The man hobbles up as I pay for the paper. He's probably from the rural areas, judging by the hat. He can barely speak English. "Please, one dollar," he says. "For sadza." And I, who am usually wary of all street requests, give in.
In town, the street kids follow.
My desperation mounts.
The girl who mans the town's only well-stocked (that's relative, of course) bookshop sees me park the car. Charity, her name is. She knows me well, always asks after my son. She runs after me in the street. She looks away as she tells me she needs 40 dollars ( "20 or 40") and why. Her father is in hospital. I know this to be true. He has diabetes and has recently had a leg amputated. Charity's mother goes to see him every day: she has to or else how will he be fed? But the transport -- from Sakubva high-density suburb to the Provincial Hospital -- costs a minimum of 30 US a month.
Charity is looking after her sister's child and needs school fees in 15 days. That's another 20 at least to find (and that's not counting incentives). She needs to pay the city council 30 dollars a month rates. Her father used to do this but he is not working at the moment, of course. The electricity bill is 20 dollars. I've lost count but the running total I see is already 100 US. She is paid precisely 100 US a month. A perfectly normal horrible salary in Zimbabwe.
"How often do you shop?" she asks me, seeing my basket.
"A little most days," I say. "I buy bread and vegetables."
She sighs.
"I shop once a month," she says. "For everything."
I feel -- as I feel so often here - powerless, frustrated. Where do you start? Where do you stop?
A sms message printed in the newspaper: "Morgan Tsvangirai has not delivered on his promises to workers."
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
dog's life
"Can I ask you something?" The security guard in Hussein's Clothing (and flashsticks and DVD players and blankets) waits politely for an answer.
"Yes?" I brace myself. Usually it's a request for work.
"What project do you work on?" I look at him blankly for a second.
"I mean, I know you work on a project somewhere. What is it?"
Oh. He has mistaken me for an NGO worker. No wonder: some locals think whites fall into two stereotyped categories: a) wicked white farmers (or to be pitied, depending on which side you're on) or b) rich NGO workers.
"I don't have a project," I say.
He waits. And then I say: "Actually, I'm writing a book." Which is true, though I do do other things.
"A storybook," I quickly add, just in case he thinks I'm writing about Zimbabwe. Not so long ago, that was a crime punishable not quite by death, but certainly by imprisonment.
"What's it called?" I'm stumped. I've written 180 pages for the latest version, but I still don't have a title. Or rather, the title changes by the week. I need to tell him something though, to bolster my story.
"A Dog's Life," I say, thinking fast. (There is a dog in it) The guard nods, satisfied.
I just hope I haven't jinxed my plot now.
"Yes?" I brace myself. Usually it's a request for work.
"What project do you work on?" I look at him blankly for a second.
"I mean, I know you work on a project somewhere. What is it?"
Oh. He has mistaken me for an NGO worker. No wonder: some locals think whites fall into two stereotyped categories: a) wicked white farmers (or to be pitied, depending on which side you're on) or b) rich NGO workers.
"I don't have a project," I say.
He waits. And then I say: "Actually, I'm writing a book." Which is true, though I do do other things.
"A storybook," I quickly add, just in case he thinks I'm writing about Zimbabwe. Not so long ago, that was a crime punishable not quite by death, but certainly by imprisonment.
"What's it called?" I'm stumped. I've written 180 pages for the latest version, but I still don't have a title. Or rather, the title changes by the week. I need to tell him something though, to bolster my story.
"A Dog's Life," I say, thinking fast. (There is a dog in it) The guard nods, satisfied.
I just hope I haven't jinxed my plot now.
Monday, August 23, 2010
not the only one
"You're back?" The woman manning the desk at the Crocodile Farm in Victoria Falls looks at us in disbelief.
"I know. We were here yesterday afternoon. But he liked it so much we had to come again." I point to my son.
If it were up to me, I would not be here. Crocodiles may not be the cuddliest of animals but I don't like the thought of them being slaughtered.
It is not up to me, of course.
Our guide recites impassively. "These crocodiles are nearly three years old." I look at the heaving mass of grey (because they are grey really, not bright green like in the toy shops) bodies in what's really just an unpainted swimming pool.
"When do they get skinned?" a tourist asks. "At three years old," he says. We have already browsed in the gift shop, seen the crocodile handbags, belts and keyrings, the stuffed croc babies. It's all a bit close for comfort, I feel.
But my son hangs on the guide's every word. He watches with glee when the crocodiles are fed elephant meat (and the resident kitten gets given its very own elephant titbit: how many cats do the crocs go through per year, I wonder grimly?) The guide shows him how the crocs only see movement: when a piece of elephant meat floats gently millimetres away from a large croc's nostrils, he doesn't snap in the slightest.
In the car after the tour, he asks: "Can we go again this afternoon?"
