From where I am (by the bananas), the noise from the street is deafening. Trucks race up and down the high street -- 10 of them, or is it 20? Youths hang out of the windows, shouting and gesticulating.
Shoppers move cautiously to the open front of the store to watch. Pedestrians stop. I wonder whose demonstration it is. Probably ZANU-PF. MDC marches are rarely allowed. Maybe this is something to do with indigenisation? I look for flags, banners -- anything that'll provide some sort of a clue. The BEE minister has been upping the I'll-grab-your-firm rhetoric recently, even taking on the (also ZANU-PF) central bank chief who's warned against his use of "verbal gunpowder." I know of at least one white businessman who skedaddled down South for an extended 'holiday' after ruling party stalwarts tried to test his 'patriotism' by ordering he attend -and contribute to - local celebrations to mark Heroes Day.
No-one in the store knows what the demo's for. I forget about it until I see this week's paper.
The demo is actually a funeral procession for a local diamond dealer named Bothy. A former street-kid, according to the lengthy obit (diamond dealers get star treatment here from the local press) who used to sleep in cardboard boxes, Bothy (/ie) was killed in a car crash (aren't they all?) and died at the local private clinic. "Police were just overwhelmed by the event," said the Manica Post. The rumour is that he'd duped gwejas (diggers) of their gems. The crash was his reward.
Showing posts with label diamonds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label diamonds. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
mothers
The woman is well-drawn, for a 10-year old. A floaty purple dress, high heels, black hair. Yollanda lingers over the hair. She makes it curl up at the ends.
"Is that your mummy?"
The children have been asked to draw things that are special to them. Most of them have drawn family members and friends. There are cats and dogs (Foxy, Spicy and Spider, Ruvimbo’s dogs are called). Baisel has drawn a cellphone, another child a flat-screen TV.
I know very little about Yollanda’s mother, except that she’s not there very often. In the days of the diamond rush, she disappeared to the Marange fields. She reappears every so often with a bucket of maize, the neighbours say. And sells the cast-off clothes Yollanda’s been given.
"Best not to give the clothes and the bath-soap to her," says Mai Caroline. "Give it to N, who lives across the road."
The women wonder what to do about Yollanda. How can you report her to Social Welfare when the department is barely functioning, they say, when state orphanages (and even private ones) are struggling to feed the children in their care?
"If she runs away from a home, she’ll be a street child and that’s worse," says Mai D.
But Yollanda is fast turning into a problem child. She steals, the neighbours say. Teenage boys – friends of her half-brother Courage – hang round the house.
"Have you drawn your mummy, Yollanda?" I ask again.
She looks at me shyly. "No. It’s you."
"Is that your mummy?"
The children have been asked to draw things that are special to them. Most of them have drawn family members and friends. There are cats and dogs (Foxy, Spicy and Spider, Ruvimbo’s dogs are called). Baisel has drawn a cellphone, another child a flat-screen TV.
I know very little about Yollanda’s mother, except that she’s not there very often. In the days of the diamond rush, she disappeared to the Marange fields. She reappears every so often with a bucket of maize, the neighbours say. And sells the cast-off clothes Yollanda’s been given.
"Best not to give the clothes and the bath-soap to her," says Mai Caroline. "Give it to N, who lives across the road."
The women wonder what to do about Yollanda. How can you report her to Social Welfare when the department is barely functioning, they say, when state orphanages (and even private ones) are struggling to feed the children in their care?
"If she runs away from a home, she’ll be a street child and that’s worse," says Mai D.
But Yollanda is fast turning into a problem child. She steals, the neighbours say. Teenage boys – friends of her half-brother Courage – hang round the house.
"Have you drawn your mummy, Yollanda?" I ask again.
She looks at me shyly. "No. It’s you."
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
plantpots
"The police raided the place three or four times," says a B-and-B owner in the eastern city of Mutare. "They never found a thing."
She had diamond dealers staying with her at the height of the rush in 2008.
"The police looked in all the obvious places: toilet cistern, under the mattress. They turned the place upside down."
Two or three hours after the police had gone, the dealers' colleagues (shamwaris, she calls them, friends in the local Shona language) would knock at the door.
"We've just come to pick up something," they'd say.
