Malawi 2004 - 2007 |
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Vacation Trips - Zimbabwe
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A Strange Happening At Vic Falls.In the times when people trusted Zimbabwe as a holiday destination Victoria Falls was a key part of its sizeable tourist industry. One night the Minister for Tourism was interviewed on the television and reasonably agreed that Zimbabwe's image kept tourism down and he needed to portray the peaceful reality in a more effective way. The next night he was back, but this time crowing that Victoria falls hotels were 100% occupied over Xmas - back on message. I am not a great one for tourist attractions. I felt I should see Vic Falls as I was here, but wondered at the desire of us humans to go to such great lengths to see water falling from one place to another. But even my scepticism was swept away by the power and grandeur of this two kilometres of plummeting river. I spent much of the day sitting looking up at falling water, gazing at the rainbows in the spray, watching my fellow soaked tourists, hypnotised by the eternal foaming of nature. By afternoon I was ready for a change. I decided to go for a walk by Mother Zambezi. The signs all warn you of the danger of wild animals and people warn you of the danger of wild humans, but I knew that it was reasonably safe to walk in the heat of the afternoon when animals know better than to risk sunburn and look for shade - 'Mad dogs and Englishmen.' As I walked I saw only a few hippos out in the water. I waived but they didn't waive back. After two or three kilometres I came to a bend in the road away from the river and as I looked up ahead there were two men bending over someone in the road. I went towards them and one of them left the scene to approach me. He was a tourist policeman. I asked if something was wrong. " This young woman came up from the river. I think she is poisoned. When we asked her what happened she shouted at us. Now she is on the road." She was a beautiful young Shona woman, now completely unconscious and not responding to speech. I remembered the only two things I learnt in First Aid Classes - put her in the recovery position and find someone who knows what they are doing. I told the men I would go back for help - there was bound to be a vehicle or medical person at the Falls. I went only back to the bend and there was a person-carrier with two Zimbabwian driver/guides in the front and two Indian Asians in the back. I explained the situation and asked if they could help get her to the hospital back in the nearby town. I told them to go on ahead and I would join them on foot. I arrived back at the scene two minutes later. The woman had not moved. " Where is the vehicle?" " They didn't want to take her." I started off again and quickly waived-down another car. This time it was two young Zim lawyers on their honeymoon. They were sympathetic and we struggled to move her dead weight into the back of the car. Five minutes later we were at the Vic Falls police station. Forms must be completed before treatment. Twenty minutes later a policeman strolled out to the car and joined us on the short drive to the hospital. The policeman knew about her. " She was the girlfriend of a policeman. It seems she had an argument with her sister because she stayed out over Xmas and was thrown out of home. She was taking some tablets for her stomach" When we reached the hospital, a nurse came out to see what was happening. I thought she should know that perhaps the young woman had taken an overdose or perhaps she had a stomach condition. She listened disinterestedly and called a man over to load her onto a trolley. The last I saw of her was her disappearing into the hospital. My young honeymooning couple were sorry but explained " The hospitals in Zimbabwe are in a bad state. There is little money and often the drugs are sold by the hospital staff." I wondered if she would survive or whether anyone here even cared.
