The Mozambique government claims to have uplifted the thousands of landmines planted by opposing sides during the country’s two civil wars. However, while clashes still occur between its Frelimo troops and Renamo rebel elements, one must wonder.

CHIMOIO – The traffic flow towards us lends heart to the trip. There are private vehicles and trucks, coming east back to Beira. You like to believe they will have put the route to the landmine test.

But 30 kilometres out, the rate of passing vehicles falls dramatically. The driver of the Land Rover, a veteran of the Beira Corridor run, stops suddenly at a makeshift kiosk in the bush. Behind the counter, an emaciated woman appears to be dispensing urine in dusty bottles.

“Coconut wine,” says the driver. “Very good, very strong. Very necessary for this journey.”

It is seven o’clock in the morning, much too early for thoughts of Dutch courage. Better, anyway, to tackle the day with a clear head. The offer is declined. The driver, regardless, has half a bottle, downed with much smacking of lips and macho gestures at the road ahead. There is a suggestion in all this of tilting at windmills.

You begin to wonder what you have let yourself in for. Just after the next refreshment post, which the driver to his credit eschews, he brakes to take on three passengers. And, immediately, the risk factor seems to be reduced. Irrationally, for what safety can there be in numbers where landmines are concerned?

One of the passengers, an elderly man, must have all his movable possessions with him, including a live chicken. It ends up, trussed, on the seat next to you, staring banefully sideways.

The newcomers chatter in loud Portuguese, joke and laugh. Perhaps it is false levity to take their minds off the journey. Perhaps they have also been at the coconut wine.

The driver is more subdued, trying to steer a path between the potholes. He does so only with partial success for the road has deteriorated even further. Some of the potholes look deep enough to conceal a small cannon, let alone an explosive.

Around, the high grass is studded with pawpaw and citrus trees and, occasionally, under-nourished maize fields. Here and there are new settlements of huts, for there is a move among the Mozambican people to re-locate along lines of road and rail. Whatever the dangers of this route, they are much worse deeper in the bush.

Even as you ponder the relativity of safety in such outlandish country, the Land Rover rears off the road and on to a track. It seems we are to deliver the old man clear to his front door. The going now is soft sand and, incredibly, the vehicle actually accelerates.

The driver obviously believes he can escape mines planted in such terrain by the simple expedient of going as fast as he is able, detonating them at such speed that the Land Rover would end up ahead of the blast.

Fortunately the old man’s village is not far off. When we get there, he is met by several young women who embrace him, take care of his luggage and unleash the chicken.

Back on target for the Zimbabwe border, we run almost immediately into a roadblock. Renamo’s or Frelimo’s? Theirs or ours? It is Frelimo and the Sofala provincial police, in tandem, intent on searching for arms and spraying the wheels of vehicles against tsetse fly and malaria.

One of the Frelimo soldiers, a callow youngster cradling an aged AK47, commandeers a seat. His foot patrol has gone off without him because he overslept. You have heard that some of the bandits rampaging through Mozambique could be Frelimo by day, Renamo by night. This youth looks incapable of terrorising anyone. Or equally, as he loses himself in the concentration of picking his nose, protecting himself.

He meets up with his patrol just a few kilometres distant, a platoon of men with AK47s and RPGs (rocket-propelled grenade launchers), walking Indian file on the verge. No-one reprimands our soldier for being late.

Soon we will be reaching the most hazardous section of the trip. Gorongosa, and beyond. The piece of earth called Gorongosa, which encompasses a national park and often impenetrable bush, has bled more that most parts of Mozambique. In the first civil war, it was the scene of heavy fighting between Frelimo and the Portuguese.

Renamo had its headquarters in the area until 1985, when Frelimo and Zimbabwean forces overran the camp. But Renamo has re-established itself around here again. Inside the Land Rover, silence falls as we pick our way through the bush and between the potholes, kilometre by kilometre.

Suddenly, around a bend, we come upon two men with guns and there is a sharp intake of breath from the passengers. The rifles look like old FNs. The men wear no uniform. They come quickly upright as we draw level then, as quickly, appear to lose interest. Either these are someone else’s mercenaries or someone’s troops moonlighting.

Climbing into the western province of Manica the road becomes even worse, the environment more harsh with little soil and stunted trees. It is as Cromwell said of Connemara: “Not enough wood to hang a man, not enough water to drown a man, not enough soil to bury a man.”

But many a rock to hide a man. And no sign of Frelimo patrols.

We crawl on in silence. Life springs up again near the provincial capital of Chimoio where the rear passengers leave us. Chimoio has grown in population, but that is security rather than development. Nor has it escaped the war. Shattered buildings on the outskirts show where the rebels have attacked and looted. The town’s power supply was cut off by Renamo a week ago. Again.

The trip is almost over. Zimbabwe is only 70 kilometres away. That does not mean the area in between is safe. This year, more than 350 civilians have been killed by rebels or crossfire. The Zimbabwean troops responsible for defending the border have lost 22 men, Renamo 29.

Beyond Manica town, on the last leg, we encounter a Zimbabwean patrol walking towards Mutare. The major in charge tells me they are going home for the weekend. He and his troops are based at Garuzo, to the north-east.

How is it with the war?

“They thought they could overrun us but I think we are winning now,” says the major. “The trouble is finding an enemy to fight. They are invisible.”

With much less experience, you have had that feeling yourself.

From John Ryan’s One Man’s Africa.