She watched. The dealers went straight to the plant pots outside the B and B rooms -- the sort every white Zimbabwean keeps, with geraniums and pansies and roses in -- and began to dig with their hands. The diamonds had been hidden in the soil.
"Of course, if they were staying at number 22, they'd hide the stones in the pots outside number 24. Just to be on the safe side. But the police never guessed," she says.
We wonder -- all of us gathered round the table in this plush eatery, a day after Mugabe's government announced it'll take over white-owned businesses -- if there are any diamonds still left in her flowerpots, any stones the shamwaris missed.
Who knows when we'll need them.
She had diamond dealers staying with her at the height of the rush in 2008.
"The police looked in all the obvious places: toilet cistern, under the mattress. They turned the place upside down."
Two or three hours after the police had gone, the dealers' colleagues (shamwaris, she calls them, friends in the local Shona language) would knock at the door.
"We've just come to pick up something," they'd say.
She watched. The dealers went straight to the plant pots outside the B and B rooms -- the sort every white Zimbabwean keeps, with geraniums and pansies and roses in -- and began to dig with their hands. The diamonds had been hidden in the soil.
"Of course, if they were staying at number 22, they'd hide the stones in the pots outside number 24. Just to be on the safe side. But the police never guessed," she says.
We wonder -- all of us gathered round the table in this plush eatery, a day after Mugabe's government announced it'll take over white-owned businesses -- if there are any diamonds still left in her flowerpots, any stones the shamwaris missed.
Who knows when we'll need them.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
assignment
"What do we do if we don't get the story?" he asks.
We're on a shaded verandah just over the border in Mozambique. Red hibiscus flowers bloom in boxes. Next to us, four men idle the afternoon away over bottles of the local Manica beer. They're not playing cards and they have expensive Blackberries. I have my suspicions.
"Wait."
So we order: sandes de ovo (egg sandwiches), tonic water. Coffee, the continental kind served in tiny white expresso cups. Another tonic water. And another. It is hot, so hot I think I could sleep. Inside, three waitresses chat. A group of stiletto-ed women arrive for lunch, then disappear.
The men do not seem to want to move. On the steep incline beyond the cafe, I count the cars, large ones: Toyota Hilux. Toyota-something else. A money changer flaps a wad of notes.
I notice the sign on the wall: Jardin. Beer garden. Could deals be happening there? Are we in the wrong place -- too obvious, too foreign? He goes to look.
On my own now, I watch one of the men out of the corner of my eye. His face is vaguely familiar. As he stretches out his hand, I ssee the stone behind it. "You want?" his friend whispers.
We're on a shaded verandah just over the border in Mozambique. Red hibiscus flowers bloom in boxes. Next to us, four men idle the afternoon away over bottles of the local Manica beer. They're not playing cards and they have expensive Blackberries. I have my suspicions.
"Wait."
So we order: sandes de ovo (egg sandwiches), tonic water. Coffee, the continental kind served in tiny white expresso cups. Another tonic water. And another. It is hot, so hot I think I could sleep. Inside, three waitresses chat. A group of stiletto-ed women arrive for lunch, then disappear.
The men do not seem to want to move. On the steep incline beyond the cafe, I count the cars, large ones: Toyota Hilux. Toyota-something else. A money changer flaps a wad of notes.
I notice the sign on the wall: Jardin. Beer garden. Could deals be happening there? Are we in the wrong place -- too obvious, too foreign? He goes to look.
On my own now, I watch one of the men out of the corner of my eye. His face is vaguely familiar. As he stretches out his hand, I ssee the stone behind it. "You want?" his friend whispers.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
abandoned
"Don't ask," says Mai C, shaking her head. I thought maybe their mother was back because Yolanda, (8, 9?) has a dress on. When I look closely though, I see that it's an ancient dress.The lilac is faded, the frills torn. Yolanda used to be a bookworm, grabbing my old Woman and Home magazines and tucking herself away in a corner to read them. Now she drops her head when you speak to her, refuses to answer.
