Grief

"Khumbulani has phoned," she says. "The police know who the tsotsis are."

When I first saw her after Christmas, her face was hollow, her cheeks sunken. Grief has aged her: grief, and horror too. Her sister Sekai, an energetic mother-of-two was murdered.

Sekai was managing a general store well off the beaten track in Nyanga, eastern Zimbabwe. I have not seen the store but I imagine what it is like: the long wooden counter, and behind it, bottles of cooking oil, bars of soap, bags of kapenta. Not a lot of choice but the basics, enough to keep a family that grows its own maize and vegetables going.

Sekai slept at her workplace in a room off the back the store. The tsotsis came at 10 pm on the Saturday night after New Year. Sekai heard them truck arrive. She tried to lock herself in. The tsotsis blocked the door. "Do not close it," they told her (the male worker at the bottle store heard this conversation and recounted it to police). "We want the money." "There is no money," Sekai said. But the tsotsis, their heads tied in plastic shopping bags so that she couldn't identify them, had been watching. The owner of the store had not collected the money that night. "Give us the money." Sekai tried to pull out her cellphone. That's when they stabbed her in the chest. She staggered away, screaming. "You've killed me, you've killed me." One of them pulled out a pistol.

Her sons found her by the step just outside the store.

Now what Sekai's sister is telling me is this: that the tsotsis may have disguised their heads with OK bags but Sekai's male co-worker recognised the pair of trousers that one of them was wearing. In the village, clothes are not a commodity endlessly renewed as they might be in the towns which have a market. Here, clothes have to last several seasons, if not years. A pair of trousers is as recognisable in some cases as a person's face.

"The police beat that man. He said: Do you want to kill me? And the police officer said: Yes, I will kill you because you killed Mai Khumbulani. So then the tsotsi cried: OK. I will talk."

There is no relish on her face as she says this. Only pain.

The attacker is from the village. He says it was not him who stabbed Sekai. That was his friend from Rusape, a two hour-drive away. The one who owned the truck. The police have gone to find him.

gifts

"My father sent you some things," she says.
"He went into his fields, got you some pumpkin. The big white pumpkins. And cucumbers."
"He said to me: Take them to Mai S - because she has given me food."
I put my hand to my chest to say thankyou, I'm touched. Gently, the way I've been taught. In Zimbabwe, I've learnt to receive. I think hungrily of big white pumpkins, of the chopping they'll necessitate but of the roasts too, they'll make.
"But he put them in the hut," she says. "And then I got up at 3 o'clock and it was dark and I forgot them."

birthday

On the bumpy mud track leading to the homestead, blue plastic bags hide each bunch of bananas so that each tree is dotted with huge gaudy baubles.

"I took my grandchildren up the hill the other weekend for a birthday party," says a farmer. "Seven kids, all under the age of 10."

We're sitting in a shade-dappled garden, sprinkler going and that chill in the air you get - despite the sun -- when the Zimbabwean winter's about to set in. I look at the wine and the curry and the perfect rice and dhal and poppadums and Greek cakes and good books and a huge floppy dog. Not for the first time, I get that trapped-in-time feeling I often get on still-white-owned farms.

"When we came back down again, the army trucks were waiting." He takes a sip of wine. "Wanted to know what political meeting we'd been holding up there."

The authorities -- or rather those loyal to the president -- have been clamping down on all gatherings, revving up, no doubt, for elections Mr Mugabe is determined to hold before the end of the year, despite widespread fears of violence. A History Society meeting was recently broken up in Harare: too many whites in one place made the gathering "suspect" (read: likely pro-opposition MDC).

"I said to them: Why would I take kids to a political meeting? If I wanted to hold a meeting, why wouldn't I just hold it in my house?" He sighs.

"And I'm going to have the same problem next month, when the Tree Society of Zimbabwe come."

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.

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."

rumblings

It's the hat I see first -- pink flowered, large-brimmed -- as I drive in the gate.

My husband is closing the gate behind me. As I unpack children, school bags, a tin of sausages, a laptop and a bottle of Avon foundation procured after lengthy and complicated negotiations (make-up for white skin in a country where whites make up less than 0.1 percent of the population is not readily available), I realise the hat has stopped to talk to my husband.

