shake the stirrups off my boots.

A voice beside me shouts, Let’s go!

I look ahead and Manini bolts forward; a second long sprint steps up the pace of the first. I fleetingly register a slash of thornbush that rips my shirt, a streak of bright blood on my forearm.

At last, the urgency eases off when the thick bush recedes, delivering us into an open sunlit grassland. We rein in our horses near the watering hole. I bend forward, utterly spent, wrap my arms around Manini’s neck, slip my feet out of the stirrups and let my whole weight rest on him. When he lowers his head to drink, I slide sideways, slowly, down his wither. Stephen appears and takes the reins as I flop onto the grass, lie flat out, close my eyes and yield the intense vibration in my body to the dark earth.

A rustle of grass. Bloomer’s face appears grinning above me, brilliant white teeth against the blue sky.

That was a real good encounter!

Bush-whacking we call it in the forests of west coast Canada. Here in Zimbabwe, it’s bundu-bashing. After an extended lunch and chill-out time, James, with compass and GPS in hand, resumes command for the duration of the day. There are bushes with prickles, bushes with thorns and branches with spikes. Mostly the horses navigate around them; still, I’m glad for the protection of my riding helmet, unglamorous as it looks beside the widebrimmed safari hats the others wear.

The afternoon heat is inescapable; my shirt sticks to the sweat dripping under my breasts. I peeled my bra off behind a tree at the last pause on the trail and stuffed it in the saddlebag. Faint with hunger, water bottle empty, I’m mildly concerned but voice nothing. My back aches and my ankles are painfully stiff. I wedge my left hand, palm upward, under the front of the saddle for extra leverage and anchoring. How on earth will I keep going through the escalating afternoon?

Desperation clears my thoughts. Get a grip. It’s simply sensation, this physical discomfort. Enough time sitting on a meditation cushion through hours of knee pain, finally alleviated on arising, assures me now that this too shall pass. A purposeful breath exhaled in a slow stream brings my attention to Manini’s ears, flexed backward toward me. He is with me. A flood of relief dissolves my isolation, and I notice the rhythmic rock of his unwavering forward stride, supporting me no matter what. I have only to feel my seat against the firmness of the saddle, my lower legs against Manini’s belly, put my hand in his mane and grip his neck. I hope no one behind or ahead of me stops right now. These are private tears, of gratitude for what is right with the world. I feel the other riders, our human herd, as kindred spirits on the land.

And then it comes. The rain. African rain. Huge voluptuous drops saturate everything. Soaking wet warmth to the bone. Holy water, baptism in the wild.

Helmet off, head bare to the elements, I hold the wet-heavy braid of my hair across my mouth, slowly suck in the gifted water. The cloud sky lifts its hem from the blue horizon. A wide ribbon of pure light appears. Everything on earth glistens.

We’re dry, both horses and humans, by the time Jambili Pan spreads before us flushed with the glow of late afternoon. We fan out over the landscape, each in our own world after the cloister of rain and bush.

Something curious on the other side of the watering hole. Manini and I step up lightly beside James, and I wonder aloud whether those zebras would flee if we came close. James nudges Munhondo toward the striped herd, and I follow alongside. I’m intrigued by everything, big and small, every motion, every colour, every call and response. I feel not separate out here but assimilated into this pulsing landscape, as if I know it from the inside. The zebras carry on grazing, swishing their tails and eyeing us as if we’re not strangers, just newcomers today in the vast expanse of African horizon.

On the day before we escape the lions, three of us keep watch on the horses while they graze tethered to overhead long lines strung between the msasa trees. Standing between Stephen and his friend, the farrier, I’m a bit awestruck to be working alongside them. Joseph Chiwashira, the farrier, is head of the equestrian department of the Zimbabwe National Police in Harare. He runs the horse breeding and training program for the force’s mounted patrols, having apprenticed in the Queen’s stables in England. A cuddly bear kind of man, he is married with four adolescent boys.

Coming on safari, into the wilderness, he says, takes me far away from the pressing responsibilities of my job in the city.

A story unfolds about the tragic illness and death of his twin brother in Botswana last year. When Joseph returned to work in Harare, he found comfort in his favourite horse at the police stable. She followed him everywhere, keeping close and tender contact, relieving his grief. As he says her name, Jasmine, his eyes grow soft.

