The Not-So-Quiet American
[Note: 4 new posts today; trying to catch up. Might want to start down at the African Success Story post and work up so that these all make sense]
My days with Terry are routine like no other. We wake when it gets too hot to sleep, which is considerably earlier than the rest of the world; we stumble around, barely able to talk, and make assorted concoctions of teas; we experiment with aroma therapies, taking advantage of Pat and Tony’s vast herb garden, in an attempt to get over our hangovers; by 11am we’re just about ready to eat; we begin cooking with the herbs, the local vegetables, the garden beans, the ranchers’ meats; by 2 we’ve eaten a meal that’s well worth waiting for, had a glass of white wine, and have our minds and stomachs functioning on the highest levels, stimulated by rosemary, fennel, and red meat. We walk around their property, admiring the fruit trees and landscaping and enjoying a cigarette on the veranda. By mid-afternoon it’s time for town, a town like no other.
Gweru in 2006 is something out of a Graham Greene novel. The characters – political, religious, and generally seedy – contribute to a fabric that can never be fully comprehended. Terry and I exchange money on street corners, browse the variety of vehicles for sale, and wander in and out of local bars. My favorite, The Midlands Hotel, is owned by a former mayor of Gweru who has a photographic essay that depicts his political falling out with his former partner Robert Mugabe, exemplified by the repeated photos of his bare-beaten-ass and gun-shot wounds in his leg. Inside his bar, the Mayor, who sits in a wheel chair with a right-hand man serving him drinks, orchestrates an eclectic cast of political characters: army men, students, local professionals, outsiders like Terry and I, all of whom are convinced the other is a political operative. I’ve never seen a bar where more people pop there heads in every ten minutes and leave immediately, just checking out the scene.
Today, the talk of the scene is a new CD playing, clearly produced by the MDC (the opposition party in Zimbabwe), a Chimurenga group (traditional Zimbabwean music) that is singing songs blatantly (and courageously) against the government and the recent “clean-up” in the Harare slums. As the music stimulates political conversation, I learn that this bar is a rare MDC hang-out in Zimbabwe’s air force town. The CD was delivered by a prominent MDC member, Ray Bennett, I am told. Assuming he’s Zimbabwean, I joke that I’m his son. The entire bar goes silent and the students near by edge up to me: “are you serious?” I’m not, but it urns out Ray Bennett’s white and everyone’s convinced I’m his son. Meanwhile, Terry is enjoying our pho-status as intelligence officers and continues to play this up with military guys in the bar who already expect just as much anyway.
We return home early to left-overs and moonlit walks with friends, talking politics and history – always with a slight whisper (everyone’s convinced that they can be heard from the air force base down the road). Like I said, it’s a beautiful estate and we live up our retreat and recovery before we head to Harare for the life of the capital. I expect nothing less than a place only Graham Greene could create.
My days with Terry are routine like no other. We wake when it gets too hot to sleep, which is considerably earlier than the rest of the world; we stumble around, barely able to talk, and make assorted concoctions of teas; we experiment with aroma therapies, taking advantage of Pat and Tony’s vast herb garden, in an attempt to get over our hangovers; by 11am we’re just about ready to eat; we begin cooking with the herbs, the local vegetables, the garden beans, the ranchers’ meats; by 2 we’ve eaten a meal that’s well worth waiting for, had a glass of white wine, and have our minds and stomachs functioning on the highest levels, stimulated by rosemary, fennel, and red meat. We walk around their property, admiring the fruit trees and landscaping and enjoying a cigarette on the veranda. By mid-afternoon it’s time for town, a town like no other.
Gweru in 2006 is something out of a Graham Greene novel. The characters – political, religious, and generally seedy – contribute to a fabric that can never be fully comprehended. Terry and I exchange money on street corners, browse the variety of vehicles for sale, and wander in and out of local bars. My favorite, The Midlands Hotel, is owned by a former mayor of Gweru who has a photographic essay that depicts his political falling out with his former partner Robert Mugabe, exemplified by the repeated photos of his bare-beaten-ass and gun-shot wounds in his leg. Inside his bar, the Mayor, who sits in a wheel chair with a right-hand man serving him drinks, orchestrates an eclectic cast of political characters: army men, students, local professionals, outsiders like Terry and I, all of whom are convinced the other is a political operative. I’ve never seen a bar where more people pop there heads in every ten minutes and leave immediately, just checking out the scene.
Today, the talk of the scene is a new CD playing, clearly produced by the MDC (the opposition party in Zimbabwe), a Chimurenga group (traditional Zimbabwean music) that is singing songs blatantly (and courageously) against the government and the recent “clean-up” in the Harare slums. As the music stimulates political conversation, I learn that this bar is a rare MDC hang-out in Zimbabwe’s air force town. The CD was delivered by a prominent MDC member, Ray Bennett, I am told. Assuming he’s Zimbabwean, I joke that I’m his son. The entire bar goes silent and the students near by edge up to me: “are you serious?” I’m not, but it urns out Ray Bennett’s white and everyone’s convinced I’m his son. Meanwhile, Terry is enjoying our pho-status as intelligence officers and continues to play this up with military guys in the bar who already expect just as much anyway.
We return home early to left-overs and moonlit walks with friends, talking politics and history – always with a slight whisper (everyone’s convinced that they can be heard from the air force base down the road). Like I said, it’s a beautiful estate and we live up our retreat and recovery before we head to Harare for the life of the capital. I expect nothing less than a place only Graham Greene could create.
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