Yolanda's mum left six weeks ago. She left the children -- Yolanda, Igno and two-year-old Polite -- in the care of an 11-year old brother. For food, she left half a bucket of maize. The brother slipped across the border to Mozambique to try to buy cheap dried kapenta fish. I don't know if he's still doing that. Now the children rely on charity -- donations of beans, cooking oil, rice, salt. There's been no word of the children's mother since, though Mai C says she's heard (through a complicated network of contacts) that the woman has been seen. "In Marange," she says. "Digging for diamonds."
Yolanda's mum left six weeks ago. She left the children -- Yolanda, Igno and two-year-old Polite -- in the care of an 11-year old brother. For food, she left half a bucket of maize. The brother slipped across the border to Mozambique to try to buy cheap dried kapenta fish. I don't know if he's still doing that. Now the children rely on charity -- donations of beans, cooking oil, rice, salt. There's been no word of the children's mother since, though Mai C says she's heard (through a complicated network of contacts) that the woman has been seen. "In Marange," she says. "Digging for diamonds."
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
heard at the vegetable shop
"I hear the magoda (diamond dealers) are back," she says, leaning on the counter.
"Yes. But so are the soldiers," says the cashier. "If they catch you, they will hit you. Like a snake you find in your house."
"Yes. But so are the soldiers," says the cashier. "If they catch you, they will hit you. Like a snake you find in your house."
Friday, April 10, 2009
fresh produce
"Let me see your ring." The man behind the onions seizes my hand. I'm choosing large potatoes in TM supermarket. (800 US 'phone bill for the month = jacket potatoes and baked beans several nights running, plus cheese if you're very lucky).
"How many carats is it?" he asks. I've no idea. It was my mother-in-law's ring.
"I'm asking because I can get you a diamond like that," the teller says.
Oh. I thought the days of the Chiadzwa diamond rush were over. Mai D. told me Sunday the makorokoza (digger) who was renting her cottage had gone for good (without paying the rent, of course).
"This diamond is not from Marange," I say defensively. "It's an old ring."
"It's one carat," he says. "I know all about diamonds. Yours is from Sierra Leone."
"How many carats is it?" he asks. I've no idea. It was my mother-in-law's ring.
"I'm asking because I can get you a diamond like that," the teller says.
Oh. I thought the days of the Chiadzwa diamond rush were over. Mai D. told me Sunday the makorokoza (digger) who was renting her cottage had gone for good (without paying the rent, of course).
"This diamond is not from Marange," I say defensively. "It's an old ring."
"It's one carat," he says. "I know all about diamonds. Yours is from Sierra Leone."
Monday, December 15, 2008
ps
Rhodes paid his Oxford bedder in uncut diamonds. That's what it looks like, anyway. Cecil John Rhodes (who the Tabex Encyclopedia Zimbabwe 1987 diplomatically refers to as a "businessman and politician" though any mention of his name in Zimbabwe today provokes a hiss of horror from the authorities) went up to Oriel in 1873 after he'd made his fortune in Kimberley, South Africa. According to a paper by G.N. Clark*, a former provost of Oriel, Rhodes' college bedder (scout) William Hodge claimed Rhodes used no cheque book. Instead, he financed himself by selling uncut diamonds "which he carried, after the manner of diamond traders, in screws of paper distributed among his various pockets." Apparently Hodge begged him to stop, worried that he'd be blamed if one of the diamonds went missing. "He begged in vain," wrote Clark.
*Cecil Rhodes and His College, G.N.Clark, Heritage Publication No.2, 1982, History Society of Zimbabwe.
*Cecil Rhodes and His College, G.N.Clark, Heritage Publication No.2, 1982, History Society of Zimbabwe.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
blood diamonds
These are bad blood diamonds, Mutare's Manica Post newspaper says.
An abnormally high number of gwejas (dealers) and gwejarine (female dealers) have been killed in car crashes. When a gweja died (this was before Operation No Return) the whole of Mutare came to a standstill as the surviving gwejas plus the odd ruling ZANU-PF party official drove slowly round the city centre in their Pajeros and Hummers, tail-lights flashing in a final ghoulish lap of honour.
The Manica Post says the stones are cursed.
Of course, it might just be that the gwejas (most of whom were previously economically-marginalised) simply bought their driving licences and never actually learnt how to drive.
