why not to eat French fries in Zimbabwe

Vandals are stealing oil from state-ZESA power authority transformers and selling it on to -- wait for it - fast-food outlets in the capital. The official Herald says the oil "is being used by unscrupulous businesspeople operating fast-food outlets mainly in Harare as cooking oil for frying chips and other food items." Not too good for one's health, especially in a country with such a compromised health system (Harare's in the grip of a rotavirus diarrhoea outbreak at the moment, apart from all the rest).

Apparently transformer oil is stable at high temperatures which makes it great for frying. Crippling power cuts have been the order of the day for most of the last 10 years: partly they're blamed on Zimbabwe's broken-down generation equipment, which means the country can't meet demand. But the cuts are also blamed on vandalism. The authorities have recently introduced very stiff prison sentences for anyone caught stealing ZESA cables or siphoning off transformer oil (you get a lot more years in jail for doing this than for murder).

Not surprisingly, the oil-for-chips story has upset a few parents. "I am a father of three; it disheartens me to think that each time my kids get into town they seek those chips. Imagine how many litres of transformer oil my kids have swallowed through these fast foods," wrote one man in today's paper.

will you wash my socks (or worse)?

The test of real love in Zimbabwe is...whether you'll wash his underwear. The recent case of a 30-something man who left his young wife for a 55 year old in Zimbabwe has got tongues wagging. Apparently the drawcard was that the 55 year old shebeen queen knew how to treat her man AND she washed his underwear. (By hand, it's understood). Which the liberated 20-something lady refused to. It's an absolute no-no to let your maid wash your underwear (or your husband's): in fact, press reports have speculated on the number of career women who've lost their husbands to their maids simply because the maids washed the man's underwear. Quite how this works in post-shortage Zimbabwe -- where you can buy washing machines in OK supermarkets (power to the people) -- is unclear. Though, come to think of it, the number of people I know who actually own a machine (a snip at 700 US..not if you're earning <200 per month) is tiny.

a second time

It happens a second time.
This time we have been stopped at a police roadblock, one of many on the main highway between the capital Harare and Mutare.
A policeman, rotund in his winter fluorescents, peers in through the driver's window. "Where is the Daddy?" he asks my husband.
"The Daddy?" This time it's my husband who is stumped. "My father is back at home."
The officer considers us. The thought of a fine keeps my lips clamped together like wheel locks.
"Well, look after the Mother," he says, before waving us on.
"He thought you were my son!" I explode, as soon as the driver's window is safely sealed. I round on my husband. "Can't you stop looking 16?"
"I don't look 16," says he. A trifle too innocently for my liking.
I study his side profile. Not the hint of a wrinkle. I suspect he may have been secretly smoothing on my imported-at-great-expense sun cream. Which clearly works better on him than it ever has on me.
"You do," I say crossly. "17, max."
"Oh." Is that all he can say? When his longsuffering wife -- who he dragged across continents from a carefree existence in Paris to Africa 10 years ago -- gets mistaken for his mother?
My husband ponders for a minute or two.
"Maybe you should dye your hair red," he says finally as pyramids of tomatoes piled high in Kango dishes flash past us near the town of Rusape. "You know you’ve always wanted to."
I choose to remain silent.