How I Arrested The Gold Robbers Our long time clowning friend from the old festival days, Chris Lynham, had told me of a logging business he started in his Zimbabwian homeland. It was, he said, resting in a most beautiful setting on the Mosambique border. I was on the bus sitting next to an educated and engaging middle-aged man who was explaining the significance of the area. The Eastern Highlands was the longest chain of mountains in Africa and full of prime agricultural land and minerals. As we passed some police vehicles blocking a small side road he told me that they were protecting a new find of diamonds. All too soon I had to leave the bus to buy a ticket for the mountain transport lottery. We sat and ate mangos as pick-ups, busses and trucks set off for everywhere except Chimanimani. Questions led to shrugged shoulders. Fuel was in short supply and it was impossible to know when and if transport would arrive. Eventually as the sun grew tired and sank towards slumber I asked my last remaining companion where I could get a room for the night. He told me to be patient and before I could answer had run across the road to talk to a pick-up driver who was pulling out of a side road. We were saved. He was dropping timber workers and stopping the night at Chimanimani. If I was relieved at the start of the ride within ten minutes I was pining for the room I had left behind. The wind blew in chilling gusts as the road turned into a river and we turned into drowned rats. The speeding pick-up added to the chill. Every small piece of flotsam was used as a fig leaf against the unthinking cruelty of nature until after 40 minutes through the darkness some sickly lamplight tried in vain to illuminate the sleepy night in the small town ahead. In sympathy the driver said he would drop me at a cheap local hotel. I slopped stiffly along the path into the grounds as dogs barked and from a high window a head emerged. It was a white man, I would say in his fifties. He was surprised to have a customer so late, but if he was disgruntled it didn't show. I took the sodden notes from pocket and laid them out singly to dry along with my clothes on the comfortingly warm aga - not the sort of money laundering I was expecting. I asked the man if he knew Chris Lynham. " Sure" he said, "Chris and me were at art college together in South Africa. He's an old mate." The next day I woke and drew the curtain to gain my first glimpse of the mountains, but the view stayed in my imagination. They were covered by low cloud and hidden by the continuing downpour of rain. I tried to keep my spirits up by doing local walks, visited a youth project and eventually found myself at an arts café - the second link to Chris. It turned out to be a project that Chris had mentioned when talking in his enthusiastic but off-hand way about the festival he had started back-home. The festival and the arts café had been an imaginative and exciting project that provided recording and performing space for local artists and Chris had helped them set up a yearly festival. Now the mood music had a reached a familiar development cadence. As with many development projects the paid staff had run off to Harare with expensive equipment and disputes had wandered into dangerous territory. The festival had wilted under the weight of lethargy and mistrust. My guide to the history was the new volunteer manager who was trying to convince the Kellogg foundation that it was worth having one more try to return the project to its former glory. As we talked on my new friend began to tell about his past in the area. He told me he had always been interested in community development and had a history of human rights advocacy. I asked if it had caused him problems. He described how he had often been pulled in by the secret service, the last time because he had set up a tax union to monitor local government spending. The way they operated with him was by suggestion rather than naked aggression. An AK47 would be placed on the table in front of him, oblique messages were delivered; his defence - humour. When asked if he was scared he told me he could always make them laugh. In the light of what has happened since I sometimes wonder whether his humour magic has been strong enough to keep him safe. Meanwhile back at the guest house the cats and dogs kept us inside nattering by the aga. Our conversation turned to land reform. Chris's white Zimbabwian friend had experienced the veterans first hand. Several months earlier he had been visited by a truck load of veterans singing liberation songs and circling his property. He had a homesteader spirit and said that if they did take over one day he would torch the place. Most of the white farmers I came across had the same feeling. They were hanging on in difficult conditions just waiting for 'Bob' to be called by the Lord. However, in the midst of the struggle there was some sort of system at play. Lord and Lady Plunkett had been in Zimbabwe since the second world war and had a huge logging business that kept many hundreds of local people employed. A local had decided that it was time for him to fill his pockets and applied for the licence to the business and the land. Interestingly the Plunketts were able to appeal successfully to the Ministry and keep their land - the cost, a large forest fire that destroyed a large section of timber. One white farmer from the area had always treated local people well and was often to be found offering help to struggling families. They asked him to represent them in Parliament and he reluctantly agreed. This was the man we saw on our televisions deliberately provoked into pushing a minister over in Parliament leading to his arrest and eventual exile in South Africa. On the third day the rain stopped and the highlands divulged their beauty and magnificence. I set off for the long walk to the