There are muddied (or are they bloodied?) toothpaste tubes, suspended on pieces of cotton against a swirling river scene.
"What do you think of this picture?" a gallery-goer asks.
"Erm....well, the colours are strong," I say. Actually, the picture -- titled Flesh and Souls -- is disturbing in a Dantean kind of way (which it's probably meant to be). The toothpaste tubes are suicides, I think. Is this supposed to be a reflection of Zimbabwe's plight?
I'm at the opening of an exhibition at the National Gallery (and no, it's not one of two exhibitions shut down by police in Harare and Bulawayo last week). Over samoosas, I meet the provincial director of Zimbabwe's National Arts Council.
"You see, the reason why I'm so pleased with this exhibition is that we went out to the people to get these exhibits," he says.
"It's not like HIFA," the annual Harare International Festival of the Arts. HIFA is a glitzy well-run show with international artistes, musicians, actors and -- so disgruntled locals say -- not many Zimbabweans.
"Our artists actually have to apply to be in HIFA," says the NAC man. "But WE go out to find the artists. Some of them are from really remote places."
It sounds like a reasonable argument, albeit one I've heard before from government people. The thing is though, the gallery's directors have just admitted privately that they couldn't find any new paintings for this exhibition. No-one in the rural areas "has money for paint," I've been told.
So the director -- young, dynamic Elizabeth -- had to 'phone Harare and get paintings hurriedly couriered up to Mutare. So much for fostering local talent.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Shona lessons
"What you have to know is: Shona isn't about Robert Mugabe," the teacher says. "It's about Zimbabwe, where we all live."
We're sitting in a parents' meeting by candlelight (thanks to yet another power cut). My son's Shona teacher is angry: white parents aren't pushing their kids to do their Shona homework.
Zimbabwe's indigenous languages are a compulsory part of the school curriculum here. All well and good, you'd think: I'm keen for my child to improve his grasp of a second language as soon as possible. The problem is that Zimbabwe's chequered history of white-black relations weighs heavily. Not every white parent wants their child to learn Shona, it turns out.
"I tell them: speak with your maid, play with Shona kids. You need to practise," says the teacher. "But I get all sorts of answers: 'I'm not allowed' or 'the maid's not allowed to speak Shona to me' or "I'm not allowed to play with the children on my street. Black kids are well-behaved, you know. Most of them, at least."
"I love my language," she says passionately. "I want your kids to like it too." I look at her in the dim light: bright, young, articulate, well-educated (probably better so than many of the parents present). Zimbabwe didn't go through apartheid but some of the provisions of the former minority regime came pretty close to it: we have black friends who weren't allowed to live in the "good" suburbs 'til 1980. I know of three Shona families who bought classy homes in one low-density area in Mutare immediately after independence was declared on April 18th. They'd saved the cash, been itching to move for years.
Memories of the-whites-who-wouldn't-mix die hard. It must seem sometimes that many of them still won't.
We're sitting in a parents' meeting by candlelight (thanks to yet another power cut). My son's Shona teacher is angry: white parents aren't pushing their kids to do their Shona homework.
Zimbabwe's indigenous languages are a compulsory part of the school curriculum here. All well and good, you'd think: I'm keen for my child to improve his grasp of a second language as soon as possible. The problem is that Zimbabwe's chequered history of white-black relations weighs heavily. Not every white parent wants their child to learn Shona, it turns out.
"I tell them: speak with your maid, play with Shona kids. You need to practise," says the teacher. "But I get all sorts of answers: 'I'm not allowed' or 'the maid's not allowed to speak Shona to me' or "I'm not allowed to play with the children on my street. Black kids are well-behaved, you know. Most of them, at least."
"I love my language," she says passionately. "I want your kids to like it too." I look at her in the dim light: bright, young, articulate, well-educated (probably better so than many of the parents present). Zimbabwe didn't go through apartheid but some of the provisions of the former minority regime came pretty close to it: we have black friends who weren't allowed to live in the "good" suburbs 'til 1980. I know of three Shona families who bought classy homes in one low-density area in Mutare immediately after independence was declared on April 18th. They'd saved the cash, been itching to move for years.
