lodge

"It's such a shame," she sighs. "The place is ruined."

They lived in the manager's house at a well-known hotel on the Mozambican border. Lived, that is, until the owners mysteriously fled to Spain and the hotel changed hands. They -- they're close relatives of mine by marriage -- were told that "an Asian" had bought the place.

The story seemed to stick. The new owner ordered all pork out of the hotel freezers. The bar was no longer to sell alcohol, workers were told. The workers predicted a grim future: the hotel was a popular drinking spot for locals (read diamond dealers) from the nearby city of Mutare.

Then the Castles reappeared. GG (the bank chief) had bought the place, the whisper went. For 2 million US. A new sign went up outside. My relatives were told to pack their bags.

She went back to the hotel this week, walked down the dried mud path to the house she and her husband lived in for seven years after they lost their farm. In six months the place is unrecognisable. The grass is knee-high. The wooden struts holding up the walk-round verandah have disappeared. Baboons have pulled out thatch from the roof by the fistful, leaving gaping holes for the late rains to fall inside.

"Don't even walk round the front," said next-door's cook, who'd followed her down. "You'll be too upset."

She filled a plastic bag with grapefruit and limes from the (now unfertilised and untended) orchard and slipped away.