We first met in 1987, a brief encounter that didn’t foretell what was to come. It was 1992 when the relationship began in earnest. And over four years infatuation developed into deep affection, love. In 1996 when I wrenched myself from you it felt unfinished. I knew I would have to find my way back somehow. Months later, from the vantage point of home, I pondered ‘us’. Transposing Zimbabwe for India, the Alanis Morissette song Thank You became my anthem. In the early 90s, bungee jumping into the risks inherent in living with you, you challenged me in ways I could not have imagined. Amidst all the chaos I had to delve deep to find out who I really was, who I wanted to become. You were a crucial step in my journey, on the road less travelled, and because of this I think I’ve always held you in high esteem.
In recent years I reconnected with my freedom-seeking floating self. And wanting to volunteer again I realised I needed to revisit ‘us’, to discover if we were a never ending story or a chapter to be closed. Our cultural differences, the toxicity, the sense of isolation that had tainted our four years together were long forgotten as music, friendships, animals, landscape and simple lifestyle filled my fantasies of the year ahead. And so 25 years later I returned with a purpose. I wanted to truly THANK YOU.
As weeks merged into months, the insecurity of my tourist visa hovered as a dim lurking threat. Having contacted the Zimbabwean consulate in Australia to clarify visa requirements in the planning for this year I readily succumbed to a false sense of security when I was told merely ‘a tourist visa upon arrival’ . Knowing numerous people who regularly came and went from Zimbabwe or stayed for years with a tourist visa, and after a few flights to Joburg and back without incident at immigration, I soon settled into this unsettled status. When life in Harare became increasingly insecure from a utilities perspective, the fuel situation continuing to be precarious, and increasing poverty blanketing society in a grim fog, I escaped to Kariba. At least (initially) Kariba had Zesa 24/7, no water issues, fuel on demand, reasonable internet and access to US$. There was a very restricted choice of food, a pain in the arse house keeper at the lodge and no real purpose, but with a pack of loving dogs, a good friendship with Tom, spectacular weather and views, it seemed good enough.
My first mistake was a land crossing at Kariba. Warned I may not gain entry next attempt, anxiety piqued but I thought, ‘I can arrange a work permit if I need to’, my skills clearly in short supply. Instead I risked uncertainty. After Tom and I explored visa options, wining and dining an immigration officer or two, work permit options were still the only reasonable possibility. But in truth I couldn’t imagine why Zimbabwe would want to deny someone who wanted to spend money here, someone who was not a criminal, someone who has US$. Yes naive, certainly.
Deciding to fly to Johannesburg via Lusaka was the second mistake. It was relatively straight forward going. But booking the flights before knowing the minibus timetable necessitated a night in Lusaka on the return journey. The airbnb was basic, the shopping, while notable from a Zim perspective, after Joburg did not live up to the hype. And the bus trip back was a whole other story. Tom and I had separately contacted Pearson to ‘book’ a seat, the front seat, as advised by a friend Gayle. Arriving early I asked for Pearson. The driver scowled and mumbled something unintelligible but a woman assured me this was the bus heading to Kariba. Seeing the esky Tom has sent in the morning I was reassured and walked over placing food items inside. Leaving my cases, putting my cardigan and water on the front seat, I set off to find a loo. When I returned, other items were on the seat so I moved them, after all I had reserved the seat. Settling into my book, an hour or so later, a rotund Shona woman came and gruffly said “You’re in my seat”. “I booked this seat” I replied. Undeterred she piled parcels at my feet and said “The rule is if you come up in the seat you go back in it”, most of the passengers Zimbabweans who’d come for a day of shopping for items to resell in Zim. “Well I came up on it 2 weeks ago so I can go back on it today” I asserted. Huffing, she head off to do more shopping. At the window the bus attendant barked at me “KW$50 for luggage, now”. I considered this. Well I suppose everyone was loading the trailer up for the journey back so fuel costs would be hefty. I answered “You want it now?” “Yes” he responded unsmiling. I paused, “Well I’ll check with Pearson when he comes”. He walked away gloomily. The woman returned. She piled more and more items on and around me, I was going to have to fight for the seat it was clear. I called Pearson for clarification only to discover he was not there that day. I was confused, so what bus was I on? The driver refused to speak to me and the woman was LITERALLY about to sit on me. I moved, the only seat for the next 3 hour journey was the pop up middle seat with no head rest. My shona is not good but I knew I was being talked about, and as the only white person on the bus I could sense it was not in favourable terms. I felt like saying, ‘Hey I’ve got Shona friends, I am not who you think I am’. But 2019 Zimbabwe was proving to be a very different Zimbabwe to the early 90’s, my tolerance and compassion were waning and I was reaching my threshold of civility.