Turns out he isn't the only one enchanted by the Crocodile Farm. Paging through the Herald this morning, I see Libyan leader Muamar Gaddafi's son Lieutenant-Colonal Saadi has been visiting Victoria Falls: "Lt-Col Gaddafi yesterday visited various tourist attractions, including...Crocodile farm and the Falls themselves."
Gaddafi said he found the farm and the Falls"very impressive."
"I know. We were here yesterday afternoon. But he liked it so much we had to come again." I point to my son.
If it were up to me, I would not be here. Crocodiles may not be the cuddliest of animals but I don't like the thought of them being slaughtered.
It is not up to me, of course.
Our guide recites impassively. "These crocodiles are nearly three years old." I look at the heaving mass of grey (because they are grey really, not bright green like in the toy shops) bodies in what's really just an unpainted swimming pool.
"When do they get skinned?" a tourist asks. "At three years old," he says. We have already browsed in the gift shop, seen the crocodile handbags, belts and keyrings, the stuffed croc babies. It's all a bit close for comfort, I feel.
But my son hangs on the guide's every word. He watches with glee when the crocodiles are fed elephant meat (and the resident kitten gets given its very own elephant titbit: how many cats do the crocs go through per year, I wonder grimly?) The guide shows him how the crocs only see movement: when a piece of elephant meat floats gently millimetres away from a large croc's nostrils, he doesn't snap in the slightest.
In the car after the tour, he asks: "Can we go again this afternoon?"
Turns out he isn't the only one enchanted by the Crocodile Farm. Paging through the Herald this morning, I see Libyan leader Muamar Gaddafi's son Lieutenant-Colonal Saadi has been visiting Victoria Falls: "Lt-Col Gaddafi yesterday visited various tourist attractions, including...Crocodile farm and the Falls themselves."
Gaddafi said he found the farm and the Falls"very impressive."
Thursday, August 12, 2010
abducted
My husband's face is white when he finds me, somewhere near the second-hand shoe stall. "Where've you been? You said you'd be back in half an hour," he says.
To be honest, I'd lost track of time. The vendors at the flea market have been opening new bales, tipping out mountains of used clothes onto huge tarpaulins.
"New order," they sing (actually, it's a kind of rap). "New order. Dollar - dollar." US, they add, just in case anyone thought they might get away with using now Zimbabwe dollars.
There's a technique to clothes-hunting on new order days. You pick a corner of the tarpaulin, check your handbag's tucked securely under your arm and you shovel through the fabric nearest to you. Then you fling what you're discarded into the centre of the pile and dig deeper. Another kind of mining, I guess, in diamond country. A tailor has set up shop with an ancient black Singer under an adjacent tarpaulin.
Women sit on the dust beyond the edge of the pile, munching what smells like chicken.
I find a black top with a teardrop back to it and a fitted black jacket from Australia, both for US 1. For 2 US, pyjama bottoms, almost new and a weeny bit too long, for my child, in a pile still flecked with washing powder. The skeleton-printed swimming trunks I've been eyeing I discard, after the vendor suddenly hikes his price to US 3 when he spies a murungu showing interest.
I'm just thinking of shoes when I spy my husband.
"Abducted? Don't be paranoid," I say. "This isn't South Africa." My brother-in-law is terrified to see me walking on my own in the smallish market-town they live in in the Orange Free State. "It happens," he insists.
But then, this morning, I open Zimbabwe's state daily. A women has been abducted in broad daylight from a busy market in Machipisa, Harare. She's bundled into the back of a car with blacked-out windows. One of the abductors stuffs a hanky laced with something into her face so she loses consciousness. She comes to, she tells police after her escape, in a building "filled with human heads."
Police say they believe the building is somewhere near the city centre.
To be honest, I'd lost track of time. The vendors at the flea market have been opening new bales, tipping out mountains of used clothes onto huge tarpaulins.
"New order," they sing (actually, it's a kind of rap). "New order. Dollar - dollar." US, they add, just in case anyone thought they might get away with using now Zimbabwe dollars.
There's a technique to clothes-hunting on new order days. You pick a corner of the tarpaulin, check your handbag's tucked securely under your arm and you shovel through the fabric nearest to you. Then you fling what you're discarded into the centre of the pile and dig deeper. Another kind of mining, I guess, in diamond country. A tailor has set up shop with an ancient black Singer under an adjacent tarpaulin.
Women sit on the dust beyond the edge of the pile, munching what smells like chicken.
I find a black top with a teardrop back to it and a fitted black jacket from Australia, both for US 1. For 2 US, pyjama bottoms, almost new and a weeny bit too long, for my child, in a pile still flecked with washing powder. The skeleton-printed swimming trunks I've been eyeing I discard, after the vendor suddenly hikes his price to US 3 when he spies a murungu showing interest.
I'm just thinking of shoes when I spy my husband.
"Abducted? Don't be paranoid," I say. "This isn't South Africa." My brother-in-law is terrified to see me walking on my own in the smallish market-town they live in in the Orange Free State. "It happens," he insists.