It's an angry conversation, though the anger is not directed at him.

"And you ain't seen nothing yet," she says loudly.

Zimbabwe's constitutional outreach programme started -- supposedly -- on June 23rd. Things aren't going well. The official Herald daily says merely that the process has got off to a "slow start", something to do with delegates not getting their supper. Reports from the former opposition MDC tell a different story. The MDC and its supporters want presidential terms restricted to 2 in the new constitution: the party's opponents are (predictably) determined not to let that happen. ZANU-PF has launched Operation Chimumumumu (Operation Shut Up/Dumb), forbidding all but selected and properly primed villagers to air their views to outreach officers. There are reports of MDC huts being burnt down. Today, 3 MDC supporters have been abducted in Marondera.

I watch the woman in the hat - she's a contact of the MDC MP who's frequently in our suburb -- make her angry way down the road and think of snatched conversations on road corners two years ago, when Zimbabwe's rumbling political crisis exploded into real violence.

Will it happen again?

interviewing in a bikini

"You've been to Hot Springs?" queries the policeman at the roadblock just by the Chimanimani turnoff. "For leisure purposes?" He looks suspicious.

Yes, we assure him, for leisure purposes. My wet plait and the child in the back convince him. He waves us on.

Now I'm beginning to wonder if I was wrong. Honestly and truly, we did go to Hot Springs -- a rustic resort (if you can call it that -- Doris Lessing in "African Laughter" says it's ruined and that book was published back in 1993) on the edge of the Chiadzwa diamond fields -- for leisure purposes. It was a Saturday afternoon, mid-winter, and the idea of swimming in a naturally hot pool was tempting. So that's what we did: took a picnic, bundled up the child, filled a couple of thermoses, and stayed an hour-and-a half. Hot Springs has just been controversially "sold" by the Chimanimani Rural District Council for 60,000 US to a company to house mainly South African workers on the diamond fields, but it is still open for day-trippers. It was a dreamy afternoon, mostly spent lolling in the hot water under a mopani tree.

Maybe though I think now, I should have been a bit more diligent, more of a newshound. There was a group of four (fairly loutish, half-drunk) Afrikaans males also in the pool. I should have probed, asked them what was going on.

The thing is, I was wearing a bikini. Can one interview in a bikini? Especially when you're interviewing undercover, which necessarily entails a bit of banter. My husband was a couple of metres away. He understands the work drive -- he does it himself -- but this was a wee bit delicate. "Thanks for bringing your wife," they'd shouted to him. "Don't you want to come to watch the rugby with her?" After that, could I really have swam over to them, smiled innocently and started chatting?

Maybe. I just couldn't. So that's my defence. No interviews in a bikini. You have to draw the (bikini) line somewhere. Next time I'll wear a one-piece and shorts.

wait 'til the world cup

A lodge-owner's wife was on her own out at the lodge near Odzi, eastern Zimbabwe. Her husband was out playing bridge. There was a knock on the door late at night.

Two ZANU-PF officials were waiting. "We're having a rally," they said (Night-time rallies are called pungwes here). "We've come for our contribution."

She bristled but then thought better of retorting with sarcasm. She was on her own in the dark. She went to the pantry, pulled out a 2kg bag of sugar.

"That's not enough," the officials said. "Don't you produce coffee?"

"It's filter coffee," she told them. "Not instant. You won't like it." Most Shona rally-goers -- reluctant or otherwise -- are Daybreak drinkers. (Cardboard-packed Daybreak is a mix of instant coffee grounds and chicory)

"Give," they growled.

"You'll have to go down to the bar," she said. "Tendai'll help you."

Tendai sent the men packing. He has a brigadier-friend and is not afraid. But the next day, the lodge got a 'phone call.

"Your Tendai must be careful. Very careful," a voice said. The word on the ground is that ZANU-PF is waiting for the World Cup. They'll do nothing -- or nothing very much -- until the World Cup is over. Violence would only annoy South African President Jacob Zuma, who's anxious to get the Zimbabwe problem smoothed out of sight. But when the World Cup is finished, then -- so the whispers go -- then all hell will break loose.

poison II

"It was to get the money," says Mai C, when I ask her who on earth would want to do a thing like that.

