MY TIME IN ZIMBABWE, PART TWO

Map of Zimbabwe:

Further to Part One, see- https://bowandarrowman.blogspot.com/2024/05/my-time-in-zimbabwe-part-one.html?zx=2fa72e432cb4157d, here is Part Two of my doing-a-JN two-part posting outlining my time in Zimbabwe.

After a couple of days, our talks about privatisation got disrupted. It turned out that some leading members of the so-called indigenisation movement, a black power movement, had infiltrated the audience. This movement was very unhappy at how the ending of white rule of Zimbabwe hadn't benefitted ordinary black Zimbabweans. Quite the reverse, during white rule, Zimbabwe was self-sufficient in food. Now there there regular food shortages, massive price increases of the basics to get by in life and many people left unemployed; the Zimbabwean dollar was effectively worthless - I'm not defending white rule, by the way. After the end of white rule, Zimbabwe effectively became a very corrupt and even more impoverished one party-state led by Robert Mugabe; repression of anyone opposing his rule was brutally put down - just look up the massacres in Matabeleland during the 1980s.

Back to the disruption. One member of the indigenisation movement interrupted proceedings and stood up to give a speech. Basically, he said he was fed up with white people like me and my colleague coming over to his country to tell Zimbabweans what to to do. Things got very tense, though I must admit I agreed with everything he said. After he sat down, I said (as it was my talk he interrupted) that I agreed with him which is why the cons as well as the pros of privatisation were being put across so Zimbabwean people or at least its government could decide what to do. I added that the Zimbabwean government didn't pay for our advice and that the Swedish government was paying for everything. I don't think what I said changed anything but I just wanted to defuse the situation and get out of the line of fire.

By this time, my colleague and I were getting on surprisingly well. Every evening, we always went out to the nearby pizzeria for a pizza and a few beers. It was a good restaurant. We had our routines and they were safe routines.

The weekend was coming up, our two days off from work. My colleague and I had planned to spend one day with Paget, an employee of the ZIPAM who was effectively minding us throughout the trip, and another day with a civil servant who we had befriended during our talks. We wanted to 'treat' them both for being friendly to us, whether that was wangled into our expenses or not wasn't a factor as things were very cheap in Zimbabwe for a Westerner.

On the Saturday, we hired a car for Paget to take us to a local market. The first thing that was strange at the market was that a group of Zimbabwean kids came up to Paget demanding money for them to look after the car. Paget asked us for money; we paid up but asked him why we should pay them. He explained that if we didn't they would trash the car. The payment then made a lot of sense to me.

Mbare market, near Harare:

Also, up to this time, I hadn't been exposed to haggling. I was useless not least because what I was haggling about was for so little money (in my book) and the person I was haggling with had very little money. I would invariably pay whatever the price first offered; Paget kept telling me I should haggle but I couldn't. There was also a time at the market where I was alone and I felt a little scared as I was the moneyed-white man being subject to a lot of attention from people at the market selling their wares. I rushed straight back to Paget just to feel safe. I'm sure I was safe but when you don't feel safe in a foreign land my instincts kick in to get to a safe place. And Paget was my safe place. On returning to our car, which wasn't trashed, we took Paget out for a nice meal. Zimbabwean steaks are delicious.

Afterwards, we gave Paget a lift back to his home in our taxi. He was very keen for us to meet his mother. We entered his home. His mother immediately offered us food - that's the way in Zimbabwe and many other poor countries. We had to turn it down, not least because we had already eaten. But if truth be told, I've always been advised not to eat home-cooked food in faraway places. The problem is the water. When in Africa, I always brush my teeth using bottled water; I never order a salad at a restaurant because local water may be used to wash the salad; and I never have ice cubes served up in my drinks at a bar, hotel or restaurant. I felt a bit bad turning down Paget's mother's food but I didn't want to run the risk of being seriously ill.

The next day, Sunday, we met up with - I apologise I can't remember his name but I'll call him Mr Banker as that was the job he did before he joined the civil service for a better paid job - in Western countries, it's usually the other way around! We met Mr Banker at a restaurant and we had great conversation over a great meal, another Zimbabwean steak. At the end of the meal, we asked him how he was getting back home. Mr Banker answered in vague terms - I suspect he was going to use a bush taxi, the African equivalent of a bus service but without the scheduled fares, times and stops. We offered to taxi him to his home saying that it was en route to our place - it wasn't but that wasn't the point. What was clear was that he didn't want us anywhere near his home. We dropped him off presumably a short walk from his home. My guess he was embarrassed about his home.

Bulawayo:

After the weekend, we were due to go to Bulawayo, not only Zimbabwe's second city but the regional capital of Matabeleland. Bulawayo had a more friendly even if a more colonial feel than Harare. We were put up in a hotel there. The hotel was wild; it was full of prostitutes. It was great for people-watching but not for people-sexing - HIV/AIDS was running rife in Zimbabwe and many other African countries at the time.

By this stage, it was clear that the head of ZIPAM was playing me and my colleague. He showed no interest in us and privatisation. Moreover, he treated Paget as a minion. When he couldn't be bothered to collect his luggage at Bulawayo airport after flying from Harare, he just publicly blamed Paget and then ordered Paget to sort it out. He was just showing us off to his superiors, presumably ZANU-PF superiors. Often we had to wait for a very long time while his superiors turned up to proceedings before we began to talk. Often as we started to talk, he'd leave with his superiors. It was all about his career. By this time, I disliked him intensely, but not as much as I dislike Ali R now!

I had only committed myself to one week in Zimbabwe unlike my colleague who had committed himself to two weeks. After one talk in Bulawayo, the ZIPAM head asked me to extend my stay to do the third leg in Gweru and the fourth and final leg in Harare. I declined his offer and said I've got a flight booked from Bulawayo to Harare to catch a flight back to London. He chose not to hear me, and at this time I went mad at him saying I wasn't prepared to be paraded around anymore. Realising my bargaining position wasn't strong, I asked him to book me a taxi to Bulawayo airport. He eventually did book me a taxi.

Joshua Mqabuko Nkomo International Airport, Bulawayo:

While waiting at Bulawayo airport at night, I felt very colonial being served and drinking gin and tonic on a veranda overlooking the runway. My flight was a British Airways flight and not an Air Zimbabwe flight; the latter often didn't run to schedule because Robert Mugabe would often commandeer its flights. The British Airways plane landing was my equivalent to the last American helicopter out of Saigon at the end of the Vietnam war! Okay, I'm exaggerating but hopefully you get my drift.

At Harare airport I had to pay so-called dash, a bribe, to an airport official who threatened to search my suitcase and take a long time doing the search so as to miss my flight back to London. I now understood the customs of Zimbabwe, dash was just a way to supplement their low wages so they can get by. By this time in Zimbabwe, I knew how to give dash. Just put some money, we're talking pennies and cents here, on the palm of your hand without saying anything. If they took it, you got over the obstacle; if they didn't take it, no one could accuse you of offering a bribe which was a crime in Zimbabwe as it is in most countries.

This trip to Zimbabwe totally politicised me. One can read about poverty but sometimes it's only when you see poverty that the penny drops. Visiting Zimbabwe was the first time I saw extreme poverty. After that visit, I knew I was left wing - clean water, food, shelter and basic education and health care are inalienable human rights in my opinion. After that trip, I knew which side I was on and it wasn't right!

Ngozi Mine, Bulawayo: