The Intercape Pathfinder bus was slowly filling as Chris dropped me just before 7.30 am. Theoretically the 5 hour trip should have me arriving in Harare early afternoon, settling into my airbnb in the daylight. I’d elected for the upper deck front seat for panoramic views of the landscape on a road I’d driven innumerable times in my years in Zim. Still classified as a bit of a luxury the Patherfinder bus was less than salubrious. The loo was paperless, soapless and waterless, the seat belts nonfunctional. While i had the option to change seat I chose otherwise, a decision I wasn’t too sure of when the polite attendant lead us all in a prayer for safe arrival. A meal was provided — take way from Chicken Inn or one of its imitators, the journey now punctuated with only one break in Gweru, and nothing at the half way mark in KweKwe. The ‘entertainment’ on the bus many years ago seemed to be endless reruns of Mr. Bean or kung fu movies. This trip it was religious choirs, though the TV was at the front of the bus with no real amplification.
I found myself sitting next to the only other white passenger. Catching her accent was hard. British? No, she was a local white mid 30’s Zimbo. A teacher heading home to her folks in Kadoma for the weekend. I wasn’t too sure she wanted much conversation so our conversation frequently lapsed into silence, only interrupted when one or the other posed a question or comment. She and her partner had been living in Bulawayo for less than 18 months, they had moved for her job. But now with a better offer back in Harare she was conflicted. She didn’t typically seek change, she shared, so this swift about face back to Harare was in some ways a challenge of movement for her. We spoke of the many places I’d lived often for about 2 years, moving on just as I began to feel cemented and connected. She seemed to take courage from my stories of risk and change.
As the Matebeleland landscape drifted into the Midlands, the colour of the earth changed. Cocoa coloured soil gave way to lush green grass in parts, my new friend informing me — the residue of last season’s exceptional rains. The bus sped by stunning Msasa trees at the end of their seasonal display, the scrub thicker in the Midlands. The hillsides of pink, orange, apricot, peach, burgundy, red and rose hues evoked memories of Chimanimani where the mountains transformed, leaves winter green camouflage reworked into a floral tapestry, akin to the carpet like we had at home in the 60’s.
Gweru. All the businesses I associated with Zim were there. Duly’s Mechanics ‘since 1911’, fashion stores Topics, Truworths and Edgar’s. Novel businesses like Sincere Security. The populous still standing and waiting for transport. Gweru seemed little changed. We continued on the well made road, past a toll and innumerable police blocks. I asked my seat mate if she had a car? “Yes, but the hassle of all the police blocks and bribes make the bus a far better option”.
On past Kewkew, the land continued to arouse my senses. The colours of the earth captivated me in the way Victorian dirt has never. Coffee, toffee, cocoa, sandy, cream, golden, rust and ochre. And as the road imperceptibly climbed the trees reached higher, their thirst quenched by the wetter Mashona lands. At Kadoma, a mining town in Mashonaland West province, my travel companion prepared to disembark. Her mother and her father had missed the chance to move to the UK, her grandparents needing the support here. She had studied in the UK, but despite its hardships, most Zimbabweans wanted to stay, Zimbabwe was home, and Africa, once it gets under your skin, its a bit like a persistent splinter, so hard to get out of your system. More recent challenges for her family involved the government permitting gold mining in Kadoma’s residential area, the soil, noise and blasting impacting every resident. The decision was going through the courts but everyone knew government kickbacks had been paid, the case was hopeless. She took down the name of my kindle book, smiled and disembarked. When I lived in Zimbabwe in the 1990’s I recall only meeting a hand full of whites that I would not have called ‘Rhodies’ (Rhodesians entrenched in their view of inferior African capacity). Maybe after 20 years of the shared frustration with Mugabe’s administration, we met on a more common ground, one that had little to do with capacity, frustrations of governance now no longer attributed to capacity, merely recognition of evil and greed.
I sat in silence for the last hour of the journey, my heart giving a little skip at the first glimpse of balancing stones, then again at the spread of the high density suburbs (the local name for townships). There were a few differences — the number of ‘homes’, not shacks, being built, complete with a plot for a garden. Past Heroes Acre, Belvedere where I spent much of my first 3 months in Zimbabwe, Rotten Row, ZANU-PF House. But i was surprised by the absence of development since my last trip, no forest of cranes lining the sky. Arriving at Cresta Lodge some drivers touted for passengers. I asked one if he had a meter and if I could ‘swipe’ to pay (no Uber in Zim). When we got to his car, luggage loaded, I looked for the meter. There was none. He said I could ‘swipe’ to pay for his petrol. I asked how much. $10. To Newlands? No way. Insisting he unload my luggage I approached a car with ‘taxi’ emblazoned on its side. “Do you have a meter?” “Yes madam”. I sat in the front seat soon realizing that meters were a thing of the past, clearly irreparable and irreplaceable. “So how much?” “$5 madame” and we were on our way.
