Gibson is 5. "I'm five too," my son says, pricking up his ears. I've brought him along to the clinic where I'm observing a feeding scheme with Plumpynut, a supplement made of peanut butter, milk powder, oil and vitamins. (There's no power at home. No food either, but that's another story).
I look from Gibson to my own child. The difference is painful. Gibson is half the size of my child. He sits quietly on his mother's knee, while mine sits chunkily on the stone floor, drawing spaceships on a torn-out page of reporters' notebook.
"What's that?" he asks a little bit too eagerly, as a nurse counts out 28 silver sachets of Plumpynut. Gibsons's mother -- we've exchanged sympathetic smiles over the kids' heads --packs it carefully away in an empty maize-meal bag. Four a day for seven days. She'll be back next Monday to get more.
Gibson drank poison while he was young. It's a common enough tale in some townships, where people live close together and there's little storage space. Fertiliser or rat poison, those are the usual ones.
"He's got strictures in his oesophagus," the nurse says quietly. "Before, he could only have milk but this Plumpynut, he can digest it too."
Gibson starts to cry as his mother gets up. She hands him a sachet and he tears at the corner greedily.
Later, I send my child outside while I watch in silence a small boy with flesh hanging off his buttocks being weighed. The nurses insist on stripping the children naked to weigh them.
Guiltily, I lug my huge child home.
Monday, June 29, 2009
lean times
We've had another taste of managing on not-a-cent. When you can't get money out of the hole-in-the-wall (or the bank) in Zimbabwe, you have to rely on a complicated network of suppliers and transfers once or twice monthly. This week our regular supplier told us he had had to provide a lot of cash for his lawyers and was flat broke. "Try again next week," he advised cheerfully. In desperation, we contacted a second supplier, only to be told he too couldn't help: he's away until next week. Because of Zimbabwe's horrendous prices (on average two to five times what they are in neighbouring South Africa), few people can afford to have a well-stocked larder to fall back on. So here's how we manage on next-to-nothing:
-- two spoonfuls of peanut butter for breakfast (and nothing else).
-- pancakes five days in a row (thanks Mum and UK supermarket Sainsbury's: she sends us packets)
..stuffed with Soyameat Spaghetti Bolognaise (ditto)
-- baby spinach leaves (not because they're trendy but because they're the only vegetables growing in the garden in winter and I can't wait for the leaves to get any bigger)
-- grapefruits from the orchard next door for fruit/Vitamin C (try getting that down a five-year old's throat..)
-- stale, oversized dog biscuits for the cats (the dog died two weeks ago)
-- Surf washing powder to wash the dishes/floor/toilet/bath (when the shampoo ran out)
-- diced newspaper for the loo (which presents a disposal problem: there's been no rubbish collection for two months despite our 95 US rates bill)
-- ancient body lotion in place of washing soap (that too is finished).
-- black tea/no tea/tea made from the mint leaves that grow round the garden tap
Last time this happened, A, a Shona friend and mother of three grown boys, handed me a tin of tomato paste and some dry spaghetti. "Take it," she said. "We're used to having little. You lot aren't."
-- two spoonfuls of peanut butter for breakfast (and nothing else).
-- pancakes five days in a row (thanks Mum and UK supermarket Sainsbury's: she sends us packets)
..stuffed with Soyameat Spaghetti Bolognaise (ditto)
-- baby spinach leaves (not because they're trendy but because they're the only vegetables growing in the garden in winter and I can't wait for the leaves to get any bigger)
-- grapefruits from the orchard next door for fruit/Vitamin C (try getting that down a five-year old's throat..)
-- stale, oversized dog biscuits for the cats (the dog died two weeks ago)
-- Surf washing powder to wash the dishes/floor/toilet/bath (when the shampoo ran out)
-- diced newspaper for the loo (which presents a disposal problem: there's been no rubbish collection for two months despite our 95 US rates bill)
-- ancient body lotion in place of washing soap (that too is finished).