Memories of the-whites-who-wouldn't-mix die hard. It must seem sometimes that many of them still won't.
zwangendaba
"Can you spell that? -" The doctor's receptionist obliged. " Z-W-A-N-G-E-N-D-A-B-A. There. Do you need me to repeat it?".
After nine years in southern Africa, I pride myself on being able to spell a lot of local names, both in Shona and Ndebele. I read them in the paper every day, for one thing. But Zwangendaba, my newish doctor's first name: that was one name I hadn't come across. I'd seen the initial Z on his gold-embossed plate and presumed it was Biblical (especially as he doubles up as a pastor): Zaccheus, maybe, or Zephaniah.
Turns out I should have heard of Zwangendaba. He was a famous African king who broke away from the rule of the Zulu king Shaka and (starting in the 1820s) led his people on a 20-year long migration from Swaziland to what's now Tanzania. His people were the Jere tribe.
Back on the Africa desk 10 years ago we had a Lusaka correspondent named Jere: Dickson is now Zambia's presidential spokesman.
After nine years in southern Africa, I pride myself on being able to spell a lot of local names, both in Shona and Ndebele. I read them in the paper every day, for one thing. But Zwangendaba, my newish doctor's first name: that was one name I hadn't come across. I'd seen the initial Z on his gold-embossed plate and presumed it was Biblical (especially as he doubles up as a pastor): Zaccheus, maybe, or Zephaniah.
Turns out I should have heard of Zwangendaba. He was a famous African king who broke away from the rule of the Zulu king Shaka and (starting in the 1820s) led his people on a 20-year long migration from Swaziland to what's now Tanzania. His people were the Jere tribe.
Back on the Africa desk 10 years ago we had a Lusaka correspondent named Jere: Dickson is now Zambia's presidential spokesman.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
the colour purple
Purple is the new colour in Zimbabwe. In town today, I lose count of the purple tops I see: sequinned, strapless, spaghetti-ed. All are zhing-zhong and all are new (I know because zhing-zhong loses its bling fairly quickly).
Now that the shops are full again, it seems like everyone's shopping desperately. There are new clothes shops, restaurants (a recent Australia returnee wants to open a kids' party franchise. She's planning on matching the South African motherstore: 3 warehouses and expanding).
How do you square the shopping (most at imported prices) and the oft-repeated complaints about no money? There are a few clues in the paper: an ex-UN chemical weapons inspector who's earning 4,500 US on the side with his two butcheries, teachers in Harare demanding 20 US per child for 'compulsory' extra lessons (a class of 40 would give a tax-free monthly bonus of 800 US, pointed out one letter-writer in the government Sunday Mail paper), even the woman advertising a local church who said her beauty business and her prayers had bought her an 18-roomed mansion in Zimre Park and a Toyota Tundra.
Zimbabweans are famed for their ability to Make a Plan. They did throughout Zimbabwe's decade-long economic crisis: they're still doing it today.
Now that the shops are full again, it seems like everyone's shopping desperately. There are new clothes shops, restaurants (a recent Australia returnee wants to open a kids' party franchise. She's planning on matching the South African motherstore: 3 warehouses and expanding).
How do you square the shopping (most at imported prices) and the oft-repeated complaints about no money? There are a few clues in the paper: an ex-UN chemical weapons inspector who's earning 4,500 US on the side with his two butcheries, teachers in Harare demanding 20 US per child for 'compulsory' extra lessons (a class of 40 would give a tax-free monthly bonus of 800 US, pointed out one letter-writer in the government Sunday Mail paper), even the woman advertising a local church who said her beauty business and her prayers had bought her an 18-roomed mansion in Zimre Park and a Toyota Tundra.
