Journal September 05

I have been remiss in the pursuance of my journal. Many days I tell myself it is time to record impressions and events and then depression or inertia or the ever-present albatross of my manuscript intrudes. But I have just been away to RSA to fetch J, see B and recharge the batteries, so it is time to renew my jottings.

The journey down was perforce alone. As I have recorded before, a good part of my life has been spent alone behind the wheel of various land rovers, humming along through the long stretches of Africa where I have lived and worked. Time was when I thought I could use the time more productively to dictate into a tape recorder, but the noise levels are too high and in any case, one’s mind is better occupied in the mental equivalent of free-fall. And so it was on this trip. One has hours in which to indulge in introspection, speculation and simple day-dreams. The passing scene, so well-known and well-loved, shapes these mental meanderings, mirroring perhaps the landscape flowing past. Driving through Chivi, for example, reminds me that it was here as a young man that I slept on the banks of the Runde just up stream of the old low level bridge. And it was in the Runde, flowing in frightening flood that I attempted the insane rescue of some fishermen trapped on an island mid-stream. I’m sure I have told the tale before. It was characterised more by farce than drama.

The men were on an island in the river too far away to communicate with above the roar of the river. So P W, the Member-in Charge of BSAP Chivi, and I decided we needed to get closer to them. P had brought a long and heavy hemp rope with us and this we tied around my waste with P belaying me at the other end. In my underpants I waded into the rushing river and swam out as far as I could, landing on a large rock about half way to the stranded victims of the flood. From here I could just manage to make vocal contact. The small gathering of spectators were enthralled with the spectacle of their DC, in a pair of drooping underpants, and not a little curious as to his more than usual eccentricity. They assured me they were quite safe, had lots of food and was it fish I was after as they had more than enough to spare. They could do with a few women to tide them over the next few days but otherwise were self-sufficient. How was I proposing to get back to the main bank? A good question! This was achieved with some difficulty. I am a very strong swimmer but it still needed all P’s strength pulling on the rope to land my gasping body back on terra firma.

Like all sensible persons we made immediate tracks for the Rhino Hotel, the small pub on the Nuanetsi bank of the Runde. In a pair of wet, mud spattered shorts, a damp shirt, vellies and no socks I was sartorially unremarkable. I had no underpants, to be sure, as they had been ripped off me by the current, but no one but P knew or was interested in this fact. P’s grey shirt and khaki shorts would certainly not have qualified him for stickman on early morning parade. He looked more like a bedraggled postman in a thunderstorm. (It had been raining throughout our little escapade.) Thus we entered the bar.

Garth R (he of rugby three-quarter fame) was behind the counter in the bar reading a comic book. He served us without comment and returned to Superman, more interesting by far than two customers with a thirst. His father came in a few minutes later and in a rare moment of sobriety asked us if we had got wet!  The only person who did remark on our appearance was a South African tourist who said in a voice loud enough for us to hear that people like us should not be allowed into a respectable hotel. This reduced P and I to adolescent snuffles of laughter. Every year, the DC sitting as the licensing authority, renewed the hotel’s licence on the recommendation of the Member in charge!

The Bubi, where J and I always stop and spend the night, always puts me in mind of a trip I made fifty years ago in the first of all land rovers owned by the family- the short wheel base series one my father brought back from a trip to UK and one of the first to be seen in the Colony. I was accompanied by one P Pr. He was to be best man at R’s wedding in Lusaka, whence we were headed.

We stopped for the night at Bubi, camping on the side of the road opposite the hotel. P had never camped before. He was a city boy to the core. I had been camping all my life. When one travelled, one slept by the road side. Towards evening the desturi (custom Sw.) was to start looking out for a suitable spot where there were few people, a bit of shade and a rock or bush or two for seclusion. (Bubi had none of these but it had a pub over the road where cold beer was available and thus made up for the other camping spot deficiencies.) The wonder of those days was that you could pull off the road anywhere to make camp. There were no fences – or if there were there was often a convenient gate – and of course far fewer people. Best of all the threat of being robbed or assaulted was non-existent. So P Pr and I simply pulled a hundred yards off the road onto the banks of the Bubi and lit a fire. We walked over and had a beer or two in the bar, then strolled back, cooked up a mess of bully  and beans, rolled up in blanket and went to sleep.  Or rather I did. P it seems was a little less at home with this procedure and  confessed afterwards to lying awake for what seemed hours trying to adjust to the hard ground, the odd crawling insect or arachnid invasion of his blankets, the silence and the huge sky seen through the canopy of the Acacia alibida under which we lay. 

I was woken some time later by someone shaking me violently. P loomed over me his face a study in concern.