-- black tea/no tea/tea made from the mint leaves that grow round the garden tap
Last time this happened, A, a Shona friend and mother of three grown boys, handed me a tin of tomato paste and some dry spaghetti. "Take it," she said. "We're used to having little. You lot aren't."
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
teapot
In Shona culture, you don't arrive with a gift in your hand. You leave with one.
This is all very well in times of plenty: when you have laden fruit trees for example. It's harder in winter -- when all I have is lemons and unripe avocados -- and when there's been no parcel delivery that week.
The 'phone rings well past shopping time. "Mum, it's Shamiso," he says. "No,it's not," she says when I pick up.
"It's Tadiwa. I'm in town with my mother. Can we come see you tomorrow morning?" They're in town for a funeral. Tadiwa's 20-something cousin Melody has died, leaving a baby in Damgamvura township. They arrive bang on time, both in black. The traditional colour for mourning is red here (if you see a red ribbon tied to a gatepost, you know someone's just died and the relatives are gathering). but most urban dwellers have adopted black for mourning. We sit in the dark. There is no power. I offer four slices of dry sponge cake, left over from yesterday. "No-one expected it. He was fine at the weekend. Then he got sick on Monday and died on Tuesday." There's a muddled murmur of pneumonia. No-one voices the unmentionable. Tadiwa is close to tears but she steers the conversation valiantly to her teaching job at a township highschool. "I earn more than she does," she says, gesturing to her mother, a typist in the police force.
As they get up to go -- they must leave town tomorrow and the bus-ride to Rusape is tricky -- I reach for my cobbled-together present pack: a novel (Tadiwa teaches English) and a teapot that's still miraculously bubble-wrapped, two years after I bought it. For her room at the University of Zimbabwe residences, when lectures finally resume.
This is all very well in times of plenty: when you have laden fruit trees for example. It's harder in winter -- when all I have is lemons and unripe avocados -- and when there's been no parcel delivery that week.
The 'phone rings well past shopping time. "Mum, it's Shamiso," he says. "No,it's not," she says when I pick up.
"It's Tadiwa. I'm in town with my mother. Can we come see you tomorrow morning?" They're in town for a funeral. Tadiwa's 20-something cousin Melody has died, leaving a baby in Damgamvura township. They arrive bang on time, both in black. The traditional colour for mourning is red here (if you see a red ribbon tied to a gatepost, you know someone's just died and the relatives are gathering). but most urban dwellers have adopted black for mourning. We sit in the dark. There is no power. I offer four slices of dry sponge cake, left over from yesterday. "No-one expected it. He was fine at the weekend. Then he got sick on Monday and died on Tuesday." There's a muddled murmur of pneumonia. No-one voices the unmentionable. Tadiwa is close to tears but she steers the conversation valiantly to her teaching job at a township highschool. "I earn more than she does," she says, gesturing to her mother, a typist in the police force.
As they get up to go -- they must leave town tomorrow and the bus-ride to Rusape is tricky -- I reach for my cobbled-together present pack: a novel (Tadiwa teaches English) and a teapot that's still miraculously bubble-wrapped, two years after I bought it. For her room at the University of Zimbabwe residences, when lectures finally resume.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
body viewing
"She was so tiny in there," says Mrs D. She's still wearing her faded black T-shirt from the funeral. It's baggy and shapeless from many, many funerals.
"So tiny," she repeats. "Shame, she had a brain cancer. And that M, you know? She was crying and crying. She is very sick, that woman."
Body-viewing is an obligatory part of Shona funerals. Everyone files past the open coffin slowly and then the women discuss the state of the deceased afterwards. I guess it's part of the closure thing but I find it hard. I was relieved at Susan Tsvangirai's funeral when a smartly-dressed Shona woman slipped out of the church side-door when I did. "I don't like the body viewing," she said, silver bracelets jangling as we waited by the jam of government Pajeros and Mercs outside. "And my husband is Morgan's uncle."