At the border a few hours later I grabbed a taxi to cross quickly. Best laid plans. As I switched SIM cars, Tom and I messaged trying to link with a friend also crossing. In the confusion, I ended up at the border last, after the bus. Tom’s friendly face was balm after the pretty shitty day. We casually wandered to the immigration office hoping to encounter someone we knew. Instead, a big honcho sat next to a lowly officer processing my passport. They stopped, conferred, flicked back and forwards through the pages. “We can only give you one week, you have used your six month entitlement”. We stood dumbfounded. Exploring options, the head honcho said, “Are you married?” We both quickly replied, “No we are just friends”. It seemed at that point I was out of luck. The only path forward would be resident permit requiring a marriage certificate, or, as I later found out on the Immigration website, a business visa with an investment of US$1,000,000. I had to laugh. South Africa requires A$500,000 for a business permit. It has a relatively well functioning economy and infrastructure. Zimbabwe with its decrepit roads, no rail, lack of electricity, dwindling water supplies, and rampant corruption (to the point that even the Chinese are threatening to withdraw some businesses, how’s that for irony) Zim wants people to pour in US$1 million minimum. Delusional to say the least. Well, marriage was out of the question, so the next option was a work permit. There were a few options there but they would take time to sort out. There was a 12 month option listed on the website for tourists but I was struggling to identify the criteria for eligibility. It was at this point I decided I had to really consider what it was I was staying for.
Zim friends in SA called contacts and I was connected with an immigration officer whose side business was to give ‘immigration advice’. For a fee of course. US$100. I decided against forking out more money unless it was going to lead to an outcome. We soon found out that once the head honcho made a ruling at Kariba, going to Harare to explore options was the only option. When the contact called me back and said, “You are in a relationship” it became clear that this was a perceived stumbling block. Tom and I to any outsider looked like a couple. I’d had a few people say to me ‘how long have you guys been together’. When I stated, “Oh no we are just friends, I’m a client, we’ve only know each other 2 months” their expression was quizzical. From almost the outset Tom and I had been completely ourselves with each other and developed an affection and partnership of sorts (he told his staff they were now answering to me and somehow assumed I was going to look after the place next year when he headed to the states to sort out a few things, hmmm, without consultation mind you). So I get why people said “You behave as if you’ve known each other for years”. We did.
A trip to Harare was planned. Briefly entertaining the idea that I would not be returning I packed as if I wasn’t. The 2 suitcases of items left behind are things I would have left at some point, but the food, gin and brand new super squishy yoga mat were a bit of a loss. Tom said, “If you don’t come back you next week, come for 6 months next year. In fact you could do that every year”. “Tom, I will need to work at some point you know” . When he added, with some creative immigration solutions, that “I just want to do anything I can so you can stay in this country you love” it hit me. “Tom the only reason I am in Zimbabwe is Kariba and I like hanging out with you”. His face broke into a smile and he replied, “I’m so glad you said that, I feel the same way”.
I was conscious that the original crunch time would have loomed in November. So what am I staying for? There was an option of some work at a local school, and the lifestyle in Kariba was simple, the sea (lake) change that many of us seek. But I had only one real friend, a couple of others whom I might become close with one day. The culture was not mine and I continued to struggle to read it. The other major stumbling block was that, as a person guided by intuition, I had no inspiration answering the question ‘if not Kariba, then what?’ Nothing had come to me yet so Kariba was a place I was happy to float in for awhile.
It was a stressful few days and my emotions were raw. Sunday morning we aimed to set off at 10 am. Hiring a car from a friend, I packed it and at about 10.15 called to Tom, “Ready?” He’d been up a few hours by this time, watched some TV earlier, completed a few chores before leaving the lodge and his pack of dogs with the housekeeper. “I just need to shower”. I walked away swallowing the words I wanted to yell (What the F*** have you been doing). Knowing he gets distracted and time exists in a different continuum for him, I recalibrated and thought OK we’ll be gone by 10.45. Approaching him a bit later he then said “I just have to pack”. If I was a cartoon character you’d have seen my face building to red. OK so it will be 11 before we go. As I met him in the kitchen at 11 he said, “Don’t you want to eat?” WTF. That cartoon character now had steam billowing from every orifice. “Tom you’ve been up for hours, really, NOW you want to eat? Why didn’t you ask me or Emily to make you something when I told you I was making a flask for tea?”
His response, “You should have known.”
Yep, let’s just say we were both on edge.
“Let’s have a good drive Lisa” he said as we set off at 11.30.
