It’s six months since I left Melbourne, twenty five years since I left Zimbabwe and as I sit here in stunning Kariba I reflect on recent experiences. After my October visit, and just prior to flying out, I pondered how the free falling Zimbabwe economy would impact my plans. With snake-like fuel queues and violence erupting on typically peaceful Harare streets, with my house packed up and tenants figuratively knocking on the door, I clung to the airbnb host’s comment “you don’t need to worry for your safety Lisa”. Bags packed, house key scattered somewhere in my luggage, I headed towards the uncertain landscape of 2019 Zimbabwe.
You’ve possibly read past blogs. If so you’ll understand the context and the incremental stressors that have slowly but surely piled up and influenced my fairly radical decision. With the car loaded with all of my belongings I was escaping to Kariba, the Sunset Garden’s Lakeside Resort, and the support of Tom, the owner.
Waiting for Tom’s assistant, Emily, who was accompanying me on the drive to Kariba, my irritability grew as the 7.45 am meet time pushed to 8, 8.30, then finally 9 am. My patience wearing thin, contemplating the 5 hour minimum drive to Kariba, emotions bubbled, my temperature rose and any semblance of Zimbabwean patience evaded me. Each call or message to Emily evoked an “I coming just now”, “I will be there in 10 mins”, “I’m just there”. All euphemisms for “I’ll see you when I see you” or “I’m miles away”. When she finally arrived her apology was indifferent and cold. Tears welled and I wondered, ‘Ok Lisa what’s this really about’. Texting my frustrations to Tom, he called and diffused my anger, helping me find compassion for this complex girl. I realised then that my anger masked my profound sadness. With a certainty that things would not improve in Harare in a hurry, my decision to drive north west to the simplicity and beauty of Kariba was definitively closing a chapter. I had walked away from Safe Hands, and now was driving away from the Autism Org, people who had embraced me with warmth, love and a sense of belonging, away from children who felt my joy and love. And there was no clear path back.
To be honest I wasn’t sure I wanted one. The idea of chilling for the next six months was quite enticing. I had some ideas and fantasies of what the coming months might look like, but in reality, it was an escape. My archetype is elemental. We are pretty good at sensing when the shit is going to hit the fan and get out before it sticks. Colleagues from former jobs, choosing to stay and stay, sometimes loyal to the detriment of their own well being, will attest to that. In Kariba I am five minutes from the border, from the relative sanity and modernity of Zambia. If tensions rise in Harare, I will be far from the fire.
Two weeks days later overlooking the stunning denim blue of Lake Kariba, with 24 hour electricity, unlimited water and having upgraded Tom’s internet package to 500 g of data, with a fairly reliable server, I have evening meals cooked by Emily. It is fairly typical Zimbabwean fair so I will slowly add more green, red and orange to the menu but I enjoy the company as Tom and I watch an annoying Indian soap opera that Emily has him addicted to. I brought enough coffee to last the 4 weeks till I fly south but have just finished my fresh milk, so UHT milk it will be. With the most delicious papayas just picked from the tree (a delectable cross between papaya and mango), lemon grass growing wild, seeds for an array of herbs and greens planted, there is the promise of some variety so maybe in time I may get creative in cooking again.
The first few days I chilled, pure relaxation. It seems ages since I relaxed. Is that the truth or distorted perception? I sleep late(ish), do an hour walk up Mica point past baboons and monkeys (I have to put the car in second gear to get up the hill so it is quite a workout). The views are equivalent to the Almalfi or a Greek island. Winter days of 26 degrees with a fresh breeze off the lake and nights of 13 are a preamble to what locals say are 8 HOT months, a persistent 40 in October — November, before the rains set in with their humid nights. After my walk I read, do some yoga (loving Yoga with Adrienne on Youtube), write or drive to Nyamhunga about 15 kms away. With the exodus of whites a decade ago the business district of Kariba shut down so now banks, Telcos and the only supermarket are at a distance and, with fuel costs and access issues, people don’t drive on a whim, any trip needs to accomodate a multitude of tasks. I help around the place doing some gardening, paint, cook scones or a cake, before late afternoon, sitting in a sunny nook reading and sipping my afternoon coffee before shower, dinner and TV. Tom has Openview, South Arica’s cheaper alternative to DSTV, a cable network. Most evenings there is a reasonable, and sometimes great movie. But we have discovered Money Heist on Netflix, and addicted, binge a few episodes each night. Tom lays on his long couch covered in dogs. My nieces have always teased that I will be a crazy cat lady in my old age. Is there a male equivalent with dogs? If so, Tom is it. Lulu, Scruffy, Tinkerbell (who was heavily pregnant and has just birthed 8 puppies), Sheebee (with her 3 pups), Coco, Coffee, Hutch, Fluffy, Shadow, Santiago and Mimi. I think that’s all of them. It sounds crazy to have so many but they are also working dogs, alert to the wildlife, keeping elephants, hippos and zebras at bay until the electric fence is repaired. They hunt rats and prevent baboons and monkeys from looting the place. They are adorable tiny little jack russel pomeranian crosses and not as yappy as you might expect. Tinks, Shebee, Shadow and Coco, all females, are my favourites. Each evening Tom and I share a jibe as to who they love the most. Tom says they whine and scratch at his door, wondering and worrying where he is if he is not up at 6am. Coffee and Shadow are sometimes sleeping outside my door so I suppose time will give the answer.
