Immigration has given me a 30 day extension. I hope for another in 29 days so I can see out most of this term. And fingers crossed another 87 day stint in term 3. Feeling sure that being in Zim is where I am meant to be, and given the immigration officer did not utter a single word to me (it is the third visa I have obtained so far this year) I was reasonably confident I would get an extension. But there is that subtle vulnerability of being a non resident. Today’s process reminded me of my departure in 1996.
1996. While I had friends in Zimbabwe it was a fluid community — locals and expatriates alike were leaving to seek security and stability. My limited pool of friends threatened to dry up. But I was resolute, I wanted to stay. Until, after a confronting interview with immigration following false claims (‘I had commissioned a hit man to kill my boyfriends’) the craziness and chaos of living in a different culture cast the die. It was time to go home. Requiring a three-month period of notice, the Ministry of Health helped me block the reality that my decision to go home actually entailed leaving Zimbabwe. Where the decision was difficult, the process was heartbreaking. Zimbabwe was intoxicating, for even though I knew I was not a native, the language would never be my own, and it was a culture I did not want to adopt, I still considered making it my home, forever.
In my last weeks canoeing down the Zambezi, I realised I had come full circle. My first experience of Africa years earlier was to see the big five. Returning as a development worker I’d become immersed in its people and culture. So drifting downstream from the “smoke that thunders”, Victoria Falls, I paused, listened and reflected. Wading fifty meters from elephants, floating past crocodiles scurrying from the water’s edge, hoping the hippos would swim to the opposite bank, the natural Zimbabwe seemed as treacherous and enticing as her people had been during my years here. Perhaps it is all about calculated risk. Just as I learnt to stand downwind from elephants, not get between a hippo and the bank and not stray too deep for fear of crocodiles, I had eventually begun to read the terrain of Zimbabwean culture, never the expert but my risks more calculated.
The tasks of leaving were momentous, yet symbolic and cathartic in their own way. Packing necessitated paring my life down to the essentials, bequeathing a sundry of items to others and shedding myself of unnecessary burdens. Standing at the airport amidst people who had shaped my life in Zimbabwe, I sipped the ubiquitous gin and tonic on the first floor veranda of the International terminal, recalling those first steps as a development worker when my naivety was matched with openness to experience and explore all Zimbabwe had to offer. My closest friend’s son, Takura, just two, somehow sensed I was leaving. He hovered, reached for me to lift him and held on tight. My heart was heavy. My eyes, normally bright and wide, were closed slits, communicating my confusion and ambivalence, and anxiety built. The dreaded moment arrived. Walking towards Immigration, a painful rip opening raw wounds from my time in this country drew wracking sobs from my chest. Stamping my passport, the immigration officer commented on my sadness.
“Well just come back then!”
Whilst living in Zimbabwe I had flown home a couple of times, where the pull from family to come back permanently was palpable. Disappointment shrouded Mum and Dad’s gaze as I referred to Harare as home. Torn, I flippantly stated, “I’ve got two homes” yet it as the Qantas flight touched African soil 17 hours later the deep sense of homecoming confronted me, Zimbabwe had truly become home.
In November 1996, a few weeks after returning to Melbourne my trunks arrived. With their contents scattered across the floor, Melbourne’s summer sun streaming across the cream carpet, I slowly unravelled and unfolded, piece by piece, the previous four years of my life. This collection of belongings seemed a pitiful representation of all I had experienced, failing dismally to depict my life in Zimbabwe. I stood back and viewed a carved drum, my forty kilogram Shona sculpture, a Tonga stool, endless pieces of sadza printed cloth, wooden and ceramic candle sticks and books, novels. In the silence of the living room I released a deep sigh of regret, regret that it was all over.
“Well, just come back then!”
It took 24 years, the passing of my parents, the purchase of a home. But here I am. I am back.
I look back on my reflections from1996. The attractions had been the rewarding, important work; the simplicity of daily life free of the entrapment of consumerism; vibrant passionate music and dance; solid friendships.
It is 2019. The work is rewarding and important. Life is absent of consumerism. The arts scene — well I am 56 now, not a 30 something heading to night clubs, yet Alliance Francaise provides some cultural experiences. There are no solid friendships yet, but I am 56 now and a pretty independent soul (and with the saving grace of the internet which did not exist 24 years ago, I connect regularly with the people I love). While life is crazily hard for most locals, it’s just frustratingly inconvenient for me — I have to plan when I wash my hair so I have electricity to style it; I do have to queue for fuel and it is no longer so easy to think about heading off for a weekend — I think I’ll need to purchase some jerry cans. I try not to change too much money at once as hyperinflation looms. The country and its infrastructure are in a state of disrepair. The threats of civil unrest bubble like a pot of sadza cooking.
And yet, this place still gets under your skin. I know this is where I am meant to be, and I am doing what I need to do.
It was that simple in the end. I did ‘just come back’.
