Sitting in Forgette’s garden I was reminded of dad. Watching a bumble bee touch every flower, hearing the mirthful and exuberant giggles of the children next door, observing the clouds build in the western sky, I vividly saw dad sitting on his couch in the mid afternoon, in silence. I used to wonder if, as he sat, he was blissfully reliving the past, dozing off more often than he’d admit to, swirling in sadness as he strolled without mum through a lifetime of memories, or was he in fact exercising his own form of mindfulness with that seemingly endless reservoir of patience he had. I soon found myself swirling in my own memories, reflecting on my relationship with Zimbabwe. I ws to arrive there the next day.
I’d went to live in Zim as a naive 29 year old development worker and a swift four years later, homeward bound, found it a profound wrench to leave the country that had become home. There was just ‘something’ about the place. On a return visit in 1998 the feeling was unchanged. But life got in the way and it was another 15 years, in 2009, before my feet would touch the evocative soil again, when, as the plane flew over a dry landscape that from above it looked like elephant hide with some scavenger bush on its back, Matebeland South tugged at my heart. I walked through customs into the embrace of Mrs. Masiyandima, Sarah’s mother with whom I had developed a strong bond all those years earlier. And it was immediate, the sense of being ‘home’. During a visit to Melbourne in 1994 I’d said to dad “when I get home…?” and I remember his look of disdain — how could I call anywhere but Melbourne home? But our hearts are big and we can accomodate a great deal of love. I was able to embrace Australia and Zimbabwe equally as my homes.
The next morning at O.R. Tambo airport Dad was with me again as I was handed a boiling hot cappuccino, too hot to hold. He loved his coffee HOT. After the briskest of checkins (a porter had taken me under his wing, I literally did not have to think) — within 5 minutes I was walking through immigration — worth the few dollars tip. The 10.35 flight to Bulawayo was delayed. Not that the airline told us. It became clear when the Harare 10.45 departure boarded the buses (bizarrely the gates are a kilometre at least from the plane) and we hovered expectantly. To fill in the time I looked at the destinations on the departure screen and reminisced. Mahé, Dar Es Salaam, Nairobi, Lusaka, Port Louis (where I had been for lunch one day), and Antananarivo. Amazing adventures that seemed a lifetime ago.
Eventually we boarded the SA Airline flight where a decent snack and comfortable seats awaited. As I sat across from a middle class African woman breast feeding her infant I recalled the normalcy of this simple act — breasts popped out anywhere and everywhere as the child needed — so different to our puritanical approach. I looked out over the clouds masking the view below and sadness, just a subtle feeling but noticeable, descended as the plane approached Bulawayo. I pondered its origin. Was this one of those ‘firsts’? The first time back in Africa without mum and dad at home? Memories of their once in a lifetime trip to Africa? I did not really know. Then a ‘God Bless’ farewell from the flight attendant brought a smile — dad was there again — ‘God Bless’ was his signature farewell in person and letters over the years.
Bulawayo International Airport had developed a little since 2009, we were no longer processed in a tin shed. I had been for warned that cash was a precious commodity in Zim — not only in relation to wealth or poverty but in the literal absence of notes or coins. The currencies of ZAR and USD were used for years but at some point the ZAR was excluded. As Zimbabwe’s oligarchy physically spirited dollars out of the country to off shore accounts, a new Zim bond note (matched 1:1 to the USD) had been introduced. It must have been a limited print run. There is no cash. Chris, Sarah’s brother, had warned me to bring some USD for emergencies but rely on ‘swiping’. So I stood in the ‘swiping’ queue at immigration. Zimbabwe was providing another lesson in patience and I wondered if I would relearn the patience developed decades ago? An old Rhode (Rhodesian) woman in a wheel chair seemed to have issues with her passport. A more senior immigration official was called over. With a new foreign (not sure which nationality, it was red…EU?) she explained her advises was to enter as a tourist to avoid the US$500 charge coming as a resident. “Where is your old passport Medem” the offical asked repeatedly to which she replied each time. “At home here in Bulawayo”. I’m not entirely sure what her issue was, we all had to pay anything from US$50- 100 dependant upon nationality. She was a little belligerent and the immigration officer arrogant in his power. I was starting to side with her as all rationality evaded his argument “Ah, but Medem your heart is no longer with us” said like a broken record, their gentle bickering getting no where. My turn came but alas, the swipe machine was with the lady and officers as they stood at their impasse. The immigration agent in the booth, a young woman, seemed reluctant to interrupt. I almost went over to ask for the machine myself but I did not yet have my visa. Patience Lisa. I was the last person to be processed, at least my luggage awaited. Customs was now an Xray machine rather than the intimidating third degree by an official so I quickly lifting eh cases onto the machine and strode past the distracted officials only to be stopped by a casually dressed man, nonchalantly drooped over a bench, who asked to see my passport. Huh, hadn’t I JUST been processed through immigration and customs? Perhaps he was a bored CID officer — the criminal investigation department, best to be cheerful and cooperative. “You are visiting family here?” “Friends” I politely answered and he waved me on with a pleasant smile.
