Zimbabwe and Zambia, a VolkVenture Vlog
We’ll start with Chris’s Fantabulous Blurb and followed below that with my PictoVlog. So keep going if you can.
CHRISBLURB --ZIMBABWE
POWER in ZIMBABWE and Animals I Did Not See
The Big Five Animals of Africa challenge every safari traveler in Africa. It's said that you must see them, and many travelers will go at any length to check them off the list. These five: rhinoceros, elephant, leopard, cape buffalo, and lion, reign supreme, mostly because they can destroy you at will. That’s POWER.
POWER is a scary word in Zimbabwe. Political unrest in this country, even as recent as 2008, has levied a devastating toll. Within our first two hours entering the border, before we begin our search for the Big Five, Don and I learn first-hand. Entry at the airport is itself unwieldy and disorganized, as many borders can be, with long waits and confusing visa information. But soon we are under the care of our guide and new friend, Armstrong, who meets us with both a smile and a sputtering vehicle.
He has to open the car’s hood twice before exiting airport parking, and we aren’t sure what he is fiddling with. Our first mission is to speed into Victoria Falls to pick up some American dollars from Western Union; after Zimbabwe's near financial collapse where a loaf of bread cost an inflated one billion Zimbabwe dollars (no kidding!), the government has now adopted American dollars since late 2008. Still, unemployment in 2009 was still 95% in Zimbabwe, and the hyperinflation has exacted a huge toll. We have been advised that we should wire cash through Western Union, since ATMs are potentially problematic and most of our Zimbabwe safari tour expenses will require more cash than we wish to carry with us during our eight-week venture.
He has to open the car’s hood twice before exiting airport parking, and we aren’t sure what he is fiddling with. Our first mission is to speed into Victoria Falls to pick up some American dollars from Western Union; after Zimbabwe's near financial collapse where a loaf of bread cost an inflated one billion Zimbabwe dollars (no kidding!), the government has now adopted American dollars since late 2008. Still, unemployment in 2009 was still 95% in Zimbabwe, and the hyperinflation has exacted a huge toll. We have been advised that we should wire cash through Western Union, since ATMs are potentially problematic and most of our Zimbabwe safari tour expenses will require more cash than we wish to carry with us during our eight-week venture.
Off we lurch towards Western Union. But not too far. The road police have already spotted us from a kilometer away, honing in on Armstrong. He Is flagged over to the dirt shoulder of the road, has to exit his vehicle, and a long sweaty conversation ensues where the creepy officials ask him what he Is doing, who we are, demand to see his papers, and to see our passports (both illegal and frightening to have sly fingers pawing through the pages; we didn't want to hand them over, but feared for Armstrong's safety if we did not do so). To me, even though I can’t understand the language (Tonga or Shona), more chilling are the divisive eyes of the police. When stopped, four to six people in various shambles of uniforms surround our car, their eyes ravaging every person and item from outside the window. Sick power smirks on their lips. It is evident that we are sitting ducks. Sweat rolls down our shoulders as we wait in the back seat for Armstrong. I remove my sun glasses so that I have direct eye contact with the agents, hoping they will see that I am not intimidated by them, and that I support our driver. They look back at me as though I am a sheet of paper, ready to be crumpled and ripped. I know they don’t give a damned about me, nor do they care if I see them humiliate one of their countrymen. I flinch in embarrassment not only for Armstrong, but for their betrayal of decency. This is my first taste of Zimbabwe, and it is sour. Armstrong crosses over the highway where they take him out of our view. Soon he reappears and opens the driver’s door. He reaches into the ashtray and clutches a wad of bills. His brow is sweaty. Smiling at us, he says, “Just a minute.” Then he heads back across the road to a ramshackle shelter of brambles where he shakes hands with an official. Suddenly they are smiling and patting one another on the back. Everyone grins and waves as Armstrong returns to his vehicle. He slides in, tinkers with several wires and eventually the car grinds forward.
