"You mean, it's not really acceptable to wear trousers?" asks my friend, who's white and from Malawi (and wearing fitted jeans).
"No." The two Shona women choose their words carefully. "It wasn't. You know, there are some churches you can't go to if you're wearing trousers."
"One time, I went to that UBC (United Baptist Church)," says Mai D. "It was cold, and I was wearing tracksuit bottoms under my skirt. They came to me after the service: "Amai, we do not like you to wear trousers."
I remember -- it's years since I thought about this -- a meeting I went to in Harare. Women of the Noughties, or something like that. It must have been 2004 or 5. I was the only white invited. The glamourous guest speaker was well-known, highly successful and married to a top tourism official. She kindly took time to explain zambias to me. Zambias are the wraparound skirts you see women wearing traditionally, often over trousers or a short skirt.
"I might be a businesswoman but when my inlaws come, I must put on my zambia," she said.
My white friend remembers growing up in Malawi under Kamuzu Banda, who banned trousers and short skirts. She recalls having to change quickly after tennis: the short wrapround tennis skirts weren't acceptable in public.
"Things are changing now," says Mai D. "You know, that young son of mine, he told his father and I: 'I will not marry a girl who wears dresses.' "
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
hallucinating
It's some kind of outdoor function. I think I can see a marquee. I know I have heels on: I feel unsteady as I walk. He -- the Father of the Nation, His Excellency -- is guest of honour.
We're in a crowd. Somehow my child gets pushed to the front and, too far away for me to do anything about it, he's being introduced. "What's your name?" I manage to lipread. I see my boy answering in his clear voice. H.E is smiling paternally. G is in florals next to him. She bends down to catch my son's words.
I manage to push my way -- politely -- through the crowd. H. E and The First Lady are chatting happily. Then I realise G. is talking in Italian.
I ask her (since I'm right next to her and it would be impolite not to): "Dov'e ha (slight hesitation: do I use the formal Lei rather than tu and if I do, what's the verb ending? ) imparato l'italiano?" Where did you learn Italian?
"You speak it too?" G is delighted. She turns her back on the rest of the crowd. We walk off together chatting, our heels sinking into the grass in time with each other. She's cool, I think. I was so wrong about her. Why, I could actually be friends with this woman.
"Oh," she says nonchalantly. "I learnt it when I was cleaning toilets in --" I don't catch the name of the Italian city but I'm too embarrassed to ask, especially as I have to confess I learnt my Italian at university. Poor G, I think. I'm being sincere. She only got a chance to go to secretarial college. Parents didn't send her to university. So typical of Zimbabwean parents' attitudes to girls a few years back, whether they were black or white.
"What does your husband do?" G asks. In a friendly manner. I gulp. "Just...you know, bits of NGO work," I say. One shouldn't lie to a New Best Friend. G doesn't seem 'phased. I can't really ask her what her husband does. We chat a bit more. Croissants are handed round.
And then I wake up. It's Saturday morning. A cold cup of Tanganda tea sits by the bed. The power's on. Nothing has changed.
It was a good dream, while it lasted.
We're in a crowd. Somehow my child gets pushed to the front and, too far away for me to do anything about it, he's being introduced. "What's your name?" I manage to lipread. I see my boy answering in his clear voice. H.E is smiling paternally. G is in florals next to him. She bends down to catch my son's words.
I manage to push my way -- politely -- through the crowd. H. E and The First Lady are chatting happily. Then I realise G. is talking in Italian.
I ask her (since I'm right next to her and it would be impolite not to): "Dov'e ha (slight hesitation: do I use the formal Lei rather than tu and if I do, what's the verb ending? ) imparato l'italiano?" Where did you learn Italian?
"You speak it too?" G is delighted. She turns her back on the rest of the crowd. We walk off together chatting, our heels sinking into the grass in time with each other. She's cool, I think. I was so wrong about her. Why, I could actually be friends with this woman.
"Oh," she says nonchalantly. "I learnt it when I was cleaning toilets in --" I don't catch the name of the Italian city but I'm too embarrassed to ask, especially as I have to confess I learnt my Italian at university. Poor G, I think. I'm being sincere. She only got a chance to go to secretarial college. Parents didn't send her to university. So typical of Zimbabwean parents' attitudes to girls a few years back, whether they were black or white.
"What does your husband do?" G asks. In a friendly manner. I gulp. "Just...you know, bits of NGO work," I say. One shouldn't lie to a New Best Friend. G doesn't seem 'phased. I can't really ask her what her husband does. We chat a bit more. Croissants are handed round.
And then I wake up. It's Saturday morning. A cold cup of Tanganda tea sits by the bed. The power's on. Nothing has changed.
It was a good dream, while it lasted.
Monday, September 6, 2010
greenshirts
"There are nine roadblocks on the way to Harare," my mother-in-law warns. "Drive slowly."
The police are on a fund-raising spree, it seems. Spot fines for speeding (and a host of other infractions). That would be good if it curbed Zimbabwe's road chaos. Road accidents are -- state media says -- the second main cause of death here.
We drive carefully, marvelling at the number of flashy, non-number plated cars happily steaming past us. If we're going at just under 120 km per hour -- the legal limit -- what speed must they be going at? There are suspicions (who knows whether they're justified?) that the drivers being targeted are mainly from one racial group.
We watch for police round every bend, every kopje, our hearts leaping every time we see a flash of green. The police wear luminous lime green tank-tops. And then we realise that that particular shade of green is obviously this year's hot colour. Women are wearing it: stretchy T-shirts, lime-green jumpers. Men sport tailored lime-green shirts (possibly Van Heusen, but probably Mbare flea market).
The thing is, you don't know for sure the lime green-wearers are not police until you get near them.
The journey takes us half an hour longer than normal.
The police are on a fund-raising spree, it seems. Spot fines for speeding (and a host of other infractions). That would be good if it curbed Zimbabwe's road chaos. Road accidents are -- state media says -- the second main cause of death here.
We drive carefully, marvelling at the number of flashy, non-number plated cars happily steaming past us. If we're going at just under 120 km per hour -- the legal limit -- what speed must they be going at? There are suspicions (who knows whether they're justified?) that the drivers being targeted are mainly from one racial group.
We watch for police round every bend, every kopje, our hearts leaping every time we see a flash of green. The police wear luminous lime green tank-tops. And then we realise that that particular shade of green is obviously this year's hot colour. Women are wearing it: stretchy T-shirts, lime-green jumpers. Men sport tailored lime-green shirts (possibly Van Heusen, but probably Mbare flea market).
The thing is, you don't know for sure the lime green-wearers are not police until you get near them.
The journey takes us half an hour longer than normal.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
requests
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."
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."
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.
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