In 2011 Harare held the honour of the world’s most unliveable city. In 2018 it was ranked number six in the world out of 140 nation cities based on instability, inadequate infrastructure and a poor healthcare system, faring better only against cities in conflict-ridden and highly fragile states.
Are you sick of me lamenting the woes of Zimbabwe? I am. Five and a half months into my sabbatical I feel I have reached my limit. The lifestyle challenges here started off as a bit of an adventure, a novelty, a bit like camping really — going without power 2 nights a week, having to plan my hair wash around the generator, filling water bottles so I could make coffee with the gas stove, candles for light. The threat of no fuel was quickly resolved by paying more in US$. But with load shedding reaching 18 hours a day, fuel queues historically long, and the government banning the US$ after 10 years of a multi currency system, life is dark. The black market dropped 4 points overnight but slowly crept back up as businesses ignored the directive. The impact for me — I might not have enough physical cash to last the next month, Western Union cannot guarantee access to US$. I had an immigration hiccup at the Kariba border where the jefe exercised his muscle, threatening to deny me another tourist visa. (Really, a cash strapped country with virtually no tourism is going to reject my US$s?) But after some angst and 2 visits to Immigration in Harare I am told I can still stay till my August date. I have learnt not to book flights in advance, and am coming to the view that booking anything long term is a risk in Zimbabwe at the moment.
Then there is the Malvern issue. You may recall in an earlier blog, ‘Driving Miss Daisy’, I was singing his praises. Having heard the challenges of his childhood and recommended by Safe Hands, I trusted him. Well we all know how the Safe Hands connection panned out and so in hind sight I perhaps should not be surprised. When Malvern approached me in early April for an advance for the upcoming term’s car hire I didn’t hesitate. It was only a matter of weeks after all. In May when no car awaited I showed compassion for the financial hardships that had hit Malvern in the ensuing weeks. Naively I threw good money after bad, offering a loan. When a car finally arrived, it was owned by Sambry, a stranger to me. I plainly stated “my contract is with Malvern”. A month later when Sambry called for the next payment I was astounded.
“But Sambry, I told you, all dealings re the car are to go through Malvern, he has all the money for the 13 weeks hire, and more”.
“He told me to speak with you, and that you are only using the car to go to and from work, nothing more”.
It quickly became clear that we’d been played.
Sambry accosted Malvern, who was avoiding all phone calls, messages and whatsapp, early the next morning and brought him to my place.
Squirming and slippery, Malvern stood avoiding all responsibility, persisting with his lies and denials.
“Our contract ends here Malvern, I want my money back, if I don’t get my money back within 2 days I am going to the police”.
“Ah Lisa there is no need for the police”.
“Yes there is Malvern, I want my money”.
He attested that he had no money to give me.
“That’s not my concern Malvern, you have assets”. He owns three vans and has a home.
We squabbled over the amount owed.
“I paid for a driver the first week Lisa, it cost me US$20 a day”. In fact it was US$ 15 and I said at the time “Your expense Malvern, you are not honouring our contract — to provide me with a car”.
He reluctantly handed over a meagre US$100.
“OK, call me tonight with your plan for the remainder, if not I go to the police”.
Early evening Malvern called,
“I don’t have the money Lisa”.
“Sell one of your kombis then”.
“It doesn’t work like that Lisa”.
“Yes it does Malvern”.
“I can make US$25 per day in the Kombi I drive, I can give you that”.
Frustrated, I had to accept the only solution he would agree to.
“OK deliver it every morning to Mabelreign”.
“What you want me to delivery it EVERY day”.
“yes Malvern, at least until I can trust you”.
I went to the police station the next day, flagged by the AOZ staff as my supports. Directed to Highlands police, advised by a friend, Tom, one of the first coloured policeman post Independence, and a lawyer who has lived around the world for 40 years, I began the criminal and civil court process, experiences I have never had to encounter at home. Of course Malvern has not paid a red cent and I am unlikely to see the money, not an insignificant sum. But his name is now in the system and I rationalise that what was a pretty good car hire deal is now less so.
Sambry has given me a reasonable deal, he seems nice but I am losing confidence in my capacity to judge people in this foreign culture. The litany of Lilian extorting three times the actual amount for her son’s school fees, feeling a tad used by Safe Hands, Malvern taking me for a sucker, a staff member at AOZ whom I like blatantly lying about the fact that she pocketed toys I had just put out. Arrrgh. Decades ago, after four years of living in ZImbabwe, I began to read the Shona culture little better but knew ultimately that it was something I would never be ‘fluent’ in. And here I am again.