An abnormally high number of gwejas (dealers) and gwejarine (female dealers) have been killed in car crashes. When a gweja died (this was before Operation No Return) the whole of Mutare came to a standstill as the surviving gwejas plus the odd ruling ZANU-PF party official drove slowly round the city centre in their Pajeros and Hummers, tail-lights flashing in a final ghoulish lap of honour.
The Manica Post says the stones are cursed.
Of course, it might just be that the gwejas (most of whom were previously economically-marginalised) simply bought their driving licences and never actually learnt how to drive.
Monday, December 1, 2008
cake
"Black tea," he says. "No milk, no sugar. And yes I will have a piece of cake."
He hands me the photos in silence. Purple, bruised buttocks, a red gash from a whip just below his shoulder. There were four people holding him down and two lashing him.
"They're very precise," he says. "There are people monitoring. They say, no you mustn't hit there, lower down." After 20 lashes you don't feel the pain anymore.
I have seen photos like this so many times this year. But they still have the power to make me feel sick. I should be at the christening of my university friend's first baby. Instead I am in this room with the curtains tight shut against the daylight. "I just want justice," he says.
He hands me the photos in silence. Purple, bruised buttocks, a red gash from a whip just below his shoulder. There were four people holding him down and two lashing him.
"They're very precise," he says. "There are people monitoring. They say, no you mustn't hit there, lower down." After 20 lashes you don't feel the pain anymore.
I have seen photos like this so many times this year. But they still have the power to make me feel sick. I should be at the christening of my university friend's first baby. Instead I am in this room with the curtains tight shut against the daylight. "I just want justice," he says.
diamond snapshots 4
Plainclothes police officers are pulling people out of Spar supermarket, S says.
"They're watching who's paying with large amounts of forex."
"Then when you've got all your groceries, they stop you and ask where you got the money from. They're taking some people straight from the store to Chiadzwa (diamond fields) to fill in holes."
"They're watching who's paying with large amounts of forex."
"Then when you've got all your groceries, they stop you and ask where you got the money from. They're taking some people straight from the store to Chiadzwa (diamond fields) to fill in holes."
Sunday, November 30, 2008
visit
11 o'clock, Sunday morning. There's loud hooting at the gate. I am expecting a woman to drop round with vouchers for a short trip we've planned. I run outside, squeeze through the gap and... it's a police car. Inside are three policemen in luminous vests.
They're aggressive. "Where's Mr B?" they say, naming a local store.
Not here. "Why don't you know? Aren't you a resident?" the officer in the back says.
I look him in the eye, something a good Shona woman (especially a young one) does not do.
"We've only had this house for two years," I say. Immediately I regret the words: the police are looking for anyone who's acquired wealth in the shape of houses and cars since the diamond rush started.
That was two and a half years ago.
"Let me go find a number," I say. I close the gate before they have a chance to stop me, rush inside, try to make a 'phone call, fail, grab the telephone directory and run outside to the car again.
"Is this guy Indian?" I ask.
"No, black," the officer in the driving seat says. I see he has a clipboard. The infamous list?
I page through the directory and find a number for the store, at least. Eventually the police drive off.
My hands are shaking when I go inside.
They're aggressive. "Where's Mr B?" they say, naming a local store.
Not here. "Why don't you know? Aren't you a resident?" the officer in the back says.
I look him in the eye, something a good Shona woman (especially a young one) does not do.
"We've only had this house for two years," I say. Immediately I regret the words: the police are looking for anyone who's acquired wealth in the shape of houses and cars since the diamond rush started.
That was two and a half years ago.
"Let me go find a number," I say. I close the gate before they have a chance to stop me, rush inside, try to make a 'phone call, fail, grab the telephone directory and run outside to the car again.
"Is this guy Indian?" I ask.
"No, black," the officer in the driving seat says. I see he has a clipboard. The infamous list?
I page through the directory and find a number for the store, at least. Eventually the police drive off.
My hands are shaking when I go inside.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
black boots
These days when I go into town, I look for the army girl. Aged about 22, he said she was. She was the one who lashed the females. "She loved it," he said. "She was relishing it." She beat one digger -- unlucky enough to be found with a tiny electronic diamond scale on her -- until she screamed. A policeman's wife from the nearby bivouacs sneaked into the cage later, to bring the victim water.