“What’s that?” he hissed.

“What’s what?” I retorted.

“That noise””
”What noise?
You did’nt hear it?”

“No!”

“Jesus! It was enough to wake the dead. Sounded like a lion roaring. Was it a lion? I’m sure it was a lion.”

“Dunno. Maybe!”

“Wake up! We have to get out of here.”

“If it was a lion roaring it means its eaten. Go to sleep.”

“HEHAW”.

(Why is the donkey’s bray depicted as heehaw? In my experience they say AHW HIHOHIHOHIHO!)

Pete’s lion brayed forth his indignant opinion of the way the world treated donkeys in general and him in particular. He was standing in the moonlight a few feet away and indeed made a loud contribution to the night noises around us.

“Peter. Is that your noise?”
”Yes.”

“It’s a donkey. Go to sleep!”

“Oh! Well it sounded carnivorous to me! Sorry.”

And some time later.

“Is that you laughing? It’s all very well for you. I am not a bloody savage - and a little more sympathy would be appreciated.”

Back in the present, I slept the night at the hotel.

Being alone I spent some time in the bar which I shared with two men from Chinhoyi and a nameless South African going home from a holiday at Kariba. It was a convivial evening and we were rather late going in to dinner of eland steaks so big they almost covered the entire dinner plate. After dinner one of my new friends disappeared to go the filling station for diesel. I asked him if there was diesel at the Mobil garage over the river and he said, no, this was a spot under some trees about three K.s up the road. Mystified I said no more and joined my other friend for a nightcap in the bar. A few minutes later our companion was back swearing fluently. His filling station had been compromised, he thought. There was no inviting fire, not figures rising to greet his approaching car. Instead there had been a mystery car parked off the road. “Bloody CIO or cops,” he ventured. “So I just turned round and came back.”

It seems the long distance hauliers drop off diesel to their friends at pre-arranged spots for them to sell to travellers in the know. My new friend was one such and had left five zvigubu (debis, jerry cans) against his return.  He lamented on about the unsporting behaviour of the law enforcers and downed a whisky. I went to bed as I wanted to be away early in the morning. As I wandered off to my room I reflected on his strange performance. The government has relaxed customs duty on fuel. It is quite legal to bring in up to 2000 litres of fuel duty free. My friend, in common with all our kind, much preferred to obtain his in this cloak and dagger fashion. Since 1965, I mused, we have become accustomed to this rather cavalier and swashbuckling approach to business and life in general. As one of them said in the bar apropos spending a few days in Johannesburg.

“Its bloody violent and full of villains. But otherwise its too easy. I would get bored. Here we have to make a plan every day.” To which his mate replied:
”Hundred! Like tonight! See what I mean? What, what, what!”

To those not familiar with the current vernacular.  “Hundred” means hundred percent. It can be used to denote total agreement, to proclaim the veracity of your own statement etc. “See what I mean.” Can be used in any shape or form, as an adjectival or adverbial phrase or as an interrogative – or simply as a comma or full stop. “What, what, what” said very rapidly is a sort of exclamation mark, or a phrase used to replace a word not readily to hand.

The Lion and Elephant must be one of the last hotels in Africa that still provides one with an early morning tray of tea or coffee. Mine came at the appointed time of 0430. I was away by five and at the Bridge by six. I sailed through the Zim side and was served by the most charming customs officer of my entire experience. She was a young woman in the wrong job. No scowl, no indifference, but instead a ready smile and a polite question as to why I wanted to take my computer printer with me. When  I told her it was so I could carry on with my work she said I was surely going on holiday and should not bother with such things!

The South African side was, by contrast, a slow and frustrating affair and attended by rude and unpleasant officers “clothed in a little brief authority.” We had to stand in a line in the courtyard for something like an hour before getting into the customs house. The time was made bearable by a middle-aged Ndebele about two ahead of me who entertained us to a long and detailed analysis of the Illuminati, who, he said he had studied at great length. He knew his subject and was an orator of note, periodically stopping his perorations to ask rhetorical questions –mostly directed at me. The audience appreciated his entertainment value and were vastly amused when he suddenly broke from the queue and with a hurried “they need me inside” shot to the front and through the door and went to the front of the line at the counters. Quite the novel queue jumper! But the point is that his presentation was coherent and more to the point, understood by all the Zimbabweans – a testament to their superior education. By contrast the South Africans were generally bemused by and therefore suspicious, of his loud and at times humorous speech. His assertion that Mugabe was an alluminatus, together with Bush and Mbeki met with particular Zimbabwean approval with much shaking of hands and laughter at such a preposterous notion –or was it?!