I had never spent much time in Newlands in the 1990s, only stopped at the trendy shopping strip to visit The Trading Company where I dropped way too many Zimbabwean dollars on cloth, clothes, and home decor. I was looking forward to exploring a this part of town that was central but residential. Maureen, or Minky as she prefers, my Airbnb host arrived soon after Lizzie, the maid, settled me in. She was a slim woman, who held herself in that way tall leggy people do. We ran through the workings of the cottage, showing me the pool and luscious garden under development, and she then invited me for sundowners with her Italian Airbnb guest. A warm and wonderful reintroduction to Harare. Walking distance to the shops I was soon back with a week’s supply of essentials — including wine and Savanna dry — it was clearly going to be a hopeless task to have a dry 2 weeks in Harare. The cottage soon became home away from home, complete with two cats and the 2 dogs making themselves at home (usually only when Minky was out). Minky’s hospitality as host slowly morphed into a budding friendship. Over 11 days of coffees, drinks and an occasional meal out we shared our journey to date. She was 52, a single mum whose son was about to leave Africa’s shores for ANZ, had had many career successes but her astute business sense was struggling in the current financial and political uncertainty that existed in Zim. I arrived as a new talent emerged, overseeing the renovation of her home she clearly had style. As the sun began to dip we sat with feet in the pool as she told me of the partner, who had moved out just the day before I arrived. So I was meeting Minky as she faced some major challenges and losses. I have to say (and she will be reading this) I was a little ambivalent about a white owned Airbnb but thought logically I wouldn’t have to have too much to do with the family if they were too racist. So it was a delight to meet her and her friends at the Tin Roof (a local whites hang out — the sort of place I would not have been seen dead in years ago) to find moderate realistic people. Again Mugabe probably has a lot to do with that. Though Minky did qualify that this group were a more cosmopolitain set, not ‘farmers’ as she regaled me with an experience where her friends’ comment when their dog harassed an African friend was “Well he’s only doing his job”. I was still a little confronted by how people (both black and white) talked about their maids and servants. But the common theme this time was positive, pay a fair wage and less of the paternalistic ‘caring for’ approach. After my experiences with Gladys, my maid 25 years ago, I learnt to be more professional and dispassionate about such arrangements myself.
My first night in Harare was the spectacular greeting I could only have hoped for. The clouds building as light seeped from the sky, white intensifying to grey, the wet season storm began, heralded by rolls of thunder, deep and sonorous. The Italian UNESCO worker, just 2 weeks in country, was amazed by the clashes that followed the brightest of lightning strikes and torrential rain that quickly flooded roads, drenching and blinding us. We drove to dinner and it was clear that Harare life was now in the suburbs, businesses and restaurants appropriating and remaking houses into oases outside of the menace of the CBD. This first dinner was at an Italian restaurant — very passable! When the bill came Minky, the Italian and I did the money dance. I had no cash, the Italian did. Minky needed cash so she swiped and I began a tab which over a few meals ate at Amanzi in Highlands, set within an exotic garden serving spectacular vegetarian meals, and Borrowdale shopping centre that almost had the semblance of being first world, we eventually sorted in US$.
My bedroom was almost regal, the mozzie net draped from the ceiling, mimicking a four poster bed. When released from its tendrils, it gently floated to the floor creating a magical cocoon. After the rains frogs came out to sing, deep guttural calls and chirps interrupted by the loud plops of rain dripping from trees. Then there was silence. Peaceful silence each night. No traffic, no neighbours, just silence. The only interruption was a dog’s occasional alerting bark. With electronic surveillance around the perimeter, the maid and gardener living out back, I could quickly dismiss any barks and drift back into peaceful slumber.
My encounter with the ‘taxi driver’ had brought out my assertive self. At the local shops the ‘logical’ self came to the fore. After waiting in a long cue at the local ‘Pick’n’pay’, as shoppers held phones and punched away numbers to transfer their Ecocash, allowing a man with just 2 items to go ahead, after stepping away from the guy consuming his beer before purchase, my turn came. I had mentioned to the checkout guy at least 3 times I needed a plastic bag. Once I’d swiped payment for my groceries I looked at him expectantly, awaiting the plastic bag.