He says he's seen the army girl in town, near the Holiday Inn Hotel. It was on Friday, a day after he was released. "Must have been her day off," he says.
There are soldiers in camouflage dotted on the streets this Friday. In Spar I see an army woman. Under the black beret, her hair is freshly curled. Her trousers are tucked into black boots. She's browsing among the imported baby nappies and aqueous cream. She approaches me. "Excuse me, Madam," she says. I look at her face, my heart pounding. Early 20s, I'd guess. "You don't have change for 50 US, do you?" No, I don't.
Of course, it won't be her. I know that.
But what has to happen to a young girl to make her enjoy beating another woman?
He says he's seen the army girl in town, near the Holiday Inn Hotel. It was on Friday, a day after he was released. "Must have been her day off," he says.
There are soldiers in camouflage dotted on the streets this Friday. In Spar I see an army woman. Under the black beret, her hair is freshly curled. Her trousers are tucked into black boots. She's browsing among the imported baby nappies and aqueous cream. She approaches me. "Excuse me, Madam," she says. I look at her face, my heart pounding. Early 20s, I'd guess. "You don't have change for 50 US, do you?" No, I don't.
Of course, it won't be her. I know that.
But what has to happen to a young girl to make her enjoy beating another woman?
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
operation no return*
"There are lots of children away," the headmistress at the preschool says. "We don't know why." Chickenpox? That was last month. The owner of a Montessori preschool across town has more of an idea. "It's the diamond dealers," she told C. "They're in hiding. Lots of kids are absent now. And the kids that are left are being picked up by different people." Obviously they've been left with friends or relatives until the dust has died down and the dealers judge it safe to return.
* Operation Hakudzokwi (No Return) = brutal army/police clampdown on gwejas (dealers) and diggers in Chiadzwa diamond fields and nearby city of Mutare. "After this operation, no gweja will think of going to Chiadzwa again," official close to Hakudzokwi told local Manica Post newspaper
* Operation Hakudzokwi (No Return) = brutal army/police clampdown on gwejas (dealers) and diggers in Chiadzwa diamond fields and nearby city of Mutare. "After this operation, no gweja will think of going to Chiadzwa again," official close to Hakudzokwi told local Manica Post newspaper
Monday, November 24, 2008
diamond snapshots 3
Philippa and Mel were minding house for two foreign diamond dealers in Mutare's Toronto (?) suburb. The girls were employed as cleaners, paid good money (because that's what the diamond dealers had). But the plainclothes CIO came. The girls lied that the men weren't there. The officers started to beat them ("with iron bars, Mel couldn't sit down for a few days, it was just last week") and went through the house, trying every door. One was locked. "Open it," the officers said. "We can't, there's a key in the other side," the girls said. They beat them again. "We will keep beating until whoever is in there comes out," said the officers. The dealer did come out -- eventually. But the answers he gave to the questions weren't the same as the answers the girls gave. "I used to envy those people with diamonds, the ones who had new clothes for school while we could barely make ends meet," T. says. "Now I don't."
Thursday, November 20, 2008
diamond snapshots 2
The police came to S's house in Greenside suburb one morning this week. Her husband had already left for the shop. "We want to see your husband," an officer said. There were two carloads of police waiting outside. "Who is your husband?
S. gives his name. The officer consults his list. "Sorry, wrong house," he says. The police drive on.
The helicopter leaves Mutare early in the morning, six-ish, they say. Known diamond dealers are rounded up during the night, pulled out of their flats. The police are checking big cars on the roads, asking where they've come from. The first thing the dealers did was to buy big SUVs, Prados. They cruise the streets, numberplate-less.
We've heard the hooting at the gates, loud and persistent, early in the morning. Too early for the school run, which is normally around 7. This is earlier, 5 or 6 am. It's not just black Zimbabweans they're arresting. They've taken in a white businessman (C.W?) too. An Asian guy (Mr E.) was taken out to the Chiadzwa diamond fields and made to fill up a crater dug by the illegal diggers "with his bare hands," a member of the Asian community says. What if someone's given the police the wrong names out of spite? I lurk by the kitchen window, worrying when vans go too slowly past the gate.