Zimbabweans are famed for their ability to Make a Plan. They did throughout Zimbabwe's decade-long economic crisis: they're still doing it today.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
wait 'til the world cup
A lodge-owner's wife was on her own out at the lodge near Odzi, eastern Zimbabwe. Her husband was out playing bridge. There was a knock on the door late at night.
Two ZANU-PF officials were waiting. "We're having a rally," they said (Night-time rallies are called pungwes here). "We've come for our contribution."
She bristled but then thought better of retorting with sarcasm. She was on her own in the dark. She went to the pantry, pulled out a 2kg bag of sugar.
"That's not enough," the officials said. "Don't you produce coffee?"
"It's filter coffee," she told them. "Not instant. You won't like it." Most Shona rally-goers -- reluctant or otherwise -- are Daybreak drinkers. (Cardboard-packed Daybreak is a mix of instant coffee grounds and chicory)
"Give," they growled.
"You'll have to go down to the bar," she said. "Tendai'll help you."
Tendai sent the men packing. He has a brigadier-friend and is not afraid. But the next day, the lodge got a 'phone call.
"Your Tendai must be careful. Very careful," a voice said. The word on the ground is that ZANU-PF is waiting for the World Cup. They'll do nothing -- or nothing very much -- until the World Cup is over. Violence would only annoy South African President Jacob Zuma, who's anxious to get the Zimbabwe problem smoothed out of sight. But when the World Cup is finished, then -- so the whispers go -- then all hell will break loose.
Two ZANU-PF officials were waiting. "We're having a rally," they said (Night-time rallies are called pungwes here). "We've come for our contribution."
She bristled but then thought better of retorting with sarcasm. She was on her own in the dark. She went to the pantry, pulled out a 2kg bag of sugar.
"That's not enough," the officials said. "Don't you produce coffee?"
"It's filter coffee," she told them. "Not instant. You won't like it." Most Shona rally-goers -- reluctant or otherwise -- are Daybreak drinkers. (Cardboard-packed Daybreak is a mix of instant coffee grounds and chicory)
"Give," they growled.
"You'll have to go down to the bar," she said. "Tendai'll help you."
Tendai sent the men packing. He has a brigadier-friend and is not afraid. But the next day, the lodge got a 'phone call.
"Your Tendai must be careful. Very careful," a voice said. The word on the ground is that ZANU-PF is waiting for the World Cup. They'll do nothing -- or nothing very much -- until the World Cup is over. Violence would only annoy South African President Jacob Zuma, who's anxious to get the Zimbabwe problem smoothed out of sight. But when the World Cup is finished, then -- so the whispers go -- then all hell will break loose.
mother TV
A blank TV face can reveal all sorts of things.
Back in the farm days, my father-in-law had just invested in a sewing machine to stitch together the tobacco bags. It saved a good deal of time and work so he was pleased with his purchase. It'd only been used for a day when it disappeared. The farm manager hit on a plan: he'd go to consult Mai TV (Television's mother) in the Nyanga mountains. Mai TV could recover stolen goods, so the rumour went -- without moving a step from her door. True to her name, Mai TV had a TV in her shack, a turned-off TV with a blank face. The manager explained the problem. Mai TV looked into the dark face of the TV for a while. "You'll get it back tomorrow," she said. She gave the manager strict instructions on which route to take from Nyanga to go home if they wanted to get the machine back: definitely not the way they'd come but via Rusape. The manager did as he was told. Hey presto, the next morning the machine turned up, lying on the sandy path between the workers' compound and the tobacco shed.
"That's nothing," said my father-in-law's friend, now also an ex-farmer. He called in a n'anga (witchdoctor) when some of his property went missing. He had his suspicions among his workers but couldn't pin them on anybody. The n'anga lined all the employees up by the farm security fence and asked for a chicken. A chicken was brought. "You pass the chicken along the line," he ordered. "When the chicken gets to the guilty one, it will die." The chicken was solemnly passed from worker to worker. When it got to the cook, it died in his hands. "He was the one I thought was guilty," the friend said. The n'anga appeared to have proved it.