“Ah but madam, I didn’t charge you for that”.
“I asked you three times, I need a bag”
“Ah madam that will be 50 cents”
“I have no money”. We were at an impasse.
So I simply said “Well you are going to have to just give it to me” in a mildly demanding way. As I walked out I reflected — I think I used to feel apologetic much of the time I lived in Zimbabwe, apologetic for being a colour that represented oppression, apologetic so that they would know I was not ‘one of them’. This time it felt more of a level playing field. If you give crap service expect a response.
For my first walk in Newlands I set out in my skimpy tangerine macpac shorts and immediately felt conspicuous, reminded of my first jog in Marondera 25 years ago, when the legs were a lot fitter as well. Note to self, wear the longer shorts next time. Newlands was still an affluent suburb, now mixed race, and as neglected as the rest of the city. Roads rotting away, pot holes transformed into ponds after the rain, rubbish recklessly discarded by the populous, electric wires hanging recklessly low almost reaching my head. But then the roads were dressed by nature. The tail end of jacaranda merged with flamboyants in full show, the road swept clean of September’s purple, red confetti now covered the chocolate earth, recast as patchwork under the branches’ shadows. Whitewashed fences were stained by the earth, decades of seasons etched into the paint. The streets still had deep crevice like drains to carry a wet season deluge, tar breaking off at the edges and no formal gutters. Desperation and ingenuity had makeshift stalls set up at various corners. I longed for a mango, avocado or some fresh Tsunga (I just learnt that Tsunga means ‘determined’, also know as mustard greens at home). If I had ecocash I may have been able to send some business their way for an ice lollie, fresh fruit, cold drink. But alas, with neither bonds or ecocash Pick’n’pay and OK supermarkets got most of my money. Ancient signs of past eras were now a peeling alphabet that on an angle became 3D like the earth of the golf course a cracked pancake, grass stubble yellow and brittle. Signage was otherwise novel. Posters wrapped around trees with sticky tape, one atop the other creating an historical collage, or hand painted tin signs nailed to the tree advertising the ‘tree man’, computer services and the like. Zimbabwe was still a place of innovation and recycling, out of necessity. The tap at the local country club was held into place by a creative engineering of steel. Children’s play equipment was straight out of 1960’s playgrounds at home, metal, sturdy, clearly the modern world of risk yet to infiltrate Zimbabwe’s courts. I suppose they had more pressing matters at hand, such as keeping the oligarchy in power. The larger street vendor sites were no longer restricted to wicker furniture, there was an assortment of sculpture, other tourist craft, plants for sale, quick car repairs, you name it.
I ventured into The Avenues, once one of the most prized real estate area of the city. When I moved to Harare I longed to live in one of the townhouses. I did live on the corner of Mazowe Street and Herbert Chitepo for awhile. Walking past the Fife Ave shops, gazing into the supermarkets and cafes, it was clear that there was still some money around. The large metal Christmas Tree standing alongside street Shona sculptures was new. I don’t really recall the city doing much for the festive season in the past. Walking further down Fife Ave, the once stylish appartments and town houses now stood forlorn and bedraggled. An occasional block retained its dignity but most were tired or blatantly neglected. Broken glass windows, washing hanging along balconies, faded paint, some buildings had sunk to the status of slums. The footpaths and wide roads, still shaded by a genrous tree canopy, were ghosts of what Zim had been. I recently heard, correctly or otherwise, that the good road system I’d experienced in the 90s was the legacy of the pre Independence government with nothing much spent on roads since…of course unless the road led to a government ministers home or site of an important rally I imagine. Avanzo, Azzi’s old place, was barely recognisable. Then past Tivoli Gardens. Ah that place, hard times were had there but the saving grace was meeting Azzi just a block away. The flat at Prince Edward Street was also a sad imitation of its former glory but that home, a place of rebirth, ah it brought back fantastic memories. I had spent two of my four Zim years in Marondera, but in reality I had really ‘lived’ in Harare — most weekends were spent there in the first 2 years and then when I moved up, well most friendships either began or were cemented there. It was definitely a day of nostalgia, even passing by the Bronte Hotel where mum and dad had their first night in Zimbabwe.