There are whispers of beatings and worse. Our gardener has heard of seven bodies with gunshot wounds brought to the central police station from Chiadzwa last Saturday. "Ask anyone at the Holiday Inn, they saw them," a rights worker says. (Holiday Inn is opposite Mutare Central). A policeman from R. came to collect the body of his brother from a private funeral parlour, a senior MDC official says. The brother was a digger killed in Chiadzwa. The policeman doesn't want to talk.
"They shoot you," says Mai Agnes, whose friend Mai Alfred has just come back from Chiadzwa. "If you take two steps forward the soldiers shoot you."
S. gives his name. The officer consults his list. "Sorry, wrong house," he says. The police drive on.
The helicopter leaves Mutare early in the morning, six-ish, they say. Known diamond dealers are rounded up during the night, pulled out of their flats. The police are checking big cars on the roads, asking where they've come from. The first thing the dealers did was to buy big SUVs, Prados. They cruise the streets, numberplate-less.
We've heard the hooting at the gates, loud and persistent, early in the morning. Too early for the school run, which is normally around 7. This is earlier, 5 or 6 am. It's not just black Zimbabweans they're arresting. They've taken in a white businessman (C.W?) too. An Asian guy (Mr E.) was taken out to the Chiadzwa diamond fields and made to fill up a crater dug by the illegal diggers "with his bare hands," a member of the Asian community says. What if someone's given the police the wrong names out of spite? I lurk by the kitchen window, worrying when vans go too slowly past the gate.
There are whispers of beatings and worse. Our gardener has heard of seven bodies with gunshot wounds brought to the central police station from Chiadzwa last Saturday. "Ask anyone at the Holiday Inn, they saw them," a rights worker says. (Holiday Inn is opposite Mutare Central). A policeman from R. came to collect the body of his brother from a private funeral parlour, a senior MDC official says. The brother was a digger killed in Chiadzwa. The policeman doesn't want to talk.
"They shoot you," says Mai Agnes, whose friend Mai Alfred has just come back from Chiadzwa. "If you take two steps forward the soldiers shoot you."
diamond snapshots 1
The last time I saw Shamie, she was living in a maid's cottage with her husband, two boys and newborn baby Ishe (God). I squeezed into the building one grey morning, edging past sofas turned on their sides, overflowing boxes and dining room chairs stacked several high.
They'd been turfed out of the house they were renting in Palmerston suburb. The owner's relative was coming back from the diaspora and needed a place to stay. Before going on maternity leave, Shamie had been working as a lecturer at a local polytechnic. She was giving the job up, she told me, to buy and sell.
They moved out to Fern Valley, to a house with a plot where Shamie would grow vegetables. I texted, 'tried 'phoning a couple of times. Shamie called me once, I remember, when she was in town with her wares. We didn't meet up.
Then, out of the blue months later, she sends an sms. She'd love to see me. "We've been blessed with a car -- two cars actually." She's learning to drive. I'm intrigued. Her husband was studying for his exams (accountancy, I think) when last I saw them: has he passed and got a great job? I do a little bit of sleuthing.
Mrs D. has the answer. Her granddaughter goes to the same school as Shamie's boys -- or did, when the teachers were still teaching (Now they have "study groups", where teachers give lessons to a select few whose parents are willing to pay in forex, say 200 rand a month. Mrs D can't afford to). One of the teachers asked her class one day who'd seen a diamond. Shamie's boy -- the younger one -- put his hand up. "Bring it to school so we can all see," the teacher urged. Shamie's boy did. He's a nice kid, brought up to obey without question as Shona children traditionally were. Mrs D says the teacher (daily pay = 1 million Zimbabwe dollars: daily bus fare to and from school = 2 million dollars) took the stone -- and disappeared for a month.
So that's where the windfall came from. Shamie's husband has done a few diamonds, like so many others here. Who can blame them?
I invite Shamie and the boys round for tea and a swim. I presume she doesn't know that I know. On the 'phone though, as we're firming up arrangements (3 o'clock on Saturday, I'll make a cake, she'll bring some cool drinks) I make a terrible gaffe. She asks after Mai Alfred, a cleaner I once employed and she was keen to take on after me.
"She's not around these days," I laugh. "She's in Chiadzwa, doing diamonds."