plateau. After a long, steep climb I arrived at a colonial-style wooden chalet on high on a steep slope looking across a wide flat-bottomed valley bisected by a meandering river. Barbara, a Park Ranger and mother of four was waiting to greet me. She was an unusual species in Africa - a highly motivated and devout enthusiast. Gold had been discovered all across the eastern highlands and she was going to protect this paradise against hole-diggers at all costs. She told me that when gold had been discovered the rangers were trying to deter hundreds of poor Zimbabwians hoping to find their fortune. Now there were just a handful each week. " What do you do to them when you catch them?" " We beat them and take their spades and food. Then we send them home." I was soon to test the skills of the park rangers as Barbara waved me off on a long walk across the ridge behind the chalet. Now I am the sort of person who could get lost in the London A-Z office and it was late in the day that I decided on a path would take me back to the homestead. The landscape was filled with weathered and pock-marked sandstone rock sculptures and my horizon was never more than a few hundred metres away. As I reached one horizon so the next was disappointingly close. As the sun began to hide behind the sculptures I began to contemplate a night under a rock. " Hey Paul", I looked towards the rock that had spoken but could see nothing. Then slowly two men emerged carrying old rifles. The rangers had been tracking my progress and wondering why I had chosen such an elliptical route. That evening Barbara and me sat by an English winter fire with candles adding to the glow on our faces. She was hungry for conversation and drank in the dull details of my life and home spun philosophy. She told me of her passion for her work, her four children and the two inherited from a dead sister. Like many African families hers had unquestioningly accepted the duty of surrogate parenthood when the reaper had taken his fill of youthful Zimbabwian souls. Here life expectancy had become one of the lowest in Africa. Life was hard, but it was to be expected and there was no complaint. For her it was God's will and God was her sustenance. Although it is common in Africa to hear such stories I am still moved and humbled by the strength and uncomplaining practicality of the African family. I told her I would like to go to the Mozambique border in my last walk before leaving. The next morning Barbara stepped from the pages of a Ryder Haggard story and stood before me transformed from the casually-dressed mother of the previous night to a smart and disciplined colonial ranger of 1950s vintage. Her shirt was creaselessly khaki, her boots freshly polished and seemingly far too heavy for her spindly legs to control. Her creased roomy shorts ended just above her bony knees. Around her neck she supported a large pair of binoculars with a single lens still in place and the kit was completed by an old rifle looped over her shoulder. She explained that she wanted to ensure that my last trip was safe, but I knew that this was her chance to say goodbye in style. We started on the long path down into the wide-flat bottom of the valley. We came to a small bubbling pool of water in the middle of the grassland. " This is a magic pool. Spirits live here and the water can cure illness." She opened her bag and pulled out an empty whisky bottle. As she filled it with the blooping water I wondered how this dovetailed with her devout Christian views. We finally reached the steep narrow rocky path that was an old trading and smuggling route between Zim and Mosambique. On the way up we found my ranger friends hanging out clothes and sheets to dry in the sun. They were living in holes in the rocks for a few nights to intercept diggers and were full of bravado about what they would do to them. We laughed along and then continued to the crest of the ridge where we looked out across the huge expanse of lowland forest and flatland far below that was another country. I walked past the old post in the ground that was, in fact, the border post. As I looked to my right there was a rock shelf that formed a natural shelter. In front of it was a plate of unfinished rice next to a smoking fire; inside was an old vegetable sack with a home-made spade and crow bar sticking out of it. Barbara did not hesitate. She walked confidently over to the shelter. She called out. Moments later a tall well-built young man in a dirty torn boiler suit emerged sheepishly from his lair. She still had her gun on her shoulder, and I wondered if it even worked. She turned to me and said that a second man had run away. She spoke quietly to him and he started to pack his few belongings into the sack. There was a rustling sound from above the rock. The second young man scrambled and slid down the hill. I was aware that all that stood between this woman and danger was her aura of authority. Now there were two men it would be easy for them to out -manoeuvre her. She stood firm and the young men picked up their bags and went quietly back over the rise and down towards her partners halfway down the hill. I remained for a while to gaze out over the scene, feeling sad about these silly men who had put so much effort into trying to find some little respite from their daily poverty only to lose everything because they had not thought about camping away from the main track. Other villages in the area had been more organised. They worked at night to avoid the army patrols and sold their gold to Malawian traders who smuggled it out of the country. I reluctantly left Mozambique to join the rangers lower down the hill. They had sent the men packing with a few cuffs round the ear. As we carried the tools back I wondered if Robert Mugabe might contact me to thank me for my part in protecting Zimbabwe's precious gold.