One morning I conducted a supervision session with a speechie at home. Tom approached mid way to say the modem had to be moved. This resulted in relying on a very variable telephone network. After 20 + attempts at connecting through whatsapp, skype, and messenger, I admired my supervisee’s tolerance but was left feeling unprofessional. While she and I had had internet issues when consulting between Melbourne and Moe, this particular mornings challenges had me reflecting on ease of communication, figuratively and literally, of the usually seamless communication within one’s own culture, the nuances, inference, typically effortless. I walked off my frustrations of the morning but could feel something brewing.
While Kariba has generally escaped the trials of Harare, the day before rumour had it that the government was going to increase the fuel price from $6 to $12. So wanting to make a killing all petrol stations held back fuel. On this particular Monday news came that Total was selling. Seated outside the gate, waiting for Tom, I could see him put rubbish away, pick at weeds, completing a myriad of little things that he deemed crucial at that point in time. As we meandered up Mica Point I warned him, “I don’t have much Zimbabwean patience today”. Explaining why, the earlier modem issue, highlighted our differences in communication. He expected me to speak up and ask him to delay, I didn’t want to hold up the works that needed to be done there and then. Another cultural clash in a series of clashes over the previous six months. Soon after, sitting in a queue (with a decidedly better view than in Harare), Tom, his workman and Emily dispersed to an array of tasks. The guy from the car in front approached and informed me “There is another car between you and me, but they didn’t have the fuel to drive down (the hill, turn around and drive back up)”. Accepting this as queuing etiquette, I told Tom upon his return. “They are taking you for a ride, coz your white”. As he sorted it out with they guy in front, tears welled, tracking down my cheek. Yet again I was being duped for being white. I felt brittle, like ‘if there is one more knock I will shatter’. Each tear shed told a story, of alienation from culture, of isolation, of the lost dream of my work here, of the sense of purpose and belonging. Others were definitively for Zimbabwe.
It was only as days passed, some tears released, others stubbornly residing within, chatting with my Zimbo friends around the world, that the words came to vent my emotions. “Zimbabwe is like an abused woman”.
The Government, the powerful male, is the controlling force isolating her from the world, eroding her sense of self incrementally over years, offering her false promises and hollow apologies, pushing her towards inertia. He has hoarded the family’s riches, transferred everything to his name.
She is proud of her passivity, her resilience. She feels she is protecting her children from his wrath, his beatings. But she doesn’t see the harm their soul endures day by day. She doesn’t see how this shapes their future, distorts their view of the world. He has the password to the internet and restricts access, ensuring they only view sites he approves. They go hungry as he purchases new cars, goes on holidays, squanders the riches of their hard toil in the fields. He ignores the bills so they sit in the dark, the phone is too expensive to call for help anyway. He’s befriended the local police, so they wouldn’t come. Local transport is now beyond her reach, so she is stuck with nowhere to run. And now they have no water. Water is life. But they daren’t complain. Her sons are strong young men, her daughters clever. But he has been thorough in his task. Last time the sons spoke up his wrath was fierce. So now they feel powerless and accept their lot in life.
The wife soldiers on, she laughs, she bemoans her demise, she clings to whispers that a neighbour down the road will come and rescue her. But he is clever. He has showered the neighbours with gifts from his own land, warning them to be careful of their own household. Growing up with the same toxic masculinity, the neighbours, wary of losing control over their families, heed his words. They are happy to ignore what is in plain sight. They stop talking to the woman and her children for fear trouble will spread to their homes. When the sons or daughters come to them hungry and scared, they beat them, turn their back and send them home.
For years she has prayed to God. Her prayers remain unanswered. But still she prays waiting for a saviour as her baby becomes sick, her parents go without medical care, her sons have no work, her daughters sit in a classroom with a disengaged teacher who no longer cares. She sees the the children turn on each other. Stealing, scamming, envious, desperate. He has done a good job, disempowering them till they lose all respect for each other. And still they pray.
I have tried to talk to her, as others have. And now as I leave the neighbourhood, no longer able to stand by and witness her demise, I ponder ‘enough of this praying for God to rescue you now woman, maybe God wants you to fight for yourself’.