Without any cash I could not get a kombi into town, with no ecocash and no small US denominations I couldn’t get a cab. So meeting Lilian and the kids for lunch the next day entailed an 1 & 1/2 hr walk through the Avenues, Harare Gardens, past the National Art Gallery and into town. Harare Gardens, while never lush, had always been well manicured and inviting for lunch times. Now it was a patch of yellowed grasses, plants that survived in-spite of the local council, dark dank shrubs, the smell of urine, and piles of rubbish over flowing from uncollected bins. My discussions about the rubbish in Harare was often met with ‘they are not collecting’. And while that may be a key factor, the dispersal of rubbish to the four corners of everywhere could not be attributed to strong winds. People had evidently lost pride in their city. I understand why, the political and economic machinations had treated them with disrespect for 30 years. Now, in the face of having so little and fearing it would never end, respect for their town was replaced with apathy. It was just so sad. I always remember mum’s first impression of Zimbabwe and the Shona people -“They are so clean” (I think she had just expected poverty to be equated with being unclean perhaps). A few days later walking in Highlands and in the CBD I saw ‘Keep Harare Clean — World class city status by 2025” — a new initiative. Then a sign proclaiming littering is an offence — punishable by law; my first thought was ‘well get rid of the rubbish in government first’, maybe then people might care about their streets. Given an unemployment rate of 90% they could galvanise a workforce to clean the streets pretty quickly if they wanted to pay for it! And I was glad that Zim was a land locked country when tallying the amount of plastic in the litter. That was new as well. There was not the perponderance of plastic 21 years ago. Now it was everywhere.
The CBD was unchanged, Africa Unity Square was an oasis, full of couples, families and groups of women enjoying their Sunday on green lawns shaded by Jacaranda and Flamboyants. The flower stalls still stood guard across from Meikles Hotel. The beautiful bunches of fresh flowers, left overs of blooms destined for the Amsterdam market, were no more, now unimaginative floral displays, or wreaths lined the shelves. I wondered if the boom in coffin making and wreaths had been sustained since the introduction of retroviral medication. There was much talk this time, from Gogo to Irene and others, of ‘living with HIV’. It appeared that the introduction of these medications were not just life saving but a pathway to destigmatisation. I glanced over to Eastgate, unchanged from outside, down past the busy First Street Mall, towards Samora Machel. Lilian arranged to meet outside Kwame. What was that, a renamed street? When I asked directions to Sam Nujoma (the old Second Street — this was a week before I flew to Namibia where I would discover who Sam was) the woman didn’t know. My accent or she couldn’t be bothered? As I walked through the crowds I inhaled the scent of Africa, that distinctly pungent smell of body odour, and I smiled as a familiar sensation washed over my body evoking so many memories.
I passed Barbours and tried to see if there was any life inside, it was a relic of a department store even 25 years ago, then I found Kwame, a new shopping centre. Lilian and the three children greeted me and we headed to KFC. There was really no other option but fast food in the CBD. A week later Lilian and I tried to get sadza in town but with no ecocash or bonds we were forced to the Monomatapa hotel for an overpriced and disappointing lunch. As it was six years ago, the service was SLOW and my ‘seasonal roasted vegie wrap’ was thawed and reheated frozen corn carrot and bean mix in a wrap with some mayo. No longer apologetic I complained to the manager, to be told it was ‘the rains’…huh… “I could walk out to a nearby street corner and get fresh vegies right now, great avocado, capsicum, tomatoes, what are you talking about, it’s the rains”. She apologised but little more was on offer. But I pushed back a bit until finally she offered some compensation — Lilian left with a handful of pastries.
The kids had grown, as one might expect, in six years since my last visit. Tatenda, confident man of the house was writing exams and spoke of hopes to go on to study further (though Lilian later said ‘he wants to dance’ with the wry look of a parent thinking ‘Yeh that’s really gonna happen’); Crystobel sat quietly eating and it was only later as we meandered Kwame that she and I chatted briefly about fashion. I was left feeling ‘this is a young girl I want to know better’, she exuded a quiet strength. Takunda didn’t cry on meeting, instead this 8 year old boy with CP and ASD seemed fascinated rather than fearful of me this time. His school fees for a private school were showing results, he had come along way in the mainstream setting that specialist schools in Harare could not offer. A different picture to home. Lilian handed me a letter. It was the last letter her mother had written to me before passing away from mismanaged breast cancer treatment. She never got around to posting it.
“Ah, are you sure you want me to have it Lilian?”
“She wrote it to you”
“But it is a piece of your mother?”
I now have the letter and treasure it, her mother, always ‘Mrs. Gomeza’ to me, our Red Cross Volunteer and unofficial translator, was the most incredible woman. She was profoundly kind, calm woman, tolerant of my Aussie humour, ‘dancing till 4am at a night club’ hangovers at work, and probably a lot of ignorance on my behalf.