Horses are our friends, our brothers and sisters, their spirit is with us.

After a long silence, I venture to say, I came, to lie on the earth of Africa.

I can’t help myself now and go on about Buddhist meditation practice, of lying on the earth and melting into it, though I stop short of the tantric breathing that brings earth energy up into the body. I tell Joseph that I’ve brought an offering for this land, for the spirits of this place and this herd of horses.

A gift of thanks, a little spirit medicine bundle, made of plants from the forest where I live in Canada. It’s not clear what to do with it.

Joseph tells me that cultural ceremonies are the centre of Shona family and community life and how they coexist with his Christian faith.

He turns to Stephen and says, I am very sure when my friend left his home as a young man, his family had a big ceremony asking the Ancestors to protect him. It is our Shona way.

Then he looks at me.

You know, to lie on the earth is a blessing! He gestures to the space between us, Here, please lie down!

I accept his invitation, and lie down in the tall grass, hands on my belly. The warm ground seems to receive my body. Gravity, a meditation teacher once said, is the love of the earth, holding us close to her. The two men stand above, their backs to the sun. As they quietly talk, a long-tangled knot inside me—that fear of doing something wrong—loosens its grip. My mind seems to fall open, spacious as the sky. Am I dehydrated, or over-tired—or am I simply radically alive? This is not formal practice in a meditation hall; this is life in the raw wild of the earthly world.

In Mozambique, I collected a little vial of Indian Ocean to take home. When I stand again beside the two men, I ask Joseph, May I scoop a tiny bit of red earth from Zimbabwe, from the spot where the elephants roll and rub? To take home as a gift to the land where I live.

Yes, he says, that is a most respectful thing to do. But we’ll do it outside the boundary of the park.

Joseph’s encouragement of my earth meditation in his own place of origin dissolves a lifelong inhibition in me. Growing up within the confines of a strictly secular family, I have carried an unknown grief from not naming the divine.

Let’s cool down horses in the water. Stephen says.

He boosts me effortlessly onto Manini and sitting bareback I feel much more at home than in the English saddle and stirrups, that I used for the first time ever in Mozambique. My right ankle is swollen and bruised from falling off a horse there. I lift my foot and lean over to pull up the hem of my pant leg to show Stephen the injury, apologizing for needing help to mount and dismount.

Stephen says, Oh, sorry for that, takes my hand and places it on the back of his neck as he stands beside Manini.

His skin is hot and smooth and I feel his strong pulse under my palm. His attentiveness, his presence on the ground beside me, feels infinitely reassuring—someone, some one man, has got my back, out here in the wild. A second later he twists his head abruptly, I hear and feel a very weird snap.

Serious, fall off a horse, training him for show jumping competition.

And now, out on safari, I laugh, you are coaching us in the fine art of hurdling fallen trees in the bush.

When Stephen hands me the lead rope, Manini heads straight for the watering hole and keeps going until my knees, and his belly, are underwater. I slide sideways off his back, floating into the velvet pool. I’m still holding his lead rope when Manini sinks down and rolls over, horse-groaning with pleasure. The two horsemen stand on the sandy verge, laughing at the showers of horseplay. As the setting sun gilds the landscape and the sky turns deeper blue, we guide the horses away from the watering hole and I ride back to camp, damp-dry and completely unwound.

It’s time, I think, to present the medicine bundle I brought from Canada, to release the gratitude it holds for this welcome to Africa. Joseph counsels that I burn the offering in a fire. He’ll return to Umtchibi Main Camp in the morning while the rest of us will make the daylong ride to Jambili Pan, me never imagining an encounter with lions.

Walking to dinner I pass Bloomer by the cooking fire. He’s cleaning his weapon and looks up.

How did Zimbabwe find you? he asks.

VANCOUVER ISLAND, B.C. CANADA

The Beginning

Five months earlier.

The autumn sun hovers golden through the morning mist, silhouetting the herd of horses grazing over the hillside on Vancouver Island. Inside the farmhouse, the cinnamon fragrance of pumpkin pie fills the kitchen; today is a milestone birthday, my sixtieth.

This time last year found me sitting through a three-week silent meditation retreat. Fervently hoping, contrary to all theory of non-attachment, for an opening in the dark forest of my life. Too much change in too short a time: the ending of a long relationship that had run dry in its last years; the loss of home and belonging that came with that, more traumatic than I imagined when my former partner severed communication after we parted company.