But then, this morning, I open Zimbabwe's state daily. A women has been abducted in broad daylight from a busy market in Machipisa, Harare. She's bundled into the back of a car with blacked-out windows. One of the abductors stuffs a hanky laced with something into her face so she loses consciousness. She comes to, she tells police after her escape, in a building "filled with human heads."
Police say they believe the building is somewhere near the city centre.
Monday, August 2, 2010
leaving
"I've been meaning to call you," S. says.
I nearly walked past my pharmacist-friend, hurrying along this busy street on my morning errands. I have plastic bags filled with bread, milk and -- unusually -- a bottle of wine. It's a gift, meant for our host tomorrow night. I know from experience that Shona women (the respectable, older kind) do not approve of women drinking.
I resist an urge to make sure the cork isn't poking out (It is).
"We're leaving," she says.
When?
"This weekend. The youngest has been ill. I was in Harare all week with him last week. He's got asthma. It was terrible, terrible. And S- said: 'You have to move here.'"
It makes sense. S-, my friend's husband, has been in Chitungwiza, Harare's dormitory town, for months now. He travels home at weekends but the bus trip -- if bus he takes -- is five, six hours, double the length of time it takes in a car. Term finishes next week: it's a good time to leave. Still, I'm genuinely sad.
"I'll call you when we're in town," I promise. I move to hug her. Is it me - or do I sense an imperceptible holding back? She and I often hug (Shona women do, a special style of bottom-sticking-out hug that means only your shoulders and the top part of your body touch) but not on a street, I realise.
Walking away, I think that I am the only murungu (white person) on the street. Although many people recognise me, they still watch. Maybe she felt the eyes.
"Look after your marriage," she whispers as a parting shot. "However bad it gets, look after it."
I nearly walked past my pharmacist-friend, hurrying along this busy street on my morning errands. I have plastic bags filled with bread, milk and -- unusually -- a bottle of wine. It's a gift, meant for our host tomorrow night. I know from experience that Shona women (the respectable, older kind) do not approve of women drinking.
I resist an urge to make sure the cork isn't poking out (It is).
"We're leaving," she says.
When?
"This weekend. The youngest has been ill. I was in Harare all week with him last week. He's got asthma. It was terrible, terrible. And S- said: 'You have to move here.'"
It makes sense. S-, my friend's husband, has been in Chitungwiza, Harare's dormitory town, for months now. He travels home at weekends but the bus trip -- if bus he takes -- is five, six hours, double the length of time it takes in a car. Term finishes next week: it's a good time to leave. Still, I'm genuinely sad.
"I'll call you when we're in town," I promise. I move to hug her. Is it me - or do I sense an imperceptible holding back? She and I often hug (Shona women do, a special style of bottom-sticking-out hug that means only your shoulders and the top part of your body touch) but not on a street, I realise.
Walking away, I think that I am the only murungu (white person) on the street. Although many people recognise me, they still watch. Maybe she felt the eyes.
"Look after your marriage," she whispers as a parting shot. "However bad it gets, look after it."
dogs
"I was praying someone would come before Monday," the man said.
He and three other Zimbabwean workers were showing animal activists round a site in West Nicholson where Chinese nationals had already eaten three dogs.
"Their dog meat runs out on Monday," he added.
A fourth dog was there. He didn't know the horrid fate that was sure to be his, if the vets hadn't intervened. The Chinese labourers -- they have been contracted to work on a massive expansion programme by the main local cellphone company -- have a particularly cruel way of slaughtering the dogs: they hang them up in a tree by a string so they defecate and then hit them over the head with an iron bar.
The dog wagged its tail. Trusting. Too trusting.
It may have been bought from a villager: the Chinese are said to offer 10 US per dog. That's more than a chicken, which 'only' fetches 6 US. Tempting, if you're living in abject poverty. The local headman was (gratifyingly) furious with what's happening: he insisted on accompanying the activists on their mission.
Happily, the dog was rescued.
But the network expansion programme is nationwide: presumably Chinese labourers aren't confined to West Nicholson. How many other dogs are in danger?
He and three other Zimbabwean workers were showing animal activists round a site in West Nicholson where Chinese nationals had already eaten three dogs.
"Their dog meat runs out on Monday," he added.
A fourth dog was there. He didn't know the horrid fate that was sure to be his, if the vets hadn't intervened. The Chinese labourers -- they have been contracted to work on a massive expansion programme by the main local cellphone company -- have a particularly cruel way of slaughtering the dogs: they hang them up in a tree by a string so they defecate and then hit them over the head with an iron bar.
The dog wagged its tail. Trusting. Too trusting.
It may have been bought from a villager: the Chinese are said to offer 10 US per dog. That's more than a chicken, which 'only' fetches 6 US. Tempting, if you're living in abject poverty. The local headman was (gratifyingly) furious with what's happening: he insisted on accompanying the activists on their mission.
Happily, the dog was rescued.
But the network expansion programme is nationwide: presumably Chinese labourers aren't confined to West Nicholson. How many other dogs are in danger?
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