My Zimbabwean Diary

Dear Mom,

A short while back you made me laugh by likening my blog to Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Perhaps, I've finally written the true African story you were looking for.

I invite you all to read the words I wrote while traveling in one of the most unforgettable countries I have ever visited: Zimbabwe.

P.S. This is long, so instead of making you all pack a lunch, I will divide it into two separate posts (next one to come in a couple of days).

DAY ONE
I entered the country at the Forbes' Road border crossing from Mozambique. I don't know why, but I always get a feeling of satisfaction whenever I cross a border on foot - it seems somehow romantic. I handed over $65US for the Zimbabwean visa - my second in as many months - and swallowed hard for two reasons. First, Canadians pay the second highest fee to enter Zimbabwe, after Angolans. Second, I can't help but imagine my precious money being transfered directly into the back pocket of supreme despot and rotten son-of-a-bitch President Robert Mugabe. Before heading to town, I had to change money, which is both funny and scary at the same instant. It's scary because it's illegal, unless you use an official exchange bureau, which will give you 30,000 Zim$ for $1US. Few people use that outlet, however, because the dodgy-looking fellow sitting under the tree outside the exchange bureau will pull banknotes out of a stack 6" high and trade at a rate of 200,000:1. It definitely pays to use this "parallel market", though doing so could land you in a local prison, which I'll hazard isn't much fun.
I paid a local guy to drive me to Mutare, a large and rather pleasant town in Zim's Eastern highlands, and walked to a guesthouse wherein I paid 1.7 million dollars to become their only resident. It would be my 3rd night in a row sleeping in a place that had no electricity, though the power did come on for 7 minutes a little later in the evening.
Mutare's principal attraction is a nearby national park, but I had no car to get there so I just walked around. I'd heard all the tales about the nationwide shortages of food and goods, though nothing could have prepared me for what I saw as I gazed in the shops. Supermarkets - massive ones - had almost nothing in them, perhaps just enough clutter to occupy 5% of the space. There are no eggs, milk, cheese, Coke or bread.
I walked home and ate the buns, tomatoes and cookies that I'd brought with me from Mozambique.

DAY TWO
I wanted to go to Masvingo, 400km away, but I had no idea how to get there. Fuel shortages have crippled the transportation network, which is a shame because Zimbabwe has excellent infrastructure and a reliable system of trains and buses. I was encouraged by a local guy named Ian, who remarked that "you can always get from Point A to Point B, it's just a question of how." I had a stroke of luck by finding a bus headed in the right direction, though I paid for my good fortunes by spending the next 7 hours stuffed into a seat, unable to so much as fidget, with my body pressed up against a window, face exposed to the hot sun while some lady's colic baby wailed in my ears at 20,000Hz. The passing view (one with many baboons) and a cheap 1960s romance novel were my only escapes.
Buses here stop often, mostly due to "fundraising" roadblocks set up by local police. It's a bit annoying, though one consolation is that many villagers congregate at the stops, waiting to sell their wares to the idle passengers. For several minutes, an impromptu market manifests itself, and commerce takes place through the windows. Most touts sell tomatoes and bananas, though today I was offered a selection of fried snacks such as roaches and whole fetal birds.
Masvingo is the access point to the ancient ruins of Great Zimbabwe, but the town itself is just a truck stop. I paid 196,000 Zim$ for a bowl of rice and sausage, ate 4 bananas and spent the rest of the night in the hostel, sitting alone in the dark.

DAY THREE
The realization sets in that finding even the most basic item in Zimbabwe is a tall order. Neither the hostel nor the supermarket has toilet paper, though I won't tell you how I solved that problem. I rise after a sleepless night courtesy of the 101st Mosquito Airborne Division and meander down to the only eatery in town. I wolf down a plate of beef stew and sadza (maize meal) before heading to the grocery store to arm myself with bananas, chocolate and soda water for the day ahead. Then I catch a minibus taxi to Great Zimbabwe.
Great Zimbabwe is an ancient Shona city, built of stone and thought to date back to 1200AD. It was once the focal point of one of the most powerful civilizations in the region, which is why, at independence, the Rhodesian government chose to rename their country after this exact place.
I strolled around the ruins for a while, somehow managing to avoid all the guys who wanted to be my guide, then headed back to my lonely room. It was only 1PM; wishing not to wallow in bed for the next 9 hours, I walked to the expensive hotel up the road and spent the afternoon drinking 600,000 dollars worth of beer and watching Spring Break Shark Attack on TV (no, really!) As I skulked home, I paused amidst a family of vervet monkeys and stared at the afterglow of the day's denouement as it reflected in orange off the old rock walls of the city. I thought that, once, the Zimbabweans were a powerful nation, led my a fearless chief who built great cities and led his people to glory. Somehow, things have regressed in the last 800 years.

DAY FOUR
By 645AM, I have already succeeded in hitching back to Masvingo. Upon arrival, I order tea and french fries at a confectionery, and discover that my Zim dollars had lost half their value overnight. My sights set on getting to Bulawayo, I staked out the petrol station until a bus arrived going the right direction. I should mention that I employ the term "bus" in the lightest sense imaginable... it's only my best guess that this bucket of bolts was a bus in its previous life.
20 minutes out of town and things begin to unravel. There is a loud bang and the driver screeches to a halt. Some shouting in Ndebele ensues, followed by a sea of groans. We have blown a drive shaft bearing. Everybody gets out, and there we all were, sitting in the grass on the roadside, myself speaking to a nice guy named Lawez who claimed to know Donovan Bailey, while meanwhile the bus driver was hitching back to Masvingo to find a mechanic.
To my surprise, they had the bus repaired within an hour and we set off once more. I must say I was enjoying sitting outside in the morning sun - Zimbabweans see very few tourists and I was quite popular as I took pictures of the debacle.
Hell broke loose for good shortly thereafter when the bus threw a second bearing. Picturing myself passing my 27th birthday on that ride, I grabbed Lawez and told him that if he found us a substitute set of wheels to Bulawayo, I'd pay for it. We waited nearly 2 hours, but eventually managed to pile into the back of a pickup truck along with 13 others. It cost me an extra million and it rained all the way, but I couldn't have cared. We got there.
To make matters more interesting, the only hostel in Bulawayo was full. Full? Up to this point I'd imagined being the only tourist in Zimbabwe. Perhaps I still am, because the other lodgers were locals, so in an act of desperation I paid $15US to rent a tent which I pitched in the hostel parking lots.
Travel in Zim sure ain't no picnic.

Stay tuned...