Politically Incorrect In Vumba Mutare is the third largest city in Zim and a curiously upmarket place with trendy shops, sophisticated computer facilities and fashionable young people. But it was the scenic area of the Vumba mountains some 20 kms outside that really interested me. As I looked into it, however, it all seemed difficult. Public transport stopped on the edge of the extensive area and the few tourist lodges in the area were way beyond the scope of my financial rations. I decided that I would at least take a ride in the bus to the edge of the area and take a walk. As I waited for the bus I checked with a tall, shock-haired, effusive, middle-aged man whether I was taking the right bus. As we travelled on he began to talk to me about my intentions. He also began to talk about himself. He was a pastor from a village at the edge of Vumba, abandoned by his wife with five children to rear. Perhaps I would like to stay the night at his house and walk across to the mountains the next morning. I was more than happy to take up his offer. He pointed out the turning I would normally take and the bus drove on some six or seven kilometres further. Before we arrived his mood became less ebullient. He warned me that we would have to ask the police and the District Councillor for permission for my stay. The Police? We tentatively approached the police compound but could not have found them friendlier. We just had to ask the District Councillor who turned out to be a friendly African Mama sitting on the step of a store chewing the fat with her equivalent of the local W.I. . I explained my story and waited for her consent. It did not come. " I don't think it would be good for you stay here. The places for people like you to stay in are back in Mutare. I think you should go back there tonight." The embarrassed pastor disappeared, and I waited for the bus back to town. This was my first encounter with the pervasive and omnipresent reach of the ruling party. I will never know for sure, but it was the first time in Africa that I had not met instant hospitality. In Bulawayo there had been an enthusiasm for me to stay from a family, but here there was a fear, or at least a distrust, of having a strange white man in their midst. I was still mulling the situation over as I stepped onto the bus. Although, by now the morning had already been muscled aside by the mid-day sun my stubborn streak was in control. I was not going back to town without my walk. I stepped off the bus at the turning to the distant hills. It was to be a long walk to get to the top of the hills and I was already beginning to look at a time for returning to the road to catch a bus before dark. I passed a sign on my right that gave pause for thought - ' Boy Scout Movement Camping Ground'. Could I stay here for the night? Perhaps there was a hut here or a shelter. I started to walk down the heavily forested path to take a closer look but lost my nerve before I reached the site and returned to the road. Nevertheless, it made me more hopeful. A short lift with a white farmer confirmed the impossibility of reaching anywhere near the top of the hills in the time. I jumped down from the pick up to begin my walk up the steep road. After about an hour I became aware of a short man in sun glasses catching up with me. There was no escaping him, even though we were the only people on the road. As he approached I turned to greet him and we continued walking. I quizzed him about the area and himself. He was a guard on a Government farm that had been purchased from a white farmer in the days before the 'veterans' had made demands on Mugabe and the Tories had provided funding for purchase rather than seizure. As we talked I became increasingly concerned about turning back he said, " You can stay with me. I live in a house on my own and have a spare bed." " Won't it cause you trouble to have a strange white man staying at your home?" " No it will alright, I will ask the manager." My mind skittishly returned to the unrequited love lavished on the District Councillor, but he seemed confident and it really was so lovely here. It was beginning to get dark as we came close to our turning. As a black, luxury four wheel drive vehicle stopped, backed up and lowered one of the smoked black windows. A cultured voice asked where we were going. " Oh It's O.K. thanks but we are nearly at the turning to the farm." " No I will give you lift, it is not safe on this road."
He was a Zimbabwian big shot in the U.N. economic section and had built a house in the area. True to his word he dropped us close to the farm and we agreed he was a very pleasant man. The farm was, by now, deep in the short twilight softness that had soaked most of the colour from the scene. I could make out some large barns with equipment in them and a number of large houses close to the gate. Stanley, told to me wait while he went to the boss's house to break the news of his unexpected guest. He was quite relaxed. It turned out that the boss had gone to Harare to buy tractor parts and his wife was fine about me staying. Stanley's house was a sizeable run-down functional house with one chair, and a bed. It had a large kitchen, a bathroom and two spare rooms. It had been the house of a finance official who had left some time ago and Stanley was allowed to use it. While I sat on the chair Stanley cooked some vegetables and rice and we talked until late by a fire. When I awoke the next day I was stunned by the beauty of the area. As far as I could see were deep, deep valleys with lush forests of varied green hues cascading down the steep slopes. A path could be traced across the valley through a few isolated settlements to a long ridge that formed the far horizon. The farm had been set up by its white owner to provide a variety of fruits and crops for the city markets and the chill of the early morning was an indicator of a cold highland climate that could deliver ice and produce apples. Protea and wild fruits were in abundance and it was easy to see why this area had been so popular with white settlers. Stanley was keen to develop his area of gardens and, although the farm was run down since its owner had departed there was still a feeling that people were at least trying to do their best in spite of the machine shortages and dead hand of Government on the resource tap. I could easily have spent weeks in this oasis but I had one more call to make in the highlands before