In any event I was on the road again by about seven and made good time down the new toll road to Pietersburg (now called Polokwane). My off road tires hum like a demented banshee on the tar and add to the hypnotic effect of long stretches of straight road. The mind dips into memories and flashes of familiar scenes trigger the recall of precious trips and childhood experiences. Pietersburg was the town from which we boys were entrained to go to school. The school train left for Pretoria at nine o’clock. Before I went to school and my brothers had chuffed off into the night,  I would camp with my parents at a spot about ten miles out of the town, for there was no thought of driving home the forty odd miles at night. We still had the old Tanganyika built box-body in those days and my parents slept in the back and I across the front seats. I can still see my father in the grey of early morning, pouring water from a two-gallon demijohn (an old wine container) into a billy to make tea over a low dawn fire, while the rest went into the canvas wash basin hung on concertina legs, in which he washed his face and shaved and cleaned his teeth. My mother would snuggle up in the bed over a hot mug of tea before chivvying me out of my nest to wash. She was a firm believer in a “clean morning face”, before we had a proper breakfast of bacon and eggs cooked by Dad to fortify us against the long forty miles back to the farm. These trips took a great deal of time. It was during the war and tires were hard to get and money tight, so ours were more canvas than rubber. Punctures were frequent. And then there was the one memorable trip when the back wheel came off and passed us on the road before sailing off into the bush.

When I passed Potgietersrust,  I decided to take the ‘short cut’ to Natal. The road turns off to Marble Hall and from there cuts across country through Middelburg to Bethel and Ladysmith to rejoin the main toll road to Durban near Escourt.  The first fifty kms or so traverses the Springbok Flats, drab and dusty at this time of year: bushveld as flat as its name implies.

Farmers ranch goats and cattle though I saw precious few of either. About half way across I saw a farm sign board announcing its owner’s name and the name of his farm: “Driebergen.”  Three Mountains! This was followed by a sign on the next farm turn-off. “Die Vlakte!” (The Flats!) I wonder what prompted this bit of laconic dialogue?

 Shortly afterwards I saw the first bit of green – a field of winter wheat irrigated from the Loskop dam another fifty miles further on. Slowly the countryside changed to rolling hills with acre upon acre of wheat, vegetables and grapes: the Grobelaarsdal Irrigation farms opened up after the second-world war. I recalled that I have a friend who inherited a farm here and eventually I saw a sign announcing the entrance to a farm. It bore the name C-ltt but the first name was not familiar so it must have been Ch- C-ltt’s son’s section. I never saw his signboard so carried on through the little farming “dorp” of Grobelaarsdal and so on up through a pass to overlook to the dam wall of the Loskop Dam. From here I journeyed on to Middelburg and hence to Bethel. It was now about half past three and I was getting weary. Bethel was a real little Afrikaaner dorp, a word which means town but implies a backward, rural and conservative village in the middle of nowhere, dominated by a DRC church and wide dusty streets, blue gums and  windmills.

The road was under repair and suddenly petered out at a t. junction with a sign that said “residents only” in one direction and “station” in the other. I obediently followed the road to the station as I most certainly was not a resident! It ended in the station yard. I back tracked and took the other road into the dorp. Despite not being a resident no impediment was placed in my way save huge speed bumps. I was totally at sea in the town and eventually pulled in at a filling station and asked an obliging farmer for directions. In response to my query he directed me out of the town but warned that the road ahead was full of detours and road works and I would be better advised to go straight to Ermelo and then join up with one of the major highways. I decided to ignore this sound advice and stick to my idea of doing the direct route. This took me by devious and very rough roads past somewhere called Kaffirkraal (the name will one day be changed I guess!) and then on to Morgenzon. Morgenzon consisted of the same dreary tin roofed houses, a huge church and a few little shops. I drove on headed for Amersfort another fifty kms ahead. The road continued rough and road works slowed my progress. The afternoon was gathering in and I decided to stop at Amersfort if there was anywhere to stay. There wasn’t. Another ubiquitous DRC church and surprisingly a mosque were its sole architectural offerings. I pressed on. In the late afternoon light this Highveld country has a golden charm of its own. High far horizons and rolling folds of hills misting into the distance with here and there a homestead marked by a dam, some willows and tall gum trees. It was rapidly getting dark as I arrived in Volksrust, at one time capital of the old Suid Afrikanse Republik if my history serves me right. After some difficulty I was directed to a a little German owned hotel where I spent a very pleasant evening and dined on Chicken schnitzel.

The next morning after a gargantuan breakfast I journeyed on and eventually hit the highway and emerged back into the “first world.”