Shamie doesn't respond. A few minutes later, she calls back. Sadly she can't make it on Saturday. "Another time, perhaps?"
They'd been turfed out of the house they were renting in Palmerston suburb. The owner's relative was coming back from the diaspora and needed a place to stay. Before going on maternity leave, Shamie had been working as a lecturer at a local polytechnic. She was giving the job up, she told me, to buy and sell.
They moved out to Fern Valley, to a house with a plot where Shamie would grow vegetables. I texted, 'tried 'phoning a couple of times. Shamie called me once, I remember, when she was in town with her wares. We didn't meet up.
Then, out of the blue months later, she sends an sms. She'd love to see me. "We've been blessed with a car -- two cars actually." She's learning to drive. I'm intrigued. Her husband was studying for his exams (accountancy, I think) when last I saw them: has he passed and got a great job? I do a little bit of sleuthing.
Mrs D. has the answer. Her granddaughter goes to the same school as Shamie's boys -- or did, when the teachers were still teaching (Now they have "study groups", where teachers give lessons to a select few whose parents are willing to pay in forex, say 200 rand a month. Mrs D can't afford to). One of the teachers asked her class one day who'd seen a diamond. Shamie's boy -- the younger one -- put his hand up. "Bring it to school so we can all see," the teacher urged. Shamie's boy did. He's a nice kid, brought up to obey without question as Shona children traditionally were. Mrs D says the teacher (daily pay = 1 million Zimbabwe dollars: daily bus fare to and from school = 2 million dollars) took the stone -- and disappeared for a month.
So that's where the windfall came from. Shamie's husband has done a few diamonds, like so many others here. Who can blame them?
I invite Shamie and the boys round for tea and a swim. I presume she doesn't know that I know. On the 'phone though, as we're firming up arrangements (3 o'clock on Saturday, I'll make a cake, she'll bring some cool drinks) I make a terrible gaffe. She asks after Mai Alfred, a cleaner I once employed and she was keen to take on after me.
"She's not around these days," I laugh. "She's in Chiadzwa, doing diamonds."
Shamie doesn't respond. A few minutes later, she calls back. Sadly she can't make it on Saturday. "Another time, perhaps?"
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
yoghurt
Hannah can barely contain her excitement. "Look," she says, handing me a tiny covered plastic pot. "Golddust!"
I'm wary. Golddust? The pot weighs virtually nothing. Has my neighbour branched into the illegal mineral trade that's wreaking havoc in eastern Zimbabwe?
This afternoon a man approached me at the supermarket in the border city of Mutare. "I have an item to sell," he whispered. Did he mean corn-meal, cooking oil, bread, jam, a tray of eggs -- all of which are in short supply in Zimbabwe?
"A diamond," he said impatiently. I told him that wasn't the kind of item I was interested in buying.
Now Hannah is offering me golddust.
"Not real golddust," she says affectionately. "Yoghurt culture, of course."
She and I have been plotting for weeks to get some yoghurt culture so we can make our own yoghurt.
Like many other foodstuffs, yoghurt isn't readily available in Zimbabwe. In the early days of the economic crisis, the state Dairibord milk company still managed to pump out sachets of pink, green and yellow drinking yoghurt. Those sachets are hard to find now, much to my four-year old's disappointment.
I’ve never been too keen on drinking yoghurt.
To me yoghurt is the voluptuously-smooth veloute I used to eat late after work in a tiny Paris kitchen in my 20s. Sometimes it was topped with a velvety prune compote. Better still, yoghurt is the thick and creamy stuff my mother made when I was growing up in eastern England.
Dad bought Mum a yoghurt maker for Christmas one year. It was a small brown glass tank. Six glass pots fitted snugly inside. Every few days Mum filled the pots with her yoghurt mixture, snapped the lid on the tank, wrapped it in a blanket and slid it among her freshly-ironed pillow cases in the airing cupboard, under the hot water tank.
For a few hours the yoghurt matured in the gentle heat of Mum's sheets. Then Mum unwrapped the tank, pulled out the pots and stacked them in the ‘fridge, ready for breakfast the next day.
My father liked to stir in spoonfuls of dark brown Muscovy sugar. The granules never dissolved properly so the yoghurt had a speckled look, like birds' eggs.
