I linger by a shop window filled with fluorescent Smartie-coloured shoes, sandals, flip-flop things with satin roses on. Sometimes I'm brought by a standstill by visions of plenty here. The memory of --well, nothing -- is still fresh.
The woman leans against me conspiratorially."You've got a mark on the back of your skirt."
I whip round. It's true, some sort of a damp-looking splodge. "Thanks for telling me," I say but I'm mortified: how many other passers-by have seen it? I grasp my basket and -- with my free hand -- try to manoevre a box of Cornflakes round my behind. It's a fair walk back to the car (past the parked black Mercedes with the Zimbabwe flag flying and the armed riot policeman in the back and the two businessmen in black suits who may or may not be visiting white businesses today as the indigenisation drive hots up: that's what they've been doing for the past week in this town) and the Cornflakes box is bulky and yellow and I'm not sure if I'm actually drawing attention to myself but what else am I supposed to do? How do other people manage or do they never get splodges? Will I be known forever more as the white-woman-with-the-splodge-on-the-back-of-her-dress?
Back in the car, I examine my skirt. The splodge I trace to the inside of my dress. And yes, it is my son's glow putty - the remnants of -- that didn't come off in the wash. You buy eggs of the plasticine-like stuff in OK supermarkets. It looks worse than it actually is.
But I'm glad that she stretched across the gap and told me.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
missing 'phone (or worse)
"He's lost his 'phone," I tell my mother-in-law. I need the number of a woman last seen at the swimming pool where my husband went to pick up our son (and presumably dropped the thing).
Losing a phone is a nightmare in our line of business. It's not so much the handset -- which can be replaced easily these days -- but the number. In a country where suspicion is rising, contacts often only answer the 'phone if they recognise your number.
It could take months to rebuild the trust -- and the phone book. My mother-in-law can hear the desperation in my voice.
"I just heard a terrible story," she says. "You remember DT? He used to come to stay with us."
"He was on a houseboat in Kariba," she says. Turns out he'd taken a small boat out fishing with other holidaymakers. As often happens, the boat drifted into weeds. He leant over to pull the motor into the boat ("As you have to," my mother-in-law points out. My father-in-law has done it lots of times) -- and a crocodile grabbed him by the arm. The boatman grabbed him round the middle, they tussled...and the crocodile got away with the hand.
"You get blase," she says. There was a time when somebody got their hand taken dipping their fingers in the way to get the maggot juice off. "After that happened we all put pails of water inside the boats. But then we stopped."
Sometimes I wonder if it's just us whites who get blase, who underestimate the ferocity of Zimbabwe's wildlife? I stayed in a lion park last year with Shona friends -- two middle-aged women -- who were extremely suspicious of game drives.
"Better to lose a 'phone than a hand," she finishes.
Later, we find the 'phone (under the passenger seat) and I'm doubly grateful.
Losing a phone is a nightmare in our line of business. It's not so much the handset -- which can be replaced easily these days -- but the number. In a country where suspicion is rising, contacts often only answer the 'phone if they recognise your number.
It could take months to rebuild the trust -- and the phone book. My mother-in-law can hear the desperation in my voice.
"I just heard a terrible story," she says. "You remember DT? He used to come to stay with us."
"He was on a houseboat in Kariba," she says. Turns out he'd taken a small boat out fishing with other holidaymakers. As often happens, the boat drifted into weeds. He leant over to pull the motor into the boat ("As you have to," my mother-in-law points out. My father-in-law has done it lots of times) -- and a crocodile grabbed him by the arm. The boatman grabbed him round the middle, they tussled...and the crocodile got away with the hand.
"You get blase," she says. There was a time when somebody got their hand taken dipping their fingers in the way to get the maggot juice off. "After that happened we all put pails of water inside the boats. But then we stopped."
Sometimes I wonder if it's just us whites who get blase, who underestimate the ferocity of Zimbabwe's wildlife? I stayed in a lion park last year with Shona friends -- two middle-aged women -- who were extremely suspicious of game drives.
"Better to lose a 'phone than a hand," she finishes.
Later, we find the 'phone (under the passenger seat) and I'm doubly grateful.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
trust
"Come on," he says. "We've been watching you. "
"I've run out of fuel," I say stupidly, swinging my jerry can. Bad time to run out of fuel. Shortages are rife once more. I have just run to the nearest garage to find they have only diesel. My child needs to be picked up NOW at a bus stop a good four kilometres away. I have no money on my cellphone. My husband's car is out of action because his tyre was spiked.
"Get in and we'll take you to the garage," he says.
The car is a black Merc. Three youngish guys inside. Everything my mother ever told me screams no. So I make a snap decision, and climb in.
The driver snaps down the central locking. But the windows are open. I think I could scream, if I needed to. I gabble worriedly about miscalculating how far 5 dollars of fuel will take me.
"You need to set your mileage clock," says the large one (Albert, he says he's called). They drive me to a garage. One of the three takes my jerrycan. I panic slightly, manage to unlock my door. Climb out. Get into the scrum by the pump. "How do you know him?" asks an attendant, gesturing at Albert. Who really is Albert, I wonder?
Should I slip away now? I climb back in. And of course, they drive me back to where my car sits abandoned, blinking on the side of the road. Help me pour petrol into the tank. Ask for my phone number, of course and 'phone five minutes later, just to check I'm OK.
No more, no less.
"I've run out of fuel," I say stupidly, swinging my jerry can. Bad time to run out of fuel. Shortages are rife once more. I have just run to the nearest garage to find they have only diesel. My child needs to be picked up NOW at a bus stop a good four kilometres away. I have no money on my cellphone. My husband's car is out of action because his tyre was spiked.
"Get in and we'll take you to the garage," he says.
The car is a black Merc. Three youngish guys inside. Everything my mother ever told me screams no. So I make a snap decision, and climb in.
The driver snaps down the central locking. But the windows are open. I think I could scream, if I needed to. I gabble worriedly about miscalculating how far 5 dollars of fuel will take me.
"You need to set your mileage clock," says the large one (Albert, he says he's called). They drive me to a garage. One of the three takes my jerrycan. I panic slightly, manage to unlock my door. Climb out. Get into the scrum by the pump. "How do you know him?" asks an attendant, gesturing at Albert. Who really is Albert, I wonder?
Should I slip away now? I climb back in. And of course, they drive me back to where my car sits abandoned, blinking on the side of the road. Help me pour petrol into the tank. Ask for my phone number, of course and 'phone five minutes later, just to check I'm OK.
No more, no less.
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