Chris, Yunike and Jackie waited — by this stage I was an hour late. I’d first met Chris and Yunike at their wedding 25 years ago, I think, if it was not our first meeting it was probably only the second. It was a small gathering and I remember driving with Sarah through cotton fields to the small rural town they lived in. This was really the first time I would spend with them without Sarah. When I told my niece Alison that we were heading to Victoria Falls for Yunike’s birthday, she asked if I knew them well. “Well enough” I answered but I did not anticipate quite how much fun we would all have together…it was a wonderful adventure where special memories were made. An hour or so after walking through customs, after some KFC (something I would never eat at home…but it tasted good here…maybe Zim chickens are happier than at home?), we set off on the A8 for the 440 km trek. Initial impression of Zim roads from the airport was good. Chris explained that as Mugabe would be attending a rally on November 4th the route from the airport to the rally was being hastily resurfaced. Once out of town, what had been historically a good road system was clearly in a state of disrepair, pot holes perhaps the new speed bumps to slow traffic? That and the baboons, donkeys, goats and cattle that meandered the road. I wasn’t sure if the cattle were arrogant or just stupid. With vehicles hurtling at them at breakneck speeds they ambled across the road or stood face on. The A8 cut through sparse head high mopane and acacia scrub, the landscape flat, only interrupted with an occasional hill. Chris zoomed along, Oliver Mutikudzi’s Tuku songs, Andy Brown and The Storm’s Afro pop, some African Gospel, Sungura and others local music blaring to keep him alert while Jackie, in the back seat with me, a typical teenager, plugged into her own music. I noticed at one point the speedo recording 130kmp as Chris texted on his phone. Yikes. Then later 140 kms. But I trusted that a higher power did not yet want my demise so gazed calmly out to the landscape.
As we approached Lupane the roads improved. Chris commented on the volume of traffic (this is Matebeland so we are talking tens of cars spread over the kilometres). An event had just finished at the regional Lupane University. Half way to Vic Falls we stopped for a break and I discovered a new addition to Zim drinking…. cider. Savanna Dry. I am converted, particularly in the absence of a SA wine (I’ve been out of Zim too long to assault my taste buds with a local drop). We drove past kraals and homesteads, square thatched mud brick buildings alongside rondovals on dry plots swept bare. Smoke billowed from the thatched eves as the evening meal was prepared. I am later told that many people are ‘zero zero one’ meaning no breakfast, no lunch, only dinner. Desperation was draped along the roadside with clusters of vendors every hundred metres, holding out a hand to flag us down, selling plastic bags of oranges, onions, tomatoes, rape or tsunga (mustard greens — so very very tasty). I wondered how they survived in a country of virtually no cash? Chris had told me of his morning — up at five, lining up in the bank queue for cash at the 8 am opening. At 7.30 a staff member emerged to inform the long line there was no cash. I did wonder why they wouldn’t put a sign up the night before…they must have known?
Hwange, the most notable game park in Zimbabwe approached and I was flooded with memories of my visit there with mum and dad. We stopped in Hwange town, Jackie ‘needed’ a portable phone charger and we ‘needed’ refills. The OK Supermarket was buzzing, modern and well stocked. There are mines dotted all over the area now — gold and diamonds, their glittering wealth never reaching the populous. Shoppers ‘swipe’ with cards or use Ecocash. Who’d have thought that Zimbabwe would lead the way as a cashless society. A young Zim entrepreneur, despite initial government opposition, utilised the Econet internet service to create an electronic wallet system that bypasses banks, each person’s cellphone their bank and wallet. Within 14 months of operation, Ecocash had two million subscribers and a total of $700 million had changed hands. Each person has a special code and people transfer to each other for a small fee. At the OK checkout a mother stood with her phone punching in numbers then the assistant took the phone to punch in some more, paid. Even street vendors (often university graduates who cannot get jobs in a country of 90% unemployment) take ecocash, or amusingly have a swipe machine for credit or debit cards!
As the sun set behind the bush, a globule of red like a raindrop descending to the horizon, we drove the last 100 kms or so on the dark. Arriving late to the Shearwater (adventure company that took me down the Vic Falls rapids 30 years ago) Edgewater Lodge, after a meal of bream (tasty despite being more than 1200 kms from the coast) and a local wine (tolerable) Jackie and I took directions to be up for 8 am, Chris and Yunike were setting off to find a night club.
Following orders Jackie and I were at the breakfast bar by 8 am. But I’d forgotten Africa time. Jackie and I waited and waited but it was Yunike’s birthday after all, we gave her some leeway. We eventually ate breakfast — giving our room number the waiter looked at me, scrolled down his list, paused, then commented “Masiyandima?” Clearly I did not look the part, “I’m staying with the Masiyandima’s” I offered.