After lunch Lilian offered to give me the 50 c for a kombi, but I was happy to walk. Down to the old ‘Indian’ part of town and Cape architecture, up towards the railway station, back along Fourth Street. Through East Gate I saw another relic — an ATM! Well they are still in use of course — that is when the country has any cash. I think Minky said she can legally get $40 per month from the bank. Even if it was per week, that’s nothing. I snuck an illegal photo of Parliament framing the scene to snap a flamboyant tree. The day before when taking a photo of a billboard a passerby approached and warned me I was snapping photos of the prison, and that I could be arrested.
I wandered past the Rainbow Cinema, now a church. The logo stain marks on the wall sat above a door where throngs of people passed in and out of the Sunday service. Religion had blossomed in Zim but not the typical European influenced churches. The Apostolic faiths flooded open parklands in white on weekends. Billboards advertised all night prayer vigils rather than the pungwes of the 90s. Sunday mornings in Harare were now quiet, not for the hordes suffering hangovers, but for the masses praying to their gods through self declared prophets. I walked passed the Catholic church, in a long dress and hat I appeared as if I wore my Sunday, best quite by accident. I sat and listened to the choir, ah hymns sung by African voices, our efforts ‘pale’ in comparison. Upon leaving I was approached “Gogo, don’t forget to register for the BVR (Biometric Voter Registration)”. Half pleased I didn’t stand out as a tourist I was less pleased to be called gogo (grandmother).
My last visit to Zim was in 2008, about a year after it’s self declared ‘darkest days’ — when Mugabe had decimated the economy beyond belief. In 2017 life was still tough, from the absence of cash for the majority, unemployment, poor amenities. Everything seemed hard. Lamp posts in the main streets fallen like trees after a storm, storm water covers broken and marked by a large rock ready for people to trip over, an increasing reliance of bore water dramatically dropping the water table. Florence came for lunch from Kwadzana one day. She had been the office lackey and house keeper at 8 Hyde Road Belvedere, ICD’s head office in country, when I arrived. This was our first ever private catch up I think, woman to woman. As we ate and talked about family the conversation inevitably went to the daily hardships of life in Zim. Electricity now prepaid, and soon water was to be as well.
“Ah Lisa the city water is brown, sometimes black, we can’t even cook or wash with it”.
At 61 years of age she must push a wheel barrow to the local bore hole and fill a large container for their daily needs. As I write I read that boreholes in some high density suburbs were closed due to e coli. 1992 Harare had world class water quality. Walking with Florence to Enterprise Road, both wearing our sun hats and comparing our ageing skin, hugs in farewell as she boarded a kombi. Another special day.
When I eventually got my hands on a total of Z$4–2 $2 bond notes from Minky, giving me a chance to catch a kombi or buy from a street vendor, I found myself unwilling to part with these two precious notes (worth about US$4 officially but in the black market there was a 40% markup). I hoarded them as if gold. I might need them for an unexpected taxi ride or some other event I pondered. So I continued walking, avoided purchasing a luscious avocado, and in the end used one note for a taxi home from the Centurian pub on my last night.
Zim reminded me of Uruguay — not a cheap destination in its region. For locals most bought furniture and supplies ‘down south’ when they could as, even with a 30% transport fee, it was still the cheaper option. When my single effort to get ecocash required a photocopy of my passport, the bank teller refused to do a copy directing me to the petrol station next door instead. “But I have no money” (would they ‘swipe’ for a single photocopy — unlikely so I gave up). It was all too hard. I later discovered that a printer cartridge in South Africa was $26, compared to $126 in Zim. The locals acknowledged that they are part of creating the black economy but with government corruption what it was there was little recourse.
One of the other obvious differences that struck me was how money ‘looked’ in Zim now. The millionaire white farmers of old probably spent money on holidays to Mozambique and Capetown, paid private school fees for their children, didn’t go without, but I imagine much was ploughed back into their farms. Their care of their staff, considered admirable by some, was paternalistic — maybe in part necessary to provide farm clinics and schools, I don’t know. But now, ah the money was displayed in an ostentatious gaudy style (well to my tastes at least). There seemed a preference for Frank Cozzo furniture, heavy, bulky, with plaid weave cloth or hard colourful leather. African home decor tastes were not really my style.