Back in the farm days, my father-in-law had just invested in a sewing machine to stitch together the tobacco bags. It saved a good deal of time and work so he was pleased with his purchase. It'd only been used for a day when it disappeared. The farm manager hit on a plan: he'd go to consult Mai TV (Television's mother) in the Nyanga mountains. Mai TV could recover stolen goods, so the rumour went -- without moving a step from her door. True to her name, Mai TV had a TV in her shack, a turned-off TV with a blank face. The manager explained the problem. Mai TV looked into the dark face of the TV for a while. "You'll get it back tomorrow," she said. She gave the manager strict instructions on which route to take from Nyanga to go home if they wanted to get the machine back: definitely not the way they'd come but via Rusape. The manager did as he was told. Hey presto, the next morning the machine turned up, lying on the sandy path between the workers' compound and the tobacco shed.
"That's nothing," said my father-in-law's friend, now also an ex-farmer. He called in a n'anga (witchdoctor) when some of his property went missing. He had his suspicions among his workers but couldn't pin them on anybody. The n'anga lined all the employees up by the farm security fence and asked for a chicken. A chicken was brought. "You pass the chicken along the line," he ordered. "When the chicken gets to the guilty one, it will die." The chicken was solemnly passed from worker to worker. When it got to the cook, it died in his hands. "He was the one I thought was guilty," the friend said. The n'anga appeared to have proved it.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
how to find out if someone's been murdered
If you find a drowned body:
- get six eggs and a clean plate
- place them next to the pool where the drowning occurred
- if you can't get to the pool/river, collect water from it in a bottle and put the bottle next to the eggs
- leave the eggs
- if the death is accidental, the eggs will be unbroken when you return
- if the victim was murdered, the eggs will be smashed
with thanks to the Manica Post Feb 12 2010
- get six eggs and a clean plate
- place them next to the pool where the drowning occurred
- if you can't get to the pool/river, collect water from it in a bottle and put the bottle next to the eggs
- leave the eggs
- if the death is accidental, the eggs will be unbroken when you return
- if the victim was murdered, the eggs will be smashed
with thanks to the Manica Post Feb 12 2010
typhoid
Third day without water. The whole town is affected. Thankfully we have a swimming pool. Nicely-chlorinated water is being used for just about everything: flushing the loo, bathing (we heat buckets full of the gas ring when there's no power), hair-washing, clothes-washing, washing cholera off the vegetables.
Our clothes have been washed by hand in the bath for ages now. But this week, even in the plush suburbs, maids will be bending over baths and slapping the soap-suds out. We keep a couple of centimetres of water in the bottom of the basin to wash our hands in. By the end of the day, it's grimy-grey.
The cats are thirsty: one nearly fell into the bucket this morning trying to sip a drop of chlorine. We can't waste precious drinking water on them -- who knows how long the municipality will take to fix the pipe from the Pungwe -- but milk is expensive.
My husband spends an hour or so morning and night fetching buckets of water from the pool to fill the baby bath (which we squeeze into, one by one). "If you were a good Shona wife, you'd be doing this on your own," he warns me darkly.
Oh, and typhoid's broken out in Harare's northern suburb of Mabvuku. Five dead so far and 40 infected. Mabvuku was the epicentre of the cholera epidemic in 2008: typhoid, like cholera, spreads fastest where there's poor sanitation. Not-so-happy times ahead, I fear.
Our clothes have been washed by hand in the bath for ages now. But this week, even in the plush suburbs, maids will be bending over baths and slapping the soap-suds out. We keep a couple of centimetres of water in the bottom of the basin to wash our hands in. By the end of the day, it's grimy-grey.
The cats are thirsty: one nearly fell into the bucket this morning trying to sip a drop of chlorine. We can't waste precious drinking water on them -- who knows how long the municipality will take to fix the pipe from the Pungwe -- but milk is expensive.
My husband spends an hour or so morning and night fetching buckets of water from the pool to fill the baby bath (which we squeeze into, one by one). "If you were a good Shona wife, you'd be doing this on your own," he warns me darkly.