I left. I walked with a young man who was serving an internship on the farm as part of his studies. It took longer than I thought to reach the main road, but from there another white farmer stopped to give me lift the thirteen kilometres to my destination. This prime farming area was still heavily owned by white farmers and it was easy to feel how poor local people might see the injustice of the situation. My final destination was the ultimate symbol of the relationship between the white world and the black world in one amazing estate. It was also more specifically a lingering relationship between Manchester and Vumba because it had been created by an ex-mayor of Manchester spending the money presumably made by making industrial goods from raw materials from the colonies to be sold back to Africa. The estate was set high on the ridge overlooking the deep-valleyed locality and yielding a glimpse of Mozambique in the distance on a clear day. The centre of the garden design was a large ornamental lake to which a network of small forest paths ran as they twisted through trees, passed by ponds, crossed small steams and ended on manicured lawns. A grand, but not stately, house overlooked the lake. Small areas of herbs, fuchsia, protea, wild flora etc had been carefully structured and must have been magnificent in its hey day. This was not its hey day. In the U.K. this property would have been a National Trust acquisition, but here it was the property of the Government's parks department. What should have been a jewel set in the crown of tourism was now a neglected and decaying relic. On the day I saw it had only one car-full of visitors and they stayed for a few moments before departing. One of the gardeners told me that they now had only one lawnmower left to deal with the extensive grass-cutting tasks and though they were always promised new machines they never arrived. This would always be a contest with the ever- encroaching untidiness of nature, but without reinforcements nature was winning and paths were becoming overgrown, flower beds tangled and lawns ragged. Zimbabwe should be a rich and flourishing country. At one time tourism provided 8% of the national income and farming was feeding the whole of Southern Africa.
The Wild Old People Of Zimbabwe. The trains in anti-colonial Zimbabwe are an echo of its British past, long since surpassed by design 'progress' in their country of origin. The now ageing sleeper carriages, full of varnished coach-built accessories and beautifully engineered fittings, were perfect hotel rooms for the long overnight journeys between Harare and the distant Cities. Not only were the over-night bunks surprisingly comfortable but the carriages were also an opportunity for long discussions with friendly and interesting Zimbabwian men. I met a man who once had a job teaching people how to smoke; another was a railway draftsman who also produced and sold his own music cds. On my first trip to Bulawayo, a man, travelling with his son, home from a competitive scholarship to a U.S. college, offered me a bed in his overcrowded house for several days. We had discussions about Mugabe, gay rights, traditional culture and our own lives. Many were dissatisfied with the Government and often expressed the desire to find work outside of the country. For this particular trip to Bulawayo, I was too late to find a sleeper birth. I settled for the second-class seat. As I waited for the train to arrive I was approached by a woman. She presented a tattered sheet of paper that described her difficult life and asked the reader to help her. This incident was not unusual, except that on this occasion the beggar was a woman probably in her late sixties or early seventies, with an educated Zimbabwian accent, and she was white. When I walked along the platform I was passed by a man I guessed in his late seventies. He was also white, a short man in a bush hat, a tough bundle of energy who scuttled past me to the rhythm of his walking stick that clicked time as he limped towards the train. Close on his heel was a somewhat younger woman with a stout frame and close cut 'butch' grey hair. I noted the strangeness of this collection of older people entering the second-class carriages. I wondered what their story was. Were these tough old farmers from the bush? I decided I would never know and got onto the train. There was little sleep. The second class was much noisier and there was a constant concern that these young people moving up and down the carriage might be after your bag. I had to return to Harare the next night for some boring administrative reason, but on this occasion, managed to find a sleeper. I was tired and soon fell into a deep sleep. I half awoke during the night in that semi-dream state that turns reality into a confused, unprocessed unreality. In the dim, dark awareness of the lengthy stop I became aware of a flashing torch outside and a voice. He was obviously talking on a walkie-talky. " A passenger needs hospital treatment. There was a fight in the carriage leading to an injury." I sighed silently. These African boys. They get drunk and then cause everyone problems. I turned over and went back to sleep. We got into Harare not long after daybreak in spite of the long stop. I let the crowd go and gathered my few belongings into a bag. I joined the throng passing along the platform. Up ahead of me was a tall white man talking earnestly to someone on the bench. As I came closer there was also a black woman fussing around with tissue paper. Now as I passed I saw the reason for the fuss. The older 'butch' woman was sitting weakly on the bench, her head covered in blood-soaked tissue. I tried not to rubber-neck but failed. At the same time the old man with his stick clacked past me with a grim countenance. A tall policeman was now his companion. It became clear that the long stop had not been caused by drunk young men as my prejudiced attitudes had assumed, but two old Zimbabwian whites. By now I had become friendly with the security police at the station and I asked one what had happened. " Oh these old people are always around here. They go into the cafes to beg money then get drunk. The old man had an argument with the woman and hit her with his stick. We asked him if he was trying to force her to have sex, but he said no." I have now transferred my fears from the young men to the wild old people of Zimbabwe - I must try to be less prejudiced.
