It took about 7 hours of sitting with my knose between my knees, squeezed in 4 across between fragrant unwashed bodies, in a narrow, rickety minivan, travelling way too fast, passing on curves and swerving to avoid potholes. The only way to survive such an ordeal is to put yourself into a Zen-like trance, breath in and out through the hole in the top of your head, repeat your mantra slowly to yourself while telling yourself that the pain you are feeling is not your own. (It helps if you can position yourself over one of the many holes in the exhaust.) There are compensations however, which require rousing from the trance- fine scenery, free Portuguese lessons from your neighbors, fresh tangerines and roasted cashews purchased through the windows from vendors that crowd the van as we passed through towns.
Zimbabwe is a noticeably richer country than Mozambique- no more houses with cane walls and thatched roofs, the people were noticeably plumper, and all wore shoes, nobody in rags. But while Mozambique’s trajectory is steadily upwards, Zimbabwe’s , has been tracking steadily downwards for the past 30 years due to the destruction of the economy by Robert Mugabe and the ruling party, ZANU-PF. Mugabe came to power in 1980, and initially showed promise. Since then he has morphed into a dictator and the political situation has deteriorated such that it is essentially a one party police state. The economy has been in a downward spiral, with hyperinflation (after introducing a 100 trillion dollar note, worth about $4 US) only recently abated after they switched to the US dollar as the official currency (the smallest currency they have is a $1 note- no coins, so if you purchase something, you get your change in candy or soda). Although the political situation was a constant presence during my visit, Zimbabwe is still a wonderful country full of warm, effusive people and beautiful landscape.
I was travelling with another American, Phil. We found our way to a small guest house run by Ann Bruce, an elderly white Zimbabawean and her employee Emma, along with Emmas extended family. Although shabby, with lumpy beds, it was clean, safe, and friendly (and cheap - $10 per night). We felt immediately at home, and during our stay we had many pleasant conversations and shared meals with them. We noticed that whenever politics came up, everybody glanced around to see who was there, and then spoke very quietly- It is a crime to badmouth the government and President Mugabe. I’ve been reading a book about Mugabe, the liberation struggle, and ZANU. It’s a pretty discouraging story. ( the claims that you have to support the ruling party or be deemed a traitor sounded frighteningly similar to the Bush administrations claims during the recent war.)
Mutare is a small city situated in a high valley surrounded by mountains. High and dry, like the highlands of Guatemala in winter, or the American west, aka Boise with tropical trees. We found lunch at a nearby restaurant- it was a walled compound with a nice garden and a veranda bordered by flame trees and jacarandas. The garden was full of fashionably- dressed Zimbabwean kids and parents there for a birthday party. We’re talking Sarah Palin eyewear, Rolex watches, fine leather shoes,etc. There was a guy following the kids around with a huge movie camera documenting the event. It was pretty packed, but the owner, a friendly Zambian-born man of Irish descent named Patrick, found us a table on the edge of the action. It turns out that wealthy black Zimbabweans are either from the ruling party, or in the diamond business. A few years ago, diamonds were discovered nearby, and the gold rush has been on since then. Local kids who were parking cars or selling bananas suddenly found themselves fabulously wealthy & driving Mercedes. Patrick told us a hilarious story of how he was approached in the plaza by a kid who wanted to sell him a barrel of rocks that he claimed were diamonds. Patrick hadn’t heard of the discovery, and told him to “Get Lost”, assuming it was a scam. “I missed the bus on that one” he said and nearly fell over laughing.
We asked Patrick how we might make our way out to the Bvumba mountains- we wanted to see the area, but it is impossible to rent a car in Mutare, and there were no busses. He thought about it, then suggested negotiating with a taxi driver before saying good bye and wandering off. Fifteen minutes (and a succulent steak in mushroom sherry sauce) later, he came back, and suggested we talk to his friend “Otie” , who was sitting nearby. “ He has about 30 cars, and if you go talk to him, he’ll probably let you use one”. Otie was an African man of about 40, slightly overweight, and diving into his own steak while nursing a beer. We were introduced, made some small talk, and then Otie offered to show us around town. What proceeded was then a bizarre tour of Odies’ riches- we saw an assortment of cars in various states of repair, the shop for his well drilling business, both of his houses, and one of his two wives. He took us up to a viewpoint in the mountains above town, then back to the market in the middle of town, where he drove down the pedestrian alley between stalls (honking to part the seas of shoppers), stopping in front of the CD booth where he wanted to buy music. He launched into a diatribe about foreign media was misrepresenting the political situation in Zimbabwe, how none of the beatings, killings and land thefts had actually occurred, and how everyone ought to just support the ruling party and everything would be fine. Things were getting a little weird, so at that point, Phil and I decided that it was time to bail out. We would figure out another way to get to the mountains.
The next day, armed with new information and accompanied by Andreas and Caspar (two Danish travelers we had met), we walked out of town to the Total gasoline station on the edge of town . There we joined a motley assortment of others looking for transportation to the Mountains. We joined up with a local women, and negotiated transport “ala family dog” crammed into the back of 30 year old pickup with a too-low cap and bad springs. And, oh yeah, exhaust leaks, which once again helped to dull the pain of my contortionist position.
We rose up into the Bvumba mountains on a gourgeous winding road, with expansive views down into Mozambique that we could glimpse through the windows. At the end of the road was the Leopord’s Rock Hotel, a relic from the Rhodesian days, and a favorite resting spot for Queen Elizabeth and Princess Diana. That was before the collapse of the economy and the rise of Mugabe. Now it is still an elegant, though fading, place, but we had it nearly to ourselves. There is a famous golf course there, which Caspar and Andreas wanted to try, so we played the good colonialists, rented clubs, hired a caddy (required), and played 9 holes ($25 apiece). It was a pretty tough course. We lost 12 balls, spent about half the time looking for them in the jungle, and it took us 4 hours. Luckily, there was no one else playing to get annoyed, and Benjamin, our caddy, and the other workers seemed happy to overlook the fact that we didn’t meet the dress code, or have much of a clue about golf. Even the monkeys in the trees seemed amused. No matter though, as the scenery was phenomenal. We then decompressed over late lunch on the veranda, and started a long walk back towards town.
That night was the night of the World Cup Final game between Netherlands and Spain. Eight of us Mzungu’s (white people) crowded in with the locals in a pub to watch the last in a long series of soccer matches. World Cup fever abated a bit here, when the last African country, Ghana, failed to progress, but the final was enough of an event to pack the pub. (Included in our group of Mzungus, were Luke and Cathy, who are friends with my niece Shannon at Xavier University in Cincinnati.) Then the next day, it was Zen time again, and after an eight hour return trip in the fetal position, we made it home. Beira never looked so good.
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