The entrance to the falls was a simple national park ticket box in 1987. By 2017 tourism and money had transformed it into a curio station, Photo Booth and cafe, among other things. The muggings and robberies at their peak in the late 2000s had been met with a severe police crackdown allowing tourists to now roam the majestic falls in safety. I was told that there were probably plain clothes police floating amongst us, along with the uniformed officers. Victoria Falls, what the small local Tokaleya Tonga tribe call Mosi-oa-Tunya, the smoke that thunders, is one of the seven natural wonders of the world. Wikipedia reminded me of facts heard long ago, since lost with all the new information gathered along the years — it is neither the highest nor the widest waterfall in the world, (Angel Falls is the tallest permanent falls) but is classified as the largest, with the world’s largest (& fastest 1 million litres per second?) sheet of falling water. Twice the height Niagara Falls, it is only rivalled by Iguazu Falls on the Argentinian and Brazilian border. David Livingstone was the first european to ‘discover’ Victoria Falls. A Scottish missionary and explorer, he still stands in stone near First Gorge where the water pummels the basalt and sandstone, reshaping the walls and etching deeper and deeper into the pool below. I’ve visited the falls in both wet and dry seasons. This visit, near the very end of the dry season, deprived us of the spray, visible up to 48 km away in the wet season, that can rises 800 metres. We were also a week early for the full moon, missing the “moonbow” of spray. Instead we experienced the falls at their most exposed, viewing the foot of the falls, most of the face, and managing only a minor drenching as we walked zig zagging the various gorges. My photos scarcely capture the mist falling like inverted rain, the majesty of the water powering over the Zambian cliff tops or the stunning craftsmanship of mother nature on the barefaced walls. Gazing across to Devil’s Pool, the mist cleared at intervals to reveal a cluster of tourists bathing un harnessed at the very edge of the Zambezi, a shallow pool at the precipice. It seemed crazy to risk it all for the thrill of evading death. A Zambian guide was the most recent casualty when he reached over to save a tourist about to plummet 100s of feet below. But even more ‘awesome’, in its literal sense, was a local fisherman, navigating boulder-like stepping stones on the cliff tops midstream, casting his net to capture fish swimming over the edge. Somehow withstanding the force of the water, standing surefooted on river stones, from across the gorge it looked purely suicidal. Desperation or delicacy — those fish would taste good either way I’m sure. At the last viewing post baboons with their blue buttocks ambled along the iconic Victorian Falls Bridge as a bungee jumper’s peel of exhilaration wafted over to us. Zambia and Zim have recently established a shared immigration post fast tracking processing of these adventure junkees.
The Lookout Cafe was an incredible setting for Yunike’s birthday lunch. Perched 120m above the Zambezi River, overhanging a giant chasm of the Batoka Gorge, the Victoria Falls Bridge was a unique backdrop. Adventure tourists entertained us with their squeals and screams as they tried the gorge swing and flying fox. I was content sipping Savanna Dry ciders, South African wine and eating crocodile kebabs. Back to the room for a quick change (thank climate change) — the typically boiling October heat had been replaced with an icy blast from South Africa for the weekend. I had almost dismissed Yunike’s advice to throw in my jeans — Bulawayo, typically mid 30’s was 13 degrees, Vic Falls it was at least in the high teens. I had packed only a light jumper, the bulk of my luggage left in Bulawayo. This was ridiculous, to be cold in Vic Falls, least of all in October! Following Chris, Yunike and Jackie, as we were about to board the sunset cruise I was stopped by the attendant. He looked confused “You are together?” Earlier in the day when I was telling Jackie about the waiter’s astonishment that I was with the Masiyandima’s, the waiter overheard and tried to reframe. Supposedly they receive a number of Swiss tourists whose surnames sound decidedly Shona? Cheekily he referred to me as Miss Masiyandima for the rest of the weekend.
The sunset cruise was renamed ‘The Sunless Cruise’ by Sarah Junior in Capetown. Yunike is to post pictures of their next cruise where, more typically, sweat and make up will be dripping off her. This time the challenge was to keep warm, keep our heads after unlimited free drinks, and for Yunike and Jackie to keep their hair. African Hair styling has always been fascinating to me. Dreadlocks are not common for women in Zimbabwe, instead ‘natural’ short cropped african frizz or artfully woven braids that can take hours to weave — Forgette had 2 women working fast for 5 hours for her most recent style. Many opt for wigs that can be restyled by a hairdresser. Both Yunike and Jackie wore their wigs with aplomb. A few hippos, a view of the Zambezi, G&TS and finally a whisky — it was cold (windswept cold). Dinner and more drinks to the tunes to the Zimbabwean ‘Bob Dylan’. Alistair Burton aka The Black Mamba was a white Zimbabwean whose philosophy seemed more informed by dagga (dope) and drinks than astute reflection. But his tune ’39 road blocks’ compete with Shona accent was hilarious, accurately detailing the mindless road blocks and police extortion Chris told me. I felt quite safe in the rear passenger seat as we drove from Byo, Chris taking charge. So very different from the growing anxiety when Hank the Tank, expat friends and I had to pass by a policeman in the 1990s.
The drive home began via a tour of some of the local hotels — the Zambezi Lodge right on the river, complete with elephant poop in the garden and the Victoria Falls Safari lodge where we were in time for the vulture feeding. We made the 440km drive in 4 1/2 hours with loo break and pauses for cattle. I’d only been in the country for 2 days but could feel it creep in, like a drip feed or a slow burn. The sense of home, the love for this country. Zimbabwe — House of Stone.
