hellos and goodbyes

We stumble down the road in the dark, a lone beer bottle zipped inside a National Trust bag. At the last minute, we've been invited to a leaving party. It's at an old house built in 1948. Parquet floors, pressed steel ceilings. Through an unkempt hedge, there's a glimpse of a swimming pool, all greened over. Years ago, there were three kids splashing about in that pool. The owners -- retired teachers, private sector, the husband was once a schools inspector -- are emigrating to Worcester to be near one of their sons.

"We just can't survive here anymore," the woman says. On the floor two little girls play snap, hairslides in their fringes. She leans closer. "You know, to live here you've got to have a cushion."

Cushion is code for a secret source of foreign currency. No point having one declared to the government as then it has to be surrendered at the official rate of exchange, less than 100 times its street value. You're doomed if you've got only Zimbabwe dollars. A single egg -- they sell them singly here -- costs 1.5 million dollars this week. At the official rate of exchange that's £25.

The table in the dining room is piled high, despite the shortages. There's smoked salmon smuggled from Norway on sliced ciabatta-style bread. There are fritters, fried in scarce cooking oil. Crisps and a prawn cocktail dip, definitely imported. Chicken drumsticks in breadcrumbs. They've been planning this spread for weeks.

"People say: aren't you excited about going?" the hostess says. "Well, I'm not. I've been in this place for 28 years and I've got to start all over again."

My husband's old typing teacher is there, still elegantly-coiffed and delicately-fingered. She lives in the Vumba, the eastern mountainous area that borders Mozambique. There are still minefields on the hill slopes, left from the 1970s bush war. This woman's had no power at her home since December 17. She cooks on a woodstove. She's just been "caring" in Derbyshire -- looking after an elderly Lady (a real one) in return for food, lodging and a few precious pounds to keep her going back in Zimbabwe. "I don't think shorthand's very useful, actually," she says.

Some days it seems like everyone's off. The next-door neighbours are leaving for Zambia, taking the cats but not the boerbull. The twins' mum -- a tall, Laetetia-Casta lookalike -- is off to Australia next month. "I just can't do this anymore," she said to me when I bumped into her outside the supermarket a few weeks ago. We'd both been wandering aimlessly along the empty aisles, looking for something to buy. Her shopping trolley had nothing but gin bottles in. "My husband," she said with a half-giggle. "He's going crazy with no booze." My friend Sibo left in August for her in-law's home in Zambia. She came back briefly for Christmas, wafting in and out of my life in a royal blue halter-neck satin dress. Her in-laws are rural folk, with no power and no gas. Sibo and her husband had to spend all their savings on the mother-in-law's cataract operation. "My son wants to come back. He misses his grandmother," she said. "But at least there we can put food on our table."

Down the road, there are people still arriving, unfolding deck chairs in the shadows. People shaking hands, the pinprick of a cigarette. "I haven't seen you for years. How's your son -- he's in Cyprus now, isn't he?" We pick up our son and slip away. In the sky I can see the belt of Orion, three sharp studs against the black. Diamonds over a diamond-rich country where few can afford to live.