The strain of daily life here is etched on the faces of Hararians of all colours, the lines digging deeper daily, the smiles less frequent, the laughter more hollow. As they lament the increasing cost of kombi fares, oil, basic food stuffs, I empathise while building a wall against my compassion and guilt. And I return to the dance of frustration with Zimbabweans — when will they do something to rid themselves of this government? The only solution seems a bloody one. There will be losses, but there are losses already with hopeless health care, losses in quality of education (teachers no longer teach their students in the morning, instead tutoring children whose parents can pay in afternoons), loss of trees as people forage for firewood to cook a meal and heat water, loss of faith and trust in government. The only thing growing is faith in God. They feel he is the only one who will deliver them from this evil. Oh, and the pastor to whom they must tithe for their prayers to be heard, his home, car and glamorous church sources of pride to the congregation whose suffering is endless.
Just last week at the AOZ I was hurriedly asked by Helen if I had 30 ecocash, and was directed to send it to a number without explanation. “You’ll get it back at 3 pm”. Standing in front of a group of needy people I didn’t feel I could say no. When was not retuned later that evening I messaged Helen, she apologised, “I’ll follow it up”. It arrived the following afternoon.
Over morning tea at the AOZ we have begun mini case conferences so knowledge of each child is shared with all staff. It is interesting when people feel powerless, the ways in which they exert the little power they have. Probably no different to home. At Emerson ‘the file lady’ (my friends will know who I am talking about) holds on to knowledge with a vice-like grip. One morning Helen recounts how a teenage boy cut up his jacket. I explored with the staff the idea of behaviour being a communication, of natural logical consequences as a way to manage behaviour. It becomes clear that the teenager resents having to stay throughout the term while a friend gets to go home on weekends. Helen’s solution — beat him. I am getting no where so I retort, ‘Ok it’s your culture….but there’s clear evidence around the world of an alternative’ and thankfully, with the excuse of calling my niece back home, I leave the table. Months earlier Helen had asserted, “I don’t what to hear this ‘your culture’ thing Lisa, we are here to learn from you”.
Another morning we discuss Philip, the traumatised 11 year old who through neglect and starvation looks like a 6 year old and in many ways functions like a one year old. Helen asserted her knowledge, and not for the first time discounted my ponderings about a student’s behaviour from a mental health or developmental perspective, categorically denouncing any suggestions as “wrong”. After exit week Philip returned having regressed in a myriad of behaviours. No surprise that after 6 weeks at the AOZ where he felt loved, a sense of belonging, was fed and developed some bowel and bladder control, he was wrenched away to a random children’s home and to people who most likely beat him into submission. He returned soiling, anxious and clearly distressed. Helen, clearly stressed, described returning him to bed the night before after a successful bowel movement, only for Philip to soil again. She interpreted this as intentional behaviour and beat him. The highly traumatised neglected and abused boy was beaten for soiling himself. When I explore possible medical reasons for Philip’s second bowel movement:
“Do you think he had not completed the bowel movement?”
A categorial “No!”
An hour later he had diarrhoea.
In the office I encounter the social work student on placement. She is a mature woman, mid 30’s perhaps. I quietly say, “Blessing, if it were just you and I talking, I would be saying very very different things to Helen’s comments. From a mental health and trauma perspective there could be many reasons for his encopresis and enuresis”. She looks across and quietly says, “I have many concerns about this place”.
“I do too, but I have to limit my scope”.
As the stressors build, as my presence highlights how much knowledge she doesn’t have, how outdated her practices are, I perhaps threaten Helen’s place as the big fish in the small pond. I get it. But when it comes to beating an abused boy I have to literally walk away, and figuratively I will need to set boundaries for myself. We an only lead someone who wants to be lead. But maybe life in Harare is an insurmountable block in the road?