It was painful to visit my stepdaughter and grandchildren alone, left out of family gatherings after so many years with her father. On top of that, the responsibilities of active mothering dissolved, as my adult son made his own life, away in the city. All of this on the heels of completing a sixteen-year tenure as program director for Hollyhock retreat centre on Cortes Island. How would I survive the long hours of night with no bookends to hold me?

After leaving that family home, I came to stay at the farm, welcomed by my friend and eight horses, including a black Arab stallion, a rescue, and a white Friesen mare, whose name means reliever of sorrow. Longing for some internal place of refuge as well, I found a new meditation practice, in the Tibetan Buddhist somatic lineage, Meditating With The Body. The foundation practice is called Earth Descent. Lie down and melt deep into the earth, then sit up and breathe the earth’s energy upward into the body.

I remember one night last winter, waking up in the dark with that metallic taste of unrelenting anxiety, the jaws of an excavator bearing down on my solar plexus. Howling loneliness. I couldn’t find a home inside myself, or anywhere. I got out of bed, groped for my down coat, picked up a flashlight, went out to the barn, and lay down on a bale of hay. Feeling the stability of the hay bale against my back, horses quiet in their stalls, I folded my trust into the new meditation practice. It felt like the only ground I had.

I found horses, or they found me, not as a horse-crazy young girl, but in mid-life—and scared of them, back then. I didn’t consider traditional riding lessons, I began on the ground, with natural horsemanship. Horse whispering, or horse listening, really, it means observing and interacting as if I’m another horse, not a domineering human. The thrill of that powerful animal willingly walking and trotting alongside me, cantering in a circle around me in an open field, taught me how to step forward and face fear.

Bareback on my new tutor, a chestnut mare named Cosun, the trails of Cortes Island became the ley lines for learning a new way of being, with myself, with animals and nature. Riding with her, through the forest and along the ocean shore was the perfect antidote to the responsibilities of work and a disintegrating home life.

Meditation teacher Michele Mcdonald gave me a book that would chart a new course. Her gift, The Tao of Equus by Linda Kohanov, ordained the marriage, in me, of spiritual life and the magic of horses. I began training in Equine Guided Learning— how the intelligence of horses and our communion with them can help humans heal, grow, and thrive. And for horses, too, the bond with a respectful loving human shifts an old paradigm of dominance and control.

At last, the long dark night that had come with loss of bearings and loss of purpose began to lift. To mark this new phase of life, I planned a pilgrimage to Bhutan. Not that I had the funds to go, but a cottage that had been in my family was up for sale. I wanted to arrive in Bhutan primed in the spiritual atmosphere of the country—Tibetan Buddhist meditation. So I continued daily practices with renewed dedication. The cottage didn’t sell in the summer, though, so I cancelled the trip to Bhutan, disappointed yet curious about the significance of losing that opportunity.

Looking out at the herd on this sunny birthday, I remember the other day in the pasture, when I lay down on the grass with the horses grazing just across the fence. While I was deep in the earth-descent meditation, something came over me—an unmistakable inner call.

Lie your body down on the earth of Africa.

Africa?

Honestly?

I have always wanted to go there.

Yesterday the realtor called with good news—she has a buyer for the cottage. This morning, as I wash the baking dishes, the huckleberry bush outside the kitchen window is draped with dew-glistened spider webs, strands of diamonds sparkling in the sunlight. Each tiny shimmer trembles with the motion of the spider weaver. A thought pops into my mind—you’re free, and ready for a grand adventure.

Africa.

What would I do there?

Ride horses, of course.

How could I afford to stay for a few months?

Volunteer, why not.

I dry my hands, flip open the laptop and type into the internet search box: Africa + Horses + Volunteer.

Onto the screen spring compelling photos of horses and riders running on the sweeping shores of the Indian Ocean.

The best beach riding in the world, the caption says. Mozambique, Africa.

My flight to the southern hemisphere leaves in two weeks, but I can’t concentrate on my to-do list. I’ve just received a hugely upsetting e-mail from a friend.

I’m awake all night, she writes, very distressed about you going to Africa. As a small, blonde, white woman travelling alone, you’d be an immediate target. It’s one of the real and unpleasant truths about being female. We are very vulnerable, physically, something most men wouldn’t begin to understand. And women on their own, at any age, are at greatest risk. I’m afraid for you and truly hope you don’t do it.