I was not really in a space to calm quickly and when his back seat driving got into gear (please note, he prefers to be driven)…well, red rag to a bull. It was a prickly 6 hour drive.
At least this journey was uneventful in every other sense. We arrived at my friends’ in Greendale around dinner time, to a meal and wine. Cyril and Julia were really the only other friends I had in Zim, other than those made through my volunteering. They were the only ones of my culture that’s for sure. Staying with them was a reprieve. They had a generator, water and an expansive home to relax into. I was hoping for a bath but as the boreholes of Harare slowly dry up, they were having to purchase water. At US$300 per week I did not feel I could stretch the friendship to that extent.
Tom and I both imagined Kariba immigration wasn’t sending us to Harare on a wild goose chase.When we heard that Cyril, partner of Julia the UN worker, who was also on a tourist visa had been given another visa without incident on return for the summer in Europe, I was hopeful.
Monday morning. If not successful I would have to fly out Wednesday. Tom was killing a few birds with my visa issue stone. He wanted to begin the process of renewing his passport. In a country where there is insufficient paper to print passports that was going to require some creativity. Returning an item at the hardware store, a look at a windscreen and buying food for lodge clients all needed to be completed before the 6 hour drive back to Kariba, coming to the big smoke never a one task journey. But immigration first. We found the compliance section and met Shakespeare, whose daughter is named Lisa. He perused my passport, asked a few questions, chatted to Tom then left to meet with his supervisor. Called into this man’s office I was asked what I was doing in the country. “Oh I worked here in the 90’s as a development worker and have been given a year off my job, so have been spending time between Zimbabwean friends in Joburg and Zim.”
“Oh you worked here.”
Giving him more details he then said “You’ll have a file then”.
A part of me panicked at that point. Some of you will know the story of the accusations made to immigration in 1996 that I had a hit man out killing my lovers!
“We’ll get your file, how long do you want to stay this year?”
Ideally I wanted to stay till my friend Azzi, who was coming home from Denmark for a holiday, came to Kariba later November.
“Go and get an affidavit signed by a notary and return tomorrow morning.”
He continued, in Shona, to Shakespeare, “Let’s give her the time”. At a cost of US$100 per month it seemed a reasonable outcome.
After starting Tom’s passport renewal process we hit town, went to the lawyer still working on my case with Malvern, found a notary then returned with some optimism to Greendale. Buying food for dinner at Food Lovers, I began to add things for Kariba to the basket. Tom paused, “Maybe leave it till tomorrow, just in case”.
The next morning, buoyed by news from Julia that ‘having a file’ was a plus in these circumstances we headed down Herbert Chitepo to Immigration. Turning to park in my usual spot Tom worried the car would be stolen. Equally irritated and bemused (he’d not voiced that concern yesterday when we parked there) he said he’d pay for parking. As I drove past a free parking spot he pointed, “You missed a spot”.
“But you said you wanted to park out front and pay” (Zimbabweans eschew any walking).
“We are here for you, if you don’t want to pay for parking” he went on. That cartoon character within me was ready to explode. Gritting my teeth, stealing myself, I locked the car as he went to sort out the parking fee. Striding into Immigration away from Tom, my overt source of annoyance on this day, towards the internal source of distress, we entered Shakespeare’s office. They could not find my file of 25 years ago, but he seemed up beat and led us towards the front desk.
“Where is my money?” he said in a loud jovial voice, in a public hallway. For a nanosecond I wondered if that was a request for a bribe. My observation of Zim is that the bribing was subtle and covert, and I worried I’d be so inept at it anyway I’d probably be arrested. We sat in the general office area as Shakespeare chatted with another officer before shaking our hands and heading off. This man went away, returning soon after, he called me over. “My boss says no. You could stay one more week for US$100”. Fuck that! “Thanks but no thanks, you clearly want me to go, so I’ll go” my brittle words displaying my shock.
There was little more to be done. I walked out choking back shock and tears as we walked to the passport office next door. The car was clamped, Tom had not paid the parking guy, the network down. I refrained from saying “I told you so”. He sorted it and then drifted off into the labyrinth that was the passport office. Three hours later, after a myriad of whats app messages to friends around the world, particularly my Zimbabwean friends, to Julia and Cyril who responded with disbelief and a quiet misgiving re Cyril’s status, and a post on facebook, I sat in the hot August sun with tears spilling over. Hundred’s of Africans milled around me desperate for a passport to leave this country. Why was I crying about not being allowed to stay?