On my last Friday in Zimbabwe I arranged to go to Irene’s child care centre, where she provided an integrated child care option of disabled children. She had secured a good venue in a high density area, employed a special education trained teacher, had access to an experienced rehabilitation technician who provided a program for the children, and due to high unemployment rates, had a number of volunteers who received transport costs and a meal for their work. But it was still draining Irene of her retirement savings. Families struggled to pay, resisted increases in fees or pulled their child out. We talked about marketing options, she had paid a social work student to set up a facebook page or website. He took her for a ride…asking for $1 to go to town and check on how the site was going — he had a phone, everyone has facebook. He created some bizarre email address that bore no relation to her business, there is no web presence. Irene proudly showed me the set up, the kids singing a ‘Thank you’ song in English. I then spent some time in the rehabilitation room giving off the cuff speech pathology advice. Then a young girl, perhaps 7 yrs old, with athetoid CP I noticed was not communicating. I sat her up, put out some pictures and within a few minutes she demonstrated average intelligence. With no alternative communication options (well only 2 or 3 speechies in private practice and none in government to work with a population of 14.5 million) I hoped that at least she would now be placed in the classroom and learn from listening, even if they could not offer her a means of communication. As the end of the day approached I said I wanted to take a photo of her with her ball. She scrambled into position, got the ball, and smiled ready for the shot. Later, I am sure she said ‘thank you’ a couple of times. It was a bittersweet encounter.
My last day was spent exploring the National Art gallery, from the magnificent shona sculpture garden, to a modern photo exhibition depicting the ‘colonial anthropological manner of describing African peoples in a dehumanising way’ then a historical photo display of the rise and fall of white supremacy in Zimbabwe. The exhibitions were minimalistic in sparse bare galleries. From the second level I snuck a look down to the shop where a photoshopped image of his Eminence R.G. Mugabe was mandatorily displayed. From the gallery I joined Jacquie at the Centurian pub, a sports bar that she runs. After a few Savanna Drys and a catch up I had sadza, would this be my last sadza meal for awhile. I supposed they had ‘pap’ in Namibia? Scanning the room I asked Jacquie who all these men were, spending their Saturday afternoon and evening drinking away.
“Heads of the CIO, police, sons of politicians” she went on to reveal Mugabe’s son would come and splash around thousands of dollars a night on partying. He was not the only one. The corruption was so transparent but the people, elections blatantly stolen from them, cashless, unarmed, what could they do. The tension was building to a point of release. There were fears of hyperinflation, talks of coups, wonderings of a civil war if the police and army supported opposing ZANU-PF forces. When my airport taxi driver, Loveness, told me,
“We need people like you” initially I thought she was referring to my professional skills. But she went on,
“We need a white president”
“Oh I’m sure there are locals who could do the job” I replied
SHe went on ‘No we need all the white farmers to return”.
It was tragic that a Zimbabena had so little faith in her own people. But she went on to tell of her father, a manager of a white owned farm, killed by war vets in their appropriation of the farm.
I understood her lack of faith and resentment. She Whatsapped me the following day to ensure I’d arrived safely in Windhoek. My first impressions of the city was ‘Am I in Africa’ — it was multiracial/coloured, safe, clean, ordered, so I replied “Loveness, you must come to Namibia and see what can be done!”
Only three days later the winds of change began to blow a little of the political stench from Zimbabwe. Seven days earlier the Harare International Airport had been renamed ‘the R.G. Mugabe International Airport. At great cost to the country. I remember thinking at the time how long it would last. Loveness said, as we drove up to the curb, “I will be the first person climbing up there and tearing down that sign”. The patience of the Zimbabweans finally won, a peaceful shift in power. Time will tell of the new leadership is just another leopard unable and unwilling to change its spots. But there is for a moment a sense of optimism, hope and finally the end of a tyrannical leader.
The airport renaming was touted by a ZB reporter to be certain to bring more tourism to the country! Despite the grandeur of the actually building, it was still Zimbabwe inside, bare shelves, no air conditioning, dark and poorly illuminated, no internet. A storm brewed in the distance, over Marondera way. As I saw my plane approach and taxi to the gate the finality of leaving hit me. Three weeks later as I contemplated leaving the continent, not just the country, my heart bled a little. There is just something about this place. I have never failed to leave witht he sense that I am leaving a piece of myself behind.
Ah this trip was one soul filling day after another, reconnecting, reestablishing as well as developing friendships — beginning in Tallahasse (yes Miss Zenia… we have shared some fun whatsapp messages haven’t we;), the time with Yunike, Chris and Jackie, meeting Minky. I wonder what other blessings lie ahead.