The Day I Stared Death In the Face And Blinked. It had been one of those days you have sometimes when you travel around. Things had been going too well and capricious Gods had decided it was time to play their hand. The night train trip from Bulwayo to Harare had gone without a hitch. We came in ahead of time at six o'clock in the morning and it was simply a matter of collecting my pre-booked ticket for the bus to Lilongwe and boarding the bus. I turned up at the bus station and waited for the coach company kiosk to open at 8.30. At 9.30 the man showed up and casually announced that the coach had been cancelled. Oh well the State run bus runs every day and it will just mean finding a room for the night. By 10.30 I was clear that getting a room I could afford was not going to be that simple. My usual hostel was hosting a wedding party and everything in the area was full. By now I was worried about getting a seat on the bus and decided to head for the notorious Bari bus station. Harare is not your standard African city. There has been serious money here. Wide streets, western-standard buildings, banks with marble entrance halls, supermarkets, fast food joints and flashy modern internet facilities give it the feeling of a European Capital. Even the slum area of Bari once had good quality four floor blocks of flats. Now the residents had left the mark of poverty and degradation on the area. Few windows had more than a few shards of glass for protection against the dust and most had cardboard for curtains. Some had empty beer bottles lined up on the window sill as the only form of decoration. At the entrance of each porch sat a ragged crew of youths, men, and women selling a few cheap items that could be afforded to provide a few coins that could help to feed the children. As I walked between the blocks two teenage girls walked past me. One looked back at me, " Mm not bad" she said and they both burst into loud throaty laughter as they swayed up the street. At the end of the residential street the chaotic life and energy of the sprawling two-ring circus of a bus station gushed at me like a wave of hot air. The contrast with the lethargic atmosphere of the poverty stricken residential blocks was almost physical. The street flies were already buzzing around. " Where do you want to go?" "Don't trust him he is a thief." "Hey white man." Street stalls, buses, and people were scattered randomly over the huge space and any hope of seeing where to go dissipated in the miasma of fumes, shouts and smells. Eventually, an old man pointed to the other side of the site and I found the ticket office. Mission accomplished. I was walking towards town again. I wondered if I should book into a guest house close to the bus station to be on the spot and had slowed to look at it. A man walked up beside me. " What are you looking for?" " Just looking for somewhere to spend the night." He shook his head. " You can't stay here, there is too much crime and they will spot you without doubt." He went on to explain that he was a local policeman. " I know a place a bus ride away from here where they will take Zimbabwian dollars". I was immediately suspicious and was friendly but guarded. " I just need to sort out something at the Police Station and we can go to look at the hotel." I was worried. Was this a sting? Was I being set up? It was illegal to stay at a hotel and not pay in US dollars. We arrived at the MBari Police Station and I received a friendly welcome. I was shown to an office with long tables full of files. Some were more than six months old and told a tale of a crime load that couldn't and wouldn't be dealt with. Samuel returned and we boarded a bus that took us a long way from Bari and far enough for Samuel to tell me how he lived alone and had separated from his wife. But the hotel turned out to want US dollars and I was back in a search for a bed. Samuel was left to look for another friend. The afternoon was a long, hot trail of disappointment and as the red glow of the setting African sun burnished the streets I approached a listing fence with a peeling sign. The hotel was mainly given over to small businesses. In one room a hairdresser, in another a seamstress. I came to reception and a large African mama told me she had one room - saved at the last. I needed to get to the bus for 6.30 a.m. and had at least a 30 minute journey. I was up before dawn and impatient to get going, but the guard wanted me to wait until he could walk with me past a car park that was known to be a sometime haunt of robbers. Eventually we started and there seemed to be no-one around, it couldn't be quieter. Once past the open tree-fringed space he said that the half -kilometre walk to the local bus stop should be safe. As I strode purposefully away down the road I was joined by a small man who announced that he was a security guard