My Zimbabwean Diary, Part II

DAY FIVE
With each day spent here, my sympathy for the Zimbabwean people deepens. I've gone on and on about the hardships I've had to endure while traveling in this country. Feeling sorry for me yet? Don't bother. This isn't my world, I'm just a transient here. For Zimbabweans, this is real life.
As I was walking through central Bulawayo this morning, I came across a store where people were queued up. The line was enormous, 500+ people, the type of thing you might see in Canada when Rolling Stones tickets go on sale. Know what they were all lined up for? Sugar. Yep, these people where going to spend their entire Saturday waiting to buy sugar.
Waiting in lines is the national pastime in a lot of these countries, and the people do it with remarkable patience and good humour. Not so much for me. A few hours before, I had been waiting in a line for nearly 90 minutes to buy a train ticket, when a little old man sidled up and cut in front of me. It took every last ounce of my restraint not to sock him one. Why? I'm on vacation, I didn't have anywhere else to be. It was only because the waiting had made me cross.
I just wish that one of these poor sods would raise their fists in the air and put an end to all this bullshit. But who is going to speak out against the government? Not the media - it's state-controlled. And besides, publicly slandering Mugabe is a punishable offence. Instead, Zimbabweans have simply chose to ride out the storm and speak of this desperate time as if it's just another punch to roll with.
"What this country needs is leadership," says Chris, a father of 3 who lost his job in a factory and now sells cigarettes on the street corner. "We need change. Because the situation here is not fine."
I cringe when I hear that last bit, since Chris is about the 10th person to say that. That the situation is not fine is both the new Zimbabwean proverb and the world's biggest understatement.

DAY SIX
Bulawayo is a fantastic name, but the city is proper boring. Especially on Sundays. My train to Vic Falls didn't leave until 8PM, so I spent the day sitting in the hostel, drinking coffee and reading "news"papers.
I had booked a berth in a sleeper cabin for the overnight trip. It was a pleasant journey and i was comfortable and in good company. And, having seen the looks of some of the rogues who were riding in the economy cabin, I thanked myself for having splurged for the 1st class ticket.
The trip took 14 hours. There were frequent stops, and one passenger told me that the conductor must often slow down due to herds of elephant crossing the tracks. A train hitting an elephant? Sounds potentially messy!

DAY SEVEN
Victoria Falls is not like the rest of Zimbabwe. It is an island unto itself. Sure, there are many poor and desperate people, but because of the town's proximity to Botswana and Zambia, shelves are well-stocked and life is generally normal. And another thing: Vic Falls has tourists.
Up until this morning, I had met one other backpacker during my week in the country. Now suddenly, here were many. This was a welcome change, since I had started to feel conversation-starved.
Having seen the Zim side of the falls on my previous visit, I gave it a skip. I still have to see the Zam side anyway. Besides, I didn't return to Vic Falls to look at water flowing over a gorge. No. I came here to buy a giraffe.
Zimbabweans must be among the most talented artisans in Africa. Carvings, sculptures and jewelery are of the highest quality, and the Vic Falls market is THE place to shop. Since my last time here, I'd had my heart set on an olive-wood carving of a giraffe, and today I finally had the pleasure of being able to mosey through the hundreds of available specimens, looking for the most handsome candidate. After finding the one and taking care of a little business, I walked away with a 4' high giraffe, and a young artist named Clement walked away with $40 + my T-shirt + my shorts. Good thing I'd brought spares!
In the evening, I drank beers with some local guys who were giving "African names" to all the White people. I ended up with the title of Mchaza, which is Ndebele for "man's anus". Great. Just great.

DAY EIGHT
By this point, I'd eaten a big enough slice of Zimbabwe and it was go time. The plan was to cross the bridge over the Zambezi into Zambia, but of course nothing ever goes according to plan.
I had $59 to my name, and the Zambian visa costs $55. A quick internet search revealed that there were no banks on the Zam side that would give me money, and the prospect of arriving in a new country with $4 and a hope and a prayer wasn't too appealing. Food thing I had Plan B: B for Botswana.
I caught a ride in the back of a truck, 70km to the Kazungula border crossing, for which I paid $3 (extortion). But who cares? My arrival at Zim's Western frontier meant that I had accomplished what very few travelers have been able to do in recent times: blitzkrieg across the whole country. As I walked forth to the border, I turned back for a moment of contemplation. I had just completed the most ambitious, challenging and calorie-deficient journey of my life. Tout seul.
Giraffe in hand, I marched into Botswana, walked 5km to Kasane town and checked myself into a luxury resort complete with full breakfast, fresh towels and a fine view of the Chobe River. Good old credit card!
I will return to Zimbabwe one day. There are still places to see such as Harare and Mana Pools National Park - both famous in Africa. But the real reason I'd like to return is my affection for the Zimbabwean people. They are classy, they are educated, they have infinite potential, and they deserve better. Someday, when the country stops being run by apes, Zimbabwe will one again thrive and find its place on the world stage.

Hope you all enjoyed this story.
-Mchaza