In this case, it was the wife of a town physician who'd died of a brain tumour. The funeral was at the Anglican cathedral. I'd seen the Mother's Union members in their blue and white uniforms hurrying there on my way home from the school run that morning. "The church was full," Mrs D says with satisfaction. In fact, the funeral seems to have cheered her up, made her forget her arthritic legs for a while.
"Here," she says. "I've cooked some sweet potatoes. You haven't got power, have you?" And she hands me a warm plastic bag.
"So tiny," she repeats. "Shame, she had a brain cancer. And that M, you know? She was crying and crying. She is very sick, that woman."
Body-viewing is an obligatory part of Shona funerals. Everyone files past the open coffin slowly and then the women discuss the state of the deceased afterwards. I guess it's part of the closure thing but I find it hard. I was relieved at Susan Tsvangirai's funeral when a smartly-dressed Shona woman slipped out of the church side-door when I did. "I don't like the body viewing," she said, silver bracelets jangling as we waited by the jam of government Pajeros and Mercs outside. "And my husband is Morgan's uncle."
In this case, it was the wife of a town physician who'd died of a brain tumour. The funeral was at the Anglican cathedral. I'd seen the Mother's Union members in their blue and white uniforms hurrying there on my way home from the school run that morning. "The church was full," Mrs D says with satisfaction. In fact, the funeral seems to have cheered her up, made her forget her arthritic legs for a while.
"Here," she says. "I've cooked some sweet potatoes. You haven't got power, have you?" And she hands me a warm plastic bag.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
heard at the vegetable shop
"I hear the magoda (diamond dealers) are back," she says, leaning on the counter.
"Yes. But so are the soldiers," says the cashier. "If they catch you, they will hit you. Like a snake you find in your house."
"Yes. But so are the soldiers," says the cashier. "If they catch you, they will hit you. Like a snake you find in your house."
Monday, June 15, 2009
poundnote farm
The policemen flag us down not far from Penhalonga. There are three of them
"Tell them to go in the back," I hiss. Because while I'm not averse to giving lifts -- and policemen can be a very good source of quotes -- this is a quiet Sunday afternoon, the men are very obviously armed and my child is in the back seat.
He ushers them into the back of the truck. Two women jump in too. Both elderly, doeks on, struggling with suitcases. They want to go to Muchena communal lands. Fine.
On our right is what was Pound Note farm. It was where the tallest tree in Rhodesia stood, a eucalyptus. The tree was depicted on a pound note, hence the name of the farm. I think about farms as we drive along and about the gently-spoken woman with the quavery voice I spoke to this week. She and her husband have already given away 92 percent of their farm. The last 8 percent is threatened by a US citizen somehow linked to the prime minister. The "niece's" sister came to the farm in April, a handbag over one arm, a badza (hoe) in the other. She started digging daintily through the already-planted tomatoes. "Did your husband really call that woman a cold, stupid kaffir?" I have to ask the farmer's wife. Later she sends me a text message. "Thank you. These days justice seems so elusive."
There's a voice from the back seat. Someone's reading my thoughts. "Mum, how do you get a farm?" "Why?""I want one."
"You have to work very hard and then you can buy one," I say. "But best not to buy one in Zimbabwe."
"Why?" Careful now. "Because you can't always keep it."
My five-year old never saw his grandfather's farm. We were married on it, but the farm was taken over eight months later. My father-in-law went back there once. There was human excrement in some of the rooms. Someone had scooped out my sister-in-law's face cream from the bathroom cabinet, which made her very indignant.
"Why can't you keep it?" "Because sometimes the government wants it," I say. "But how has Z's papa still got his farm?" Some questions don't have answers.