Attempts to book a flight via my phone were thwarted by network issues. A farewell from Tom’s brother Brown ended in a saga with Brwon, his girlfriend and an entourage at a supermarket, shopping for supplies for the lodge, too incredulous to recount. I was spent. “This is f***ing crazy Tom” (hmm since spending time with Tom my swearing had increased proportionately). “I am going. I’ll walk back”. Shocked into action he left his brother and the troupe mid shopping in the Pick’n’pay to drive me back. I needed to book a flight. “But we didn’t even get a farewell lunch” he said as we approached the house, “is there somewhere nearby?” We diverted for a quick bite near the Greendale Food Lovers. Tom stepped out to get a bread roll leaving me to stew in my emotions. Lunch arrived and his 2 minute ducking next door lengthened to 10 minutes. Africa time! It was all beyond belief at this point. When he finally returned Tom asked, “what will you do? you should go home coz it will look better in your passport to have gone home for when you come back in January.”
“If I go home I am never coming back to this f***ing country” I spouted, tears and sobs interjecting my words. “I have NO IDEA what I am going to do”. In the previous 7 days I had reached out to friends in SA, the States and Uruguay trying to make a plan that would ‘fill in time’ and not burden others. It had not been part of the ‘non plan’ to travel and my mood was far from excited by the idea.
Tom sat, then said, “well when I go back, I just have my workers. I’ve just had my workers, then life brought this bright spark, it was you, and now that’s being taken away. I can’t think about it because I’ll get depressed”.
Hmm, how did this all suddenly become about you, I thought, though recognised the compliment and heartfelt feeling held within his words. “You’ve really left a mark on my place” he added.
Ten minutes later he dropped me back at the house. A hug and a feeling we’d meet again softened the goodbye a little. Cyril was home working. I drifted down to my room and availed of the bath Julia insisted I take as I, wracked with sobs of despair, tried to work out what the tears represented. The grief was profound. Something was being taken from me but I wasn’t entirely sure what it was. Perhaps it was merely ideas and dreams? I was certain of three things. I would miss Tom. I was feeling lost as to the coming five months — my life changing its course so radically and rapidly. And the big question still loomed. What about next year? Without the few months in Kariba to clarify if that was the place for longer, with the idea when I packed up my home in Melbourne that it was likely to be for more than a year still very real for me, I was truly lost.
Julia and Cyril spoilt me with a fine dining experience at Amanzi (I didn’t even know fine dining existed in Harare) and I slept exhausted by my emotions. Cyril drove me to the airport first thing the following morning, boosting me with ideas of the adventures that may lay ahead.
I landed into the arms of Chipo, Sean and their 2 adorable girls who distracted me through the early days of displacement. It was only when settling into Forgette’s 5 days later, with time to think, that the grief resurfaced.
Healthy relationships are those that make us the best versions of ourselves. The red flags (the economy, the violation of human rights) were there last year, and again in January as I packed to fly to you. But I just ‘had to get it out of my system’ as Kevin, my birthfather said in April (much to my irritation at the time, it was only upon reflection that I wondered if he had a point).
Zimbabwe. My affection for you is spent. Seeking you out this year, entering this new dalliance has challenged me to the core. I have shattered any illusion of my own virtue and strength, my compassion has been tested. Adapting to the limited resources to meet basic needs, living a life devoid of the lifelong friendships of home, I was not my best self. Bitterness, resentment, anger replaced the compassion, joy, admiration I had held for you and your people. You have infantised them, taught them by rote, limited their opportunity to think for themselves. The abused passively settling for a shrinking world closed off, their growth has not merely been stunted, it has shrivelled over decades of your corrupt, inept leadership.
I write this sitting in Durban, by the beach. My wonderful friends here in SA sustain my soul as I theirs. A trip to Rwanda and Uganda is booked a few weeks hence. A month in Uruguay will round out the year as was always the plan. Chipo and Cyril suffer their own versions of visa status and displacement threats, and we ponder our experiences from the perspective of educated financially viable ‘immigrants’. Ours is not the story of the economically vulnerable or the refugee. We do have choices and while our first choice is threatened, the implications significant for relationships and the years ahead, we are mindful of the lesson we are experiencing, one that few people at home encounter.
Zimbabwe, you rejected me and in turn I am rejecting you. At the ending of any relationship each is left floundering, recalibrating ‘the who am I without an ‘us’?’ In my pain I can’t see a time where you will have evolved enough for us to renew. Your home is broken, your soul seems shattered, you have no joy, the abuse has sucked it dry. The cost is too great for me to be part of your journey right now. So beaten into submission as your people now are, maybe it is my hurt talking, but I think the chapter is closed, our story is complete. If we ever meet again it will be a wholly new story.