South Africa is a country of stark contrast between the old rural “platteland” and the fantastically developed superhighways with their flashy staging posts where one can stop for fuel, meals and use the gleaming washrooms and lavatories.
I arrived at Ifafa in the early afternoon. I had cut off about 150 kms and added probably about five hours to my overall travelling time. But I had a great time and found a friendly stop over in Volksrust where I had had a wholesome meal at the bar with an enormously stout German South African – “I speak five languages: German, Afrikaans, English, Zulu and Bullshit!” He was an ESKOM linesman and recounted tales of working on the high pylons in winter with the temperature below minus 12 degrees Celsius. “Ten minutes up the pole then down again for your mate to take your place while you lie on the bonnet of the lorry engine to warm up. You cannot wear gloves for this work and your hands get blerry cold, man!”

After two weeks at the coast with J, B and our granddaughter S, we set off on the journey home. But that is another tale.

Rugare,

J

Zimbabwe’s

Original article @ https://www.zimbabwesituation.com/old/sep30_2005.html#Z14

Morgan Tsvangira’s new drive to rally public anger against a man so openly hated will not work because Tsvangirai has to rally that public anger when he is out of Zimbabwe. Tsvangirai’s MDC does not have to be part of Mugabe’s government and Morgan Tsvangirai has to call Robert Mugabe a tyrant, dictator and murderer openly.

Critics who talk about Zimbabwe’s situation do nothing but blubber in the papers like I am doing but at the end of the day, it is Morgan Tsvangirai to exploit these critics’ information to his advantage. Everyone knows about the Zimbabwe situation now. It is up to Tsvangirai to take advantage of the publicity already provided by these critics before people start doubting his leadership. Is he a coward and just doing it for his own financial benefit? It is time he becomes a refugee as well.

Tough security by Mugabe also means Tsvangirai should wake up and come up with his tougher security which can only be started outside Zimbabwe; where you are most likely to get sympathy, financial help and tactical know-how. Everyone now know there is no way opposition is going to win through the ballot from past experiences, so what the hell are you doing there – just watch your people die of hardships? Look inside the coffin of “dead Zimbabwe” and use a mirror as a Zimbabwe corpse then see what you see: OUR OWN FACES. The situation in Zimbabwe is a true reflection of how we think, eat, sleep, drink, behave and eventually die. In short we are pathetic.

Walking to work is not enough for Tsvangirai. He has to die going to work if he is to rule Zimbanwe. This is not going to be easy at all ladies and gentlemen, even if Mugabe goes out today, we need to piggy-back that country somehow in order to improve our standards of living, take it or leave it.

This walk to work is sure a publicity stunt because it is not enough at all. MDC is backing the economic sanctions imposed on Zimbabwe because MDC are part of Mugabe’s government. All those MDC MP’s are part of Mugabe’s government because they are working with him there in parliament. It is an ‘accessory to murder’ type of situation, unwittingly though.

Analysts were right when they sensed Zimbabweans’ reluctance to participate in mass protests. There is no way opposition can operate in Zimbabwe. You risk torture, hunger, death and victimisation among other things. This is why it is of paramount importance to get organised elsewhere; outside  Zimbabwe.

Unfortunately, our cream like the ones quoted by Mr. Cris Chinaka were only schooled but not educated. The schooled can only count the boss’s riches, read and write, interpret law but can not make important decisions. Especially those who interpret law are the most coward because they understand jail like they have been there. Most people can not even speak their minds freely on the phone. So what the hell are you doing there?  I am talking about those of us expected to do something.

Mugabe who is 81 is still in power because he has to safeguard his interests. He knows he is going to be held accountable for his actions by the people of Zimbabwe as well as the West. Never look up to the United Nations. Before you start killing each other the U.N will never come to your aid. They are doing business like anybody else but, but, I repeat, if you are to do your own business within the rule of law and without fear, you have to take out Mugabe and you have to do it with your brains not your fears. U.N. is not coming to your aid until there is a blood bath. U.N is for the rich. They do not care about the suffering of the ordinary, they are actually indirectly saying sort it out yourselves. Yes we want to sort it out ourselves but we are too poor to do so and that is why we have to get out to seek help and the only recognised party is MDC but the MDC is too innocent to lead.

How can Tsvangirai be fooled into a treason charge? Because he is not yet up to the challenge presented to him by the job, that to run Zimbabwe. So get out of Zimbabwe, seek the know-how and look for dedicated people to do this. If you can not sacrifice yourself, elect someone; not for the post but for the job. This is a dangerous job you are emulating and please do not take people for granted just for the money.

Need Man, Not Boys

Godwell Manyangadze.