"They poisoned him to get the money. If he had enough to buy maize seed and drink beer, then they thought there was probably more. No-one has money for seed these days."

I check the price of a bag of Pannar maize seed: 23 US in the local TM supermarket. In the rural areas, where few are formally employed, just one Obama (slang for US dollar) is hard to come by. Twenty-three must represent a fortune.

snatched by baboons

Saturday's state funeral had tongues wagging in Zimbabwe. In the middle of a power-sharing crisis, Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai chose not to attend. It was hardly surprising: President Robert Mugabe used his graveside oration to blast Tsvangirai as he used to at almost all state funerals before the unity government was formed. State reporters were sent Tsvangirai-sniffing and found him playing golf at Ruwa Country Club. "PM plays golf as nation mourns," read the headline on the official Sunday Mail.

The man being buried was a little-known senator, Misheck Chando. He was a member of ZANU-PF, of course: one of the MDC's gripes is that the national burial ground is now nothing more than a graveyard for ZANY-PF. He was killed -- wouldn't you know it -- in a car crash. It turns out Chando very nearly didn't make it to national hero status and not for the normal reasons (wrong party): in 1944, at the age of three, he was abducted by baboons. His parents were working in their fields in Murehwa. The toddler was set on the ground. A troop of baboons dashed out from the bush and snatched the child. The parents were too far away to save him, although they tried. Villagers mounted search parties in the nearby mountains. They searched for four days. At one point, they found a child's footsteps next to the tracks of adult baboons. Eventually, they conceded defeat and arranged a funeral at the family homestead. It wasn't until the fifth day since the boy had gone missing that a villagers out looking for firewood came upon the child, calmly seated in the middle of a circle of baboons. The man managed to scare the animals away and rescue the child. Village elders had to "erase" the funeral by throwing sorghum into a fire and celebrations were held instead.

To this day, no-one really knows what the boy Chando ate for five days or how he survived.

primary colours

In the dark grocery shop at Halfway House, the assistant weighs my pears and rings in my wild blueberries on a calculator. There's no power to get the till working. Everything's normal. Or nearly.

"We saw people back there," I say quietly. "Walking along the road. Where were they going?"

Until Headlands, there'd been no sign to suggest elections were on this month. No campaign posters, no trucks full of noisy activists (singing's been banned in the eastern city of Mutare in the run-up to the polls, the Manica Post says). Just miles and miles of straight empty road. The road (unpotholed here because there's less traffic) stretches like a white-grey ribbon, bordered by shimmering rust-tipped grass and pine and bottle-brush trees so green they're speckled with black. After a few years here, I know now that these are Zimbabwe's primary colours: roadline grey, black-green, rust. And blue, the well-washed and faded blue of the sky without a cloud the size of a man's hand.

The women walk slowly but purposefully, in groups of two or three. Doeks on their heads, babies on their backs. It's mid-morning. The sun is already high and hot. There are several dozen of them, probably somewhere around 80. Very few men. A church service perhaps? Men aren't so keen on church-going here, not traditionally. But the faces that turn to look at our car are closed, not like the ones we drove past a fortnight ago flocking to an outdoor service in eastern Honde Valley, where the tea grows.

"It's a rally," the shop assistant says. There's a pile of gooey koeksusters next to the till. "It's Didymus Mutasa. He is having a rally in the location." He gives an apologetic half-smile.

I know why. Mutasa is Mugabe's state security minister and - despite the koeksusters (an Afrikaans delicacy) and the colonial style Cape Dutch gables at Halfway House -- Headlands is a ruling party stronghold. Like Macheke, a few miles further on. These are bad places to be opposition supporters or white farmers. Ouma and her late husband used to live somewhere near here. He was Polish. They took his farm even though Ouma is black. "He had a heart attack," Ouma says. "It killed him." Mutasa's the one who said back in 2002 that Zimbabwe would be better off with only six million people (ie half the population) as long as they were supporters of the ruling party.

We climb back into the car, shaking the sand from the car park off our feet. So often Zimbabwe looks as stunning as a picture postcard. Scratch the surface though, and the fear, the politics and the old hatreds are never far away.