We're in Muchena communal lands. The women want to get out. The policemen don't. We turn off the main road. There's not another car in sight, nor a pedestrian. I start to get edgy. There are too many stories of fake - or corrupted -- policemen in the Herald and on our daily email. Two policemen are currently on trial for bank robbery. In court last week, they complained they were being victimised for being in possession of 120,000 US. They were merely "enterprising," the cops maintained. Their monthly salary is 100 US. It wasn't clear from the Herald report if the magistrate had actually got round to asking them how they got the 120,000 if they didn't get it from Kingdom Bank. (He may not have done. Last month the Herald carried an obit for a 35-year-old Harare magistrate who was still studying for his law degree at the University of Zimbabwe)
"Just turn the car round," I say. "Let's get back onto the main road."
There's a tap on the back window. They want us to stop. "I'll get into the driving seat, shall I?" I say, boots at the ready. In the event, the police get out, grasping their guns. They back away. I slide, relieved, over to the passenger seat. Later, on our way back from the dam we see them, lolling in the long grass near the Rhodesian ginger.
"Mum, does the government take houses as well?"
"Tell them to go in the back," I hiss. Because while I'm not averse to giving lifts -- and policemen can be a very good source of quotes -- this is a quiet Sunday afternoon, the men are very obviously armed and my child is in the back seat.
He ushers them into the back of the truck. Two women jump in too. Both elderly, doeks on, struggling with suitcases. They want to go to Muchena communal lands. Fine.
On our right is what was Pound Note farm. It was where the tallest tree in Rhodesia stood, a eucalyptus. The tree was depicted on a pound note, hence the name of the farm. I think about farms as we drive along and about the gently-spoken woman with the quavery voice I spoke to this week. She and her husband have already given away 92 percent of their farm. The last 8 percent is threatened by a US citizen somehow linked to the prime minister. The "niece's" sister came to the farm in April, a handbag over one arm, a badza (hoe) in the other. She started digging daintily through the already-planted tomatoes. "Did your husband really call that woman a cold, stupid kaffir?" I have to ask the farmer's wife. Later she sends me a text message. "Thank you. These days justice seems so elusive."
There's a voice from the back seat. Someone's reading my thoughts. "Mum, how do you get a farm?" "Why?""I want one."
"You have to work very hard and then you can buy one," I say. "But best not to buy one in Zimbabwe."
"Why?" Careful now. "Because you can't always keep it."
My five-year old never saw his grandfather's farm. We were married on it, but the farm was taken over eight months later. My father-in-law went back there once. There was human excrement in some of the rooms. Someone had scooped out my sister-in-law's face cream from the bathroom cabinet, which made her very indignant.
"Why can't you keep it?" "Because sometimes the government wants it," I say. "But how has Z's papa still got his farm?" Some questions don't have answers.
We're in Muchena communal lands. The women want to get out. The policemen don't. We turn off the main road. There's not another car in sight, nor a pedestrian. I start to get edgy. There are too many stories of fake - or corrupted -- policemen in the Herald and on our daily email. Two policemen are currently on trial for bank robbery. In court last week, they complained they were being victimised for being in possession of 120,000 US. They were merely "enterprising," the cops maintained. Their monthly salary is 100 US. It wasn't clear from the Herald report if the magistrate had actually got round to asking them how they got the 120,000 if they didn't get it from Kingdom Bank. (He may not have done. Last month the Herald carried an obit for a 35-year-old Harare magistrate who was still studying for his law degree at the University of Zimbabwe)
"Just turn the car round," I say. "Let's get back onto the main road."
There's a tap on the back window. They want us to stop. "I'll get into the driving seat, shall I?" I say, boots at the ready. In the event, the police get out, grasping their guns. They back away. I slide, relieved, over to the passenger seat. Later, on our way back from the dam we see them, lolling in the long grass near the Rhodesian ginger.
"Mum, does the government take houses as well?"