Harare City Council is unable to purchase treatment chemicals for water at the moment. It is typically non potable anyway but now there is no stream down the dilapidated pipes to suburbs for flushing, washing, or watering each home’s the essential veggie patch. When the cost of purchasing water for the AOZ for just 3 days rose from Z$250 to Z$700 over night, and then Z$1200 companies stating that with the electricity crisis they cannot even pump the water for delivery, I suggested to Helen she needs to shut down — with 18 students that sleep over, need to be bathed, toilets needing to be flushed, clothes to be washed and incontinence managed, it is a significant health risk. A few dollars dribbles in from the more affluent parents, only in response to the threat of their children being sent home. When the target amount is not reached there is no option. The children have to go home. Some parents begrudgingly collect their children (the disabled are not cherished here, there is a preference for out of sight, out of mind). Some parents blatantly ignore the messages, oblivious or indifferent to the health risk for their child and refuse to collect them, in full knowledge that the AOZ has no transport to ferry the children home. A longer term solution of digging a well or borehole is proposed and it seems cement, bricks and some dollars are being proffered by parents, hopefully it will be dug soon. With the strain clear on Helen’s face, her immunity plummets and the flu that had her bedridden for weeks takes hold again. At lunch time she approaches me, “I hate to ask this Lisa but could you take the washing to Waterfalls”. I had put fuel in the engine that very morning, know they are stuck, and with the risk of cholera real, I cannot say no. In the typical Shona way, I am unclear of what the request actually is until four staff and mounds of dirty laundry are piled into the car. I realise we are heading to Amai Chipo’s house at the Hopely Estate (a grand name for a poorly serviced new high density area on the Masvingo Road). We turn off to a dirt ‘road’ (it was a little like four wheel driving) as Amai Chipo proudly points out the new clinic. With hospital staff restricted to 2 days of work per week (government cannot afford to pay them more) I wonder if there are any nurses or doctors to staff it? Amai Chipo, Amai Jayden, Abby and Lydia cheerfully set to work scrubbing the clothes and bedding after I take the requested photos of Amai Chipo’s mother and son Chipo. They (jokingly?) ask if I am going to wait or return to take them home. I smile and make my exit. After 1 1/2 hours in Harare traffic I reach my Airbnb where the next straw awaits to break my back.
Itai, the helper, informs me my Airbnb host, Ed, is out of town till Sunday. As per his schedule (created a month after I ask for some clarity re generator hours) I realise I will have access to power for a mere 1 1/2 hrs morning and night. Zesa has increased load shedding and where electricity is provided it is typically from 10.30 pm till 4 am — everyone without generators is altering their life style to wake and do electricity related tasks in the middle of the night. I quietly fume. When Ed is here he allows himself (and his Airbnb guests by default) 2 hrs of generator power morning and 4 hours at night according to his lifestyle needs. As an Airbnb guest I am paying good money so why should do I receive less power? His solution when I asked re wifi access was to charge US$5 per hour, at no time has compensation for the restricted service he is offering. I approach Airbnb stating that the contracted service is not being provided, they have cancelled my future booking from mid September without penalty and I await confirmation of a refund and cancellation for the remaining weeks in the current contracted period. It is clear that things are only going to get worse here in Harare.
On Thursday night, sitting in the dark illuminated by a few candles I purchased, watching downloaded programs, hoping my computer battery will last, unable to use the mobile network as the government has restricted its use this week (fearful of uprisings?) I receive a message from Helen.
“Hi Lisa, I need your help if its not too much to ask, my drugs that I take are running out and my daughter can only send me money after 2 weeks and if you can please loan me $150usd will pay back as soon as she sends it”.
This is the last straw. Zimbabwean friends near and far validate the response I want to send.
“Hi Helen, sorry I won’t be able to help you… many reasons, 1stly I need the cash I have for my remaining weeks (I don’t have a local bank account/ capacity to swipe etc), 2ndly I have made a blanket rule in the past weeks to not loan to anyone (I am not sure if you can appreciate HOW MANY times I am asked, and most with legitimate reasons), 3rdly this places me in an increasingly uncomfortable position — at home I am never in a position of people asking to borrow money — and here in a culture that is not my own I am finding this pressure quite stressful. So again, apologies I cannot assist. Perhaps your son in Dubai or daughter in Canada can arrange to borrow some money till your daughter can afford? Chat later xx Lisa”.
It is not a response I am comfortable with, I am feeling compassion fatigue. The need is overwhelming and I am now officially overwhelmed.
So after quite a week I am escaping to Kariba, for a couple of weeks at least. There is no end in sight for Harare and Zimbabwe’s woes. For now Kariba is an oasis to pause and reflect on ‘what next’. Of course I feel guilty about the fact that I no longer want to ‘suck it up’ like the locals do but then any local who could escape probably would wouldn’t they? I do feel fickle, as though I am letting people down. But maybe I’ll adopt my Airbnb host’s attitude, “It’s out of my hands”. I created relationships with organisations here without due diligence. There are the obvious cultural differences. The threat to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs (while discredited in some circles) for Zimbabweans feels very real. As I packed up my house in January I was conscious of the economic woes and how that may play out. The plan was to not have a plan. The goal was to change one child’s life. I think I have already achieved that in spades. Seeds have been planted in some willing fertile minds. But I am clear, I am no martyr. Nearly six months in I need to pause, take some time out. Let’s see how the rest of the non plan pans out.