close to the hotel. He proudly showed me his South African employers letter offering him work and we nattered our way down the road. About half way to the bus stop I became aware of a commotion ahead. Girls were shouting and running across the road and there seemed to be a group of people around the filling station. I said I didn't like the look of it, but he was confident it was nothing to worry about. Sure enough as we passed on the other side of the road no-one took any notice of us and we walked on. About 200 metres further on we were still chatting when a wave of human contact swept over me, hands in my pockets shoulders brushing against mine. I stopped outraged at the audacity of their raid and took up a boxing stance as they turned to face me some 5 metres away. I must have looked like an old grey turtle to them with an old bag on my back and sure enough they were not impressed by my rather pathetic attempt to intimidate them. Glances and a few words were exchanged between them and they spoke to the guard who was walking with me. I will never know if it was fear or collusion, but without looking back he walked slowly away down the road. I looked around there was no-one on the street and no houses nearby. I felt that feeling known to a thousand abandoned souls - the prisoner listening to the click of the lock and the fading steps of the warder, the soldier told that reinforcements would not arrive, the child lost in the forest. he three men moved towards me and I entered a strange state of altered perception. Time slowed down and my mind set up an operations room that focussed on fragmented visions of what was happening in front of me. All my senses were sharpened and withdrawn into the few metres around me. It was as if I could use all of my senses independently. I could hear every sound and seemed to be able to see the scene through some kind of kaleidoscopic prism. The largest man had a beer bottle in his hand and as he it raised above his head it slipped from his grasp and smashed with digital clarity on the road. There was plenty of time to think and what flooded into my mind was the thought that if I succumbed I would miss the bus to Malawi. As hands gripped my arms I felt my trouser pockets roughly ripped open. I tightened my grip on my small bag and resisted their efforts to pull it from me. I began to shout "hey, hey, hey" at a volume that surprised me. It felt as though someone else was shouting out. There was no movement around me - no-one was coming to help. I became aware of one man punching me in the face and was surprised to note that it didn't hurt. I was more concerned at the impudence of someone feeling that he could punch me. "hey hey hey". The biggest man put his face close to mine. " We will kill you." He spat into my face. I sensed that he didn't mean it. "hey, hey, hey". After what seemed like an hour, but was probably less than a minute, they finally pulled me over onto the ground. Little by little they started to pull me towards a dirty, dirt side road. I realised the game was up. If they got me into the side road they could really do me some harm. With an impending sense of loss I released my grip on my small bag and watched with resigned dismay as they ran up the dirt road. I started to pull myself, the bag still on my back, slowly to my feet. There was some movement close to me. Like a scene from a John Wayne movie the cavalry had arrived in the form of five security guards from a nearby commercial site. I pointed up the dirt road and three men chased after the robbers. As I pressed a tissue against the small trickle of blood from my face the two men returned carrying my bag. Little was lost, I was set up to receive lots of concerned, tutting, sympathy and I was in time to catch my bus. The operations room was closed down and time and motion returned to normal. I, at least still had money in my pocket, a ticket out of Zimbabwe and a safe place to go home to, unlike many of the people I had shared a little time with in Zim. On the journey home we changed busses at the border and sat by the road. "Hey Paul", who could know me here? It was a young man from the Tsabango area in Malawi. "what are you doing here?" "I have been working in South Africa" He had nothing but the clothes he stood in and a broad smile. "How will you get home?" "Oh, this is Africa, some lorry driver will help me." I gave him some small money for food and reflected on the capacity of Africa and Africans to deal with whatever came their way.
A BLOG FROM ZIM SOME TIME LATERThis is a personal account from Zimbabwe - but I thought you may like to hear from inside what Mugabe's 'clean out of trash' meant in reality. The African Union said it was an internal matter about the restoration of law and planning order *************************** |
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