She goes on with horror stories of travel in South Africa related by others.

Crumpling onto the couch, I start to bawl; it has taken everything in me to have enough faith in myself to follow through on the call to go to Africa, and now—this vote of non-confidence from someone whose good judgment I value. This time, her perspective just doesn’t ring true. Does she not recognize the ground I’ve gained since the broken times last winter? Is this her own fear, projected on to me?

After two sleepless nights, I email a reply to reassure her with details of my itinerary and the horse volunteer program—in Mozambique, not South Africa—and to say that I’ve delayed my departure by a week to tuck in loose ends. I even manage to thank her for caring and speaking out honestly.

There’s more.

Carrying hay to the horses, I inadvertently leave a gate unlatched. From behind, loud snorting. Jagged prickles along my spine—the black stallion. Hot breath grazes my hair as he strides past me into the paddock beside the mares’ field. One of the mares squeals, she’s in heat and prances with her hind end pressed against the fence. The other mares are agitated, too, with the stallion’s arousal. They strut and bounce, swishing their tails. The stallion rears and tosses his head, full mane flaring—he is clearly about to jump the fence. Panicked, I shout for my friend—she’s already running out of the barn and screams at me.

What are you doing? Get out of the paddock!

Later, in the house, I receive what feels like a brutal dressing down. I listen and agree with the graveness of my mistake and the injury or worse, to horses, or me, that could have followed. My acceptance of blame and quiet apology are not enough. The tirade goes on and I feel quashed: it’s her farm, her house and her horses.

In the end she says, How can I trust you? You are not to go near the horses before you leave for Africa. I will do all the feeding.

In the days to come, I feel like I’ve been snorted up an elephant’s trunk and pooped out the back end after these two alarming episodes with trusted friends. Despite feeling punched in the gut and beset with self-doubt, nothing in me considers backing away from going to Africa. And then I remember—when I’ve made a lifesize decision in the past, like leaving my marriage, usually there’s a pushback. Something disturbing happens, that, on the surface, says, You’ve made the wrong choice. But in my experience, it’s usually a test of resolve. How committed are you to this choice?

I choose a tarot card. The archetype of Lust, or Strength, slips out of the deck. In the picture, a golden lion carries a confident-looking, naked woman astride him: courage, passion, enthusiasm. From entheos: possessed by a god, divinely inspired.

My son, Devon, twenty-eight and wise, listens on the phone to the dramas.

Mum, he says, never mind what anyone else thinks. Trust yourself. And for what it’s worth, I still say go.

Over the next few years, my horse friend is humbled to the ground by that black stallion as he teaches her about respecting boundaries, about listening and kindness. She will become a specialist in animal and human relationships, in love and leadership. We’ve remained the truest of friends and I respect her immensely.

The night before I leave for Africa, Mary stands in the round corral wearing her Haisla blanket, ceremonial garment in the design of her First Nation ancestors. The sound of her drumbeat quickens my heart. Mary is my kindred spirit, with her herd of healing horses. I’ve come to their farm sanctuary in Goldstream, sacred Coast Salish territory, for the true preparation before Africa. The black gelding, Prince, stands on Mary’s left and Summer, gentle paint mare, sniffs the ground on her right.

I kneel in the middle of the corral, in the twilight, kindling a small fire. As the moon rises, I mix a clump of wild herbs foraged on the farm, together with corn meal that I ground in the morning, a splash of birthday-gifted vodka and warm ash, all scooped into a red Tibetan prayer flag that represents my dedication to meditation practice. I roll it up and tie the ends with saffron-coloured thread. It looks like a fat cigar. Prince and Summer come close, curious, and I hold the bundle under their noses, to receive their breath. A blessing for the journey.

I’m going to meet some new horses in Africa, I tell them. The bundle will announce where I come from, a kind of earthy introduction. I string it around my neck, for now.

Second thing: my beloved aunt and godmother, Oriane Jane, gave me a birthday card of Spirit Horses. Into its brown paper envelope, I slide: the tarot card of Lust-Strength, a slender braided strand of my hair twined with another, of horse tail collected from the grooming brush, along with a few other sigils I’ve made. Tucking the packet inside my bra, I have no idea when it might come in handy in Africa. A silvery light creeps across the