Hannah has managed to get her hands on some Greek yoghurt from South Africa, which we'll use as a culture. We have the other vital ingredient: a litre of milk. But now a new problem presents itself. Neither Hannah nor I have an airing cupboard. And Zimbabwe's shaky power-supply means hot water tanks rarely stay hot for long. How are we going to make our yoghurt?
We ask around. An elderly friend suggests putting the yoghurt in a polystyrene box to mature. We'll need to wrap the box in towels and leave it somewhere warm for the yoghurt to be a success, she says.
Mum has a brainwave.
"Use a thermos flask," she says in an email. "Make only a small quantity at a time so you don't have to worry if your 'fridge isn't working."
YOGHURT
Rinse out a thermos flask with boiling water.
Bring 500 ml full-cream milk to just below boiling point. Take the saucepan off the heat when the first bubbles appear, otherwise you'll get a "burnt milk" taste.
Stir in two teaspoons of yoghurt culture. Pour into flask. Leave for six hours. Pour into four (pre-sterilised) cups, reserving two teaspoons of yoghurt to make your next batch.
Refrigerate overnight. Serve nature or with honey.
I'm wary. Golddust? The pot weighs virtually nothing. Has my neighbour branched into the illegal mineral trade that's wreaking havoc in eastern Zimbabwe?
This afternoon a man approached me at the supermarket in the border city of Mutare. "I have an item to sell," he whispered. Did he mean corn-meal, cooking oil, bread, jam, a tray of eggs -- all of which are in short supply in Zimbabwe?
"A diamond," he said impatiently. I told him that wasn't the kind of item I was interested in buying.
Now Hannah is offering me golddust.
"Not real golddust," she says affectionately. "Yoghurt culture, of course."
She and I have been plotting for weeks to get some yoghurt culture so we can make our own yoghurt.
Like many other foodstuffs, yoghurt isn't readily available in Zimbabwe. In the early days of the economic crisis, the state Dairibord milk company still managed to pump out sachets of pink, green and yellow drinking yoghurt. Those sachets are hard to find now, much to my four-year old's disappointment.
I’ve never been too keen on drinking yoghurt.
To me yoghurt is the voluptuously-smooth veloute I used to eat late after work in a tiny Paris kitchen in my 20s. Sometimes it was topped with a velvety prune compote. Better still, yoghurt is the thick and creamy stuff my mother made when I was growing up in eastern England.
Dad bought Mum a yoghurt maker for Christmas one year. It was a small brown glass tank. Six glass pots fitted snugly inside. Every few days Mum filled the pots with her yoghurt mixture, snapped the lid on the tank, wrapped it in a blanket and slid it among her freshly-ironed pillow cases in the airing cupboard, under the hot water tank.
For a few hours the yoghurt matured in the gentle heat of Mum's sheets. Then Mum unwrapped the tank, pulled out the pots and stacked them in the ‘fridge, ready for breakfast the next day.
My father liked to stir in spoonfuls of dark brown Muscovy sugar. The granules never dissolved properly so the yoghurt had a speckled look, like birds' eggs.
Hannah has managed to get her hands on some Greek yoghurt from South Africa, which we'll use as a culture. We have the other vital ingredient: a litre of milk. But now a new problem presents itself. Neither Hannah nor I have an airing cupboard. And Zimbabwe's shaky power-supply means hot water tanks rarely stay hot for long. How are we going to make our yoghurt?
We ask around. An elderly friend suggests putting the yoghurt in a polystyrene box to mature. We'll need to wrap the box in towels and leave it somewhere warm for the yoghurt to be a success, she says.
Mum has a brainwave.
"Use a thermos flask," she says in an email. "Make only a small quantity at a time so you don't have to worry if your 'fridge isn't working."
YOGHURT
Rinse out a thermos flask with boiling water.
Bring 500 ml full-cream milk to just below boiling point. Take the saucepan off the heat when the first bubbles appear, otherwise you'll get a "burnt milk" taste.
Stir in two teaspoons of yoghurt culture. Pour into flask. Leave for six hours. Pour into four (pre-sterilised) cups, reserving two teaspoons of yoghurt to make your next batch.
Refrigerate overnight. Serve nature or with honey.
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