Oh, and typhoid's broken out in Harare's northern suburb of Mabvuku. Five dead so far and 40 infected. Mabvuku was the epicentre of the cholera epidemic in 2008: typhoid, like cholera, spreads fastest where there's poor sanitation. Not-so-happy times ahead, I fear.
Monday, March 8, 2010
but what kind of pancake, mr president?
President Robert Mugabe has been speaking about his new, improved (?) relationship with former opposition leader Morgan Tsvangirai. When the pair started working together, Mr Tsvangirai barely dared accept an invitation to eat with him at Harare's plush Rainbow Towers hotel, Mr Mugabe said. He told Mr Tsvangirai: "Don't worry, eat what I eat." Mr Mugabe as beefeater: now that's a new one.
A year into a power-sharing deal, the pair meet for tea and pancakes on Monday afternoons, Mr Mugabe says. What I want to know is: what kind of pancakes? Does Mr Mugabe mean the South African ones, the small bun-size patties you spread with butter and jam? They're also known as flapjacks, which -- in English cookbooks -- are something totally different: they're made with oats and syrup. Or does His Excellency mean English pancakes, the thin frying-pan size ones you toss in the air and would probably need to eat with a knife and fork? Mr Mugabe has a secret fondness for anything redolent of the British upper classes: surely he favours English pancakes. But then South African President Jacob Zuma is a good friend, more loyal -- at least on the anti-sanctions front -- that Mr Mugabe could have dared hope. Mightn't he be supporting Proudly South African pancakes?
A year into a power-sharing deal, the pair meet for tea and pancakes on Monday afternoons, Mr Mugabe says. What I want to know is: what kind of pancakes? Does Mr Mugabe mean the South African ones, the small bun-size patties you spread with butter and jam? They're also known as flapjacks, which -- in English cookbooks -- are something totally different: they're made with oats and syrup. Or does His Excellency mean English pancakes, the thin frying-pan size ones you toss in the air and would probably need to eat with a knife and fork? Mr Mugabe has a secret fondness for anything redolent of the British upper classes: surely he favours English pancakes. But then South African President Jacob Zuma is a good friend, more loyal -- at least on the anti-sanctions front -- that Mr Mugabe could have dared hope. Mightn't he be supporting Proudly South African pancakes?
Friday, March 5, 2010
truth (or as near to it as you can get)
"But," he asks earnestly. "What happens when you can't say what you want to say? Take sanctions, for example."
"We have to say that we cannot get these things (car parts, electrical components, books) because of the sanctions."
I gulp. This wasn't the question I was expecting to get asked here. I'm leading a media training workshop at an NGO in a Mutare township. The group's leaders have been told the local paper would be willing to take articles they've written on their projects (saves the paper sending out a reporter). They want to know how to write better.
I've come with a few hastily-crafted flip-sheets, emphasising things like clarity, short sentences, how important it is to know the point of your article before you sit down and write it, and how to use colour. Political niceties, though: that wasn't part of my brief.
"Well," I say. "Maybe in countries like Zimbabwe, there are things you can't say. But you can still stick to your truth." Truth, after all, is what we're all striving for: unless you write for the state, of course -- and that's who these poor guys will be selling to.
Another participant jumps in: "We can say there is no foreign currency to buy these things."
"Exactly. And you leave it at that." You hope you get intelligent readers (which, in a country with the second highest literacy rate in Africa, should be possible) who fill in the gaps themselves.
"We have to say that we cannot get these things (car parts, electrical components, books) because of the sanctions."
I gulp. This wasn't the question I was expecting to get asked here. I'm leading a media training workshop at an NGO in a Mutare township. The group's leaders have been told the local paper would be willing to take articles they've written on their projects (saves the paper sending out a reporter). They want to know how to write better.
I've come with a few hastily-crafted flip-sheets, emphasising things like clarity, short sentences, how important it is to know the point of your article before you sit down and write it, and how to use colour. Political niceties, though: that wasn't part of my brief.
