Back To Buses
From a final, serene sunrise and one last dose of herbal tea, to the sweat of a long day on the road to Harare. Terry and I got a bus out of Gweru that made for one of my most frightening rides on public transportation yet. The vehicle’s shocks were non-existent and it felt like the body of the car and the passengers therein were lurching to catch up to the wheels on every break-neck curve and bump. My solace was that we’d get to Harare early, but unfortunately we were stopped at 4 traffic blockades within the first hour and further delays were made from the driver’s negotiations with the police over assorted possible violations. After killing only 100 or so of the 260 km trip, the driver notified us that he decided he wasn’t going to go all the way to Harare and that we’d have to transfer buses.
Our new transport faced similar harassment from the police before we could even leave the petrol station and its sluggish pace over the empty roads (it’s the middle of a big holiday weekend) made me miss the death-defying original ride. Day’s log: door-to-door; 260 km; 8 hours; Harare in one piece.
In the capital, Terry and I hang-out with an array of his friends and relatives at bars, Jazz Clubs, and family braais. Getting to see tons of live music and Terry, who is a trumpet player himself, gets us backstage at every club.
I spent Monday afternoon visiting the Kabade’s, the family who hosted me for my ‘fall 2000’ semester abroad. We had lost touch shortly after that (according to the family, their letters were being returned after September 11th) and the blitz of bad news on Zim. in the states had convinced me that they had probably had to move out of their peaceful, middle-class neighborhood. But I looked them up in the phone book on Saturday, and sure enough, they were safe and sound at 13 Hurn Close.
“Hello stranger,” Hope said when I called.
Being back in the house and seeing these wonderful people was truly surreal. The boys, who were ages ten and six then, are almost as tall as me and have gone from rambunctious kids to reclusive teenagers. Also, there is a new Kabade, Carl (picture-page has some great shots of him and the whole family), who is 19 months old and is learning to walk, talk, and be generally destructive.
The Kabades tell me times are very tough and are skeptical that they will get better anytime soon. They describe a steady economic decline over the last 4 years and the word ‘survival’ comes up often. And this is just what most Zimbabweans in Harare are doing, and while economic sustainability and wealth accumulation are definitely a struggle, most middle to upper-class Zimbabweans are achieving both.
On the face of it, Harare is Harare. Making the rounds through the shops; on the minibuses; and in the bars, it looks and feels like the same city I studied in 6 years ago. In the North, we imagine an economic depression to be an absolute death knell for all things fun and routine within city life. Of course, a fledgling economy affects people disproportionately and there is still plenty of money floating around at the top and its transferring hands with such frequency that urban establishments manage to survive. Don’t get me wrong, this place is in a state of econo-chaos, but I could easily take you on a tour of the city and introduce you to the right people and you would be convinced otherwise.
I’m on no such tour though, and there are plenty of contours to this chaos, some you’d expect but most are a shock, and in shocking ways. Yeah, it’s unpredictable. As a re-arrivant though; as a former student of this place; as a general know-it-all; I assumed I couldn’t be shocked here, but I must say my eyes have been opened. In another day or so I’ll be able to put it into words.
Our new transport faced similar harassment from the police before we could even leave the petrol station and its sluggish pace over the empty roads (it’s the middle of a big holiday weekend) made me miss the death-defying original ride. Day’s log: door-to-door; 260 km; 8 hours; Harare in one piece.
In the capital, Terry and I hang-out with an array of his friends and relatives at bars, Jazz Clubs, and family braais. Getting to see tons of live music and Terry, who is a trumpet player himself, gets us backstage at every club.
I spent Monday afternoon visiting the Kabade’s, the family who hosted me for my ‘fall 2000’ semester abroad. We had lost touch shortly after that (according to the family, their letters were being returned after September 11th) and the blitz of bad news on Zim. in the states had convinced me that they had probably had to move out of their peaceful, middle-class neighborhood. But I looked them up in the phone book on Saturday, and sure enough, they were safe and sound at 13 Hurn Close.
“Hello stranger,” Hope said when I called.
Being back in the house and seeing these wonderful people was truly surreal. The boys, who were ages ten and six then, are almost as tall as me and have gone from rambunctious kids to reclusive teenagers. Also, there is a new Kabade, Carl (picture-page has some great shots of him and the whole family), who is 19 months old and is learning to walk, talk, and be generally destructive.
The Kabades tell me times are very tough and are skeptical that they will get better anytime soon. They describe a steady economic decline over the last 4 years and the word ‘survival’ comes up often. And this is just what most Zimbabweans in Harare are doing, and while economic sustainability and wealth accumulation are definitely a struggle, most middle to upper-class Zimbabweans are achieving both.
On the face of it, Harare is Harare. Making the rounds through the shops; on the minibuses; and in the bars, it looks and feels like the same city I studied in 6 years ago. In the North, we imagine an economic depression to be an absolute death knell for all things fun and routine within city life. Of course, a fledgling economy affects people disproportionately and there is still plenty of money floating around at the top and its transferring hands with such frequency that urban establishments manage to survive. Don’t get me wrong, this place is in a state of econo-chaos, but I could easily take you on a tour of the city and introduce you to the right people and you would be convinced otherwise.
I’m on no such tour though, and there are plenty of contours to this chaos, some you’d expect but most are a shock, and in shocking ways. Yeah, it’s unpredictable. As a re-arrivant though; as a former student of this place; as a general know-it-all; I assumed I couldn’t be shocked here, but I must say my eyes have been opened. In another day or so I’ll be able to put it into words.
1 Comments:
check out pology.com. It's a travel/journalism online magazine. You could probably submit some of your work, but change it up a little, cut out the politics. You'll see what I mean when you go there.
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