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
the rats ate it
C. thought she was being clever.
Zimbabwe's sudden switch to US dollars early this year led to a sudden surge in armed robberies. Supermarkets are being raided, there are now regular bank heists and security companies are finding they've got a new niche. Businesswoman Jane Mutasa lost 20,000 to carjackers. The reason? When the inflation-weakened Zimbabwe dollar was in circulation, it simply wasn't worth any would-be robber going to the trouble of staging a hold-up. It was far more lucrative to "money-burn" - conduct parallel market deals online -- in a downtown Internet cafe.
All that's changed now. So when C. heard an armed gang was operating in her area, she put her savings up in the roof. Intruders always check the safe and under the mattress. "Every time I got a bit of change, I added to it," she said. "20 rand here, 50 rand there." She'd managed to amass 7,000 rand (around 700 US). She lifted her stash down this week, or what was left of it. The rats had got there first.
Zimbabwe's sudden switch to US dollars early this year led to a sudden surge in armed robberies. Supermarkets are being raided, there are now regular bank heists and security companies are finding they've got a new niche. Businesswoman Jane Mutasa lost 20,000 to carjackers. The reason? When the inflation-weakened Zimbabwe dollar was in circulation, it simply wasn't worth any would-be robber going to the trouble of staging a hold-up. It was far more lucrative to "money-burn" - conduct parallel market deals online -- in a downtown Internet cafe.
All that's changed now. So when C. heard an armed gang was operating in her area, she put her savings up in the roof. Intruders always check the safe and under the mattress. "Every time I got a bit of change, I added to it," she said. "20 rand here, 50 rand there." She'd managed to amass 7,000 rand (around 700 US). She lifted her stash down this week, or what was left of it. The rats had got there first.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
embassy
Sky TV blares from a large screen in the waiting area of the new British Embassy in Harare's Mount Pleasant Area. It's prime minister's question time in the British parliament. Gordon Brown sports a permanently-tilted head (downwards, as if he's about to butt), as he insists his chancellor "has done a great job." I watch idly, clutching my son's red passport. There is no shade in the new car park. The girl behind the glass screen has a brown fleece and a bad cold.
"That'll be 128 dollars." I have no change. Neither does the Embassy girl. I'll have to go back through the security checks and drive off to Arundel Park Spar to try to make some. "And make sure the shop doesn't give you rand," she says. "We don't accept that."
The man at the door commiserates. "At least there are no queues here," I say. Stiff upper lip and all that.
"But there were," the man says. "Last week. All the old people. They are flying them out, you know. The first lot went on Saturday."
"The next ones will go soon." The embassy's Repatriation Programme can cater for up to 5,000 penniless nationals (though only 500 have signed up so far). The move has provoked outrage from Zimbabwe's pro-ZANU-PF Herald. The paper insists Zimbabwe's economic mess was caused by British sanctions. White pensioners were "cushioned" from the ravages of inflation by charities, it insists.
The doorman looks envious. Things are expensive here. He knows people who've gone to "UK" and earnt enough to buy a house. He has an afterthought. "I run a peanut-butter making project," he says. "You don't know anyone..?"
"That'll be 128 dollars." I have no change. Neither does the Embassy girl. I'll have to go back through the security checks and drive off to Arundel Park Spar to try to make some. "And make sure the shop doesn't give you rand," she says. "We don't accept that."
The man at the door commiserates. "At least there are no queues here," I say. Stiff upper lip and all that.
"But there were," the man says. "Last week. All the old people. They are flying them out, you know. The first lot went on Saturday."
"The next ones will go soon." The embassy's Repatriation Programme can cater for up to 5,000 penniless nationals (though only 500 have signed up so far). The move has provoked outrage from Zimbabwe's pro-ZANU-PF Herald. The paper insists Zimbabwe's economic mess was caused by British sanctions. White pensioners were "cushioned" from the ravages of inflation by charities, it insists.
The doorman looks envious. Things are expensive here. He knows people who've gone to "UK" and earnt enough to buy a house. He has an afterthought. "I run a peanut-butter making project," he says. "You don't know anyone..?"
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