"Well," I say. "Maybe in countries like Zimbabwe, there are things you can't say. But you can still stick to your truth." Truth, after all, is what we're all striving for: unless you write for the state, of course -- and that's who these poor guys will be selling to.
Another participant jumps in: "We can say there is no foreign currency to buy these things."
"Exactly. And you leave it at that." You hope you get intelligent readers (which, in a country with the second highest literacy rate in Africa, should be possible) who fill in the gaps themselves.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
misunderstanding
"Mai S --," she says. I stop in my tracks with dread. I know what is coming: my housekeeper wants more money. As do all the state utilities, my son's school, the council...
"Am I not working nicely for you?" she says. "I am working since end of 2005 for you, is it not true?"
"Yes," I say. She never steals, which most madams would count a huge plus. But it's more than that: I know she makes my life easy.
She takes a breath. "It's just...You give me no present and Mr B: he gives Ruth candles and mealie-meal. If he does not have time to go to shops, he gives Ruth and Farai some dollars extra. Every month."
Mr B is a top local official. He has -- or had -- a farm and a plot (not two farms, lest any man should wonder), a chicken-packing business, several houses and a generous millionaire (yes, really) brother in South Africa (who comes complete with 'plane)
"Mr B has more money than we do," I say. "We don't have much at the moment. That's why we couldn't have Tommy (the gardener) work for us any more, remember?"
"It's not a problem," she says (what, really?). "It's just I need to know if I am working nicely. The money is not a problem, Mai Sammy. It is not a problem."
Suddenly I realise just how wrong I was. She isn't actually asking for a raise (though I'm sure one would come in handy): she wants the simple satisfaction of knowing I like her, and like the job she does for me.
"Am I not working nicely for you?" she says. "I am working since end of 2005 for you, is it not true?"
"Yes," I say. She never steals, which most madams would count a huge plus. But it's more than that: I know she makes my life easy.
She takes a breath. "It's just...You give me no present and Mr B: he gives Ruth candles and mealie-meal. If he does not have time to go to shops, he gives Ruth and Farai some dollars extra. Every month."
Mr B is a top local official. He has -- or had -- a farm and a plot (not two farms, lest any man should wonder), a chicken-packing business, several houses and a generous millionaire (yes, really) brother in South Africa (who comes complete with 'plane)
"Mr B has more money than we do," I say. "We don't have much at the moment. That's why we couldn't have Tommy (the gardener) work for us any more, remember?"
"It's not a problem," she says (what, really?). "It's just I need to know if I am working nicely. The money is not a problem, Mai Sammy. It is not a problem."
Suddenly I realise just how wrong I was. She isn't actually asking for a raise (though I'm sure one would come in handy): she wants the simple satisfaction of knowing I like her, and like the job she does for me.
no pants on fridays
Officials in Zimbabwe have recently located a no-pants-on-Fridays sect.
The church is in the Mazowe district in central Zimbabwe. Members aren't bound by some of the traditional rules governing apostolic sects here: they're allowed to eat pork, they can smoke and drink and they don't have to wear white 'shepherd' robes.
They have a few curious practices, though. They believe their founder -- Emmanuel Mudiwya -- who died in 1989 was Jesus Christ; they embalm their dead, and male members aren't allowed to wear underwear from Thursday night to Friday night.
"They are a bit on the scary side, to be honest and we usually keep our distance from them," said a teacher from a school near the sect's farm.
The church is in the Mazowe district in central Zimbabwe. Members aren't bound by some of the traditional rules governing apostolic sects here: they're allowed to eat pork, they can smoke and drink and they don't have to wear white 'shepherd' robes.
They have a few curious practices, though. They believe their founder -- Emmanuel Mudiwya -- who died in 1989 was Jesus Christ; they embalm their dead, and male members aren't allowed to wear underwear from Thursday night to Friday night.
"They are a bit on the scary side, to be honest and we usually keep our distance from them," said a teacher from a school near the sect's farm.
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