We are off. Thank goodness. Now we can get our errands accomplished. After 18 hours of overnight flights from Jordan via Cairo to Johannesburg, South Africa and then finally to Zimbabwe, we are thrashed and not in the mood to pay off slimy road warriors in order to pick up more cash which will soon end up in their pockets anyway. I open the window for some fresh air since Armstrong’s car obviously does not have air conditioning. At this point climate control seems irrelevant.
Not too far down the road, the car again peters out. Armstrong gets out and opens the hood as we swelter in the back. He enters the driver’s seat and shakes some wires under the dash and says he wishes he had something sharp. I give him a plastic knife from my last airline meal, and he is thrilled, saying it will save a lot of time.
Somehow we are repaired and again set off. The car barely chugs along, and I wonder if we will make it to Western Union and then in reverse back though all the checkpoints to our game lodge before dark (a three hour drive by normal vehicle). Armstrong chats away as if nothing unusual has happened. I don’t know if we should ask about the roadblock. So we meander along.
Somehow we are repaired and again set off. The car barely chugs along, and I wonder if we will make it to Western Union and then in reverse back though all the checkpoints to our game lodge before dark (a three hour drive by normal vehicle). Armstrong chats away as if nothing unusual has happened. I don’t know if we should ask about the roadblock. So we meander along.
Until the next checkpoint. This time a more sinister looking troupe wearing orange florescent vests means business. Much of the same questioning riffraff ensues, but this power team has a radar gun and after 15 minutes or so of questioning and leering, they ultimately accuse Armstrong of “over-speeding.” Yes, that is the exact word they use mixed in with the Tonga. Now remember that Armstrong’s car is held together by duct tape and a plastic knife. We have not over-sped, for sure. Without wringing out each painful minute, the summary is that Armstrong is forced to pay another $10, (GDP per capita Zimbabwe is less than $100 per year), but he does not have cash so he cannot pay the fine. Armstrong does not tell us this, but works out a deal with the road mafia to bring them the money on his way back through. He also will now be obligated to collect funds at Western Union. He returns to the car and while “some paperwork is filled out,” offers us potato chip snacks pulled from his car trunk (which he has thoughtfully purchased ahead knowing that all Americans subsist on chips, right?) We crunch them nervously, wondering why we are eating such senseless food at a time like this. The form which he finally drags back to the car is a full page yellow colored document with bold letters across the top reading, “ADMISSION OF GUILT.” He tells us, “No one will turn this paper in. The money goes only into their pockets.” We don't actually get to see the document until days letter after we know Armstrong better, but he leaves it folded up on the passenger seat for now, a sad declaration of welcome by his countrymen.
This adventure is already too long and upsetting, and we have not yet been in Zimbabwe for an hour. Armstrong piles back into the car, and now the ice is broken. During the rest of the drive to Western Union, he tells us of harassment and roadblocks, how somehow or some way, often dishonestly, everyone in Zimbabwe is trying to make money since all their savings are now destroyed by the change of currency, and that there are no longer ethics, just survival. He agrees that the roadblocks are degrading, but, then, how will these men earn a living without it? The good thing is that now he has paid quite a bit of money, and no one will ask him for more if he is lucky enough to be stopped by the same personnel, so it could definitely be a bonus for him. He admits that Don and I are an attractive nuisance, and that as soon as the officials spot us inside the car, they know that there is potential free money. He doesn’t stand a chance. We ask Armstrong what we should say when they question us, and how to act. We unify our stories and agree never to mention that we are on the way to Western Union, and to basically not give them our passports if we can help it. Disheartened, I wonder if I want to stay our designated week in Zimbabwe. How many more checkpoints are there to endure?
Ultimately we survive two more humiliating roadblocks. Each one makes my blood boil. But Armstrong cajoles the counterfeit road cops, makes jokes, pays the hyped-up fines, and copes with the injustice. He says that these road guards can force a person to stay on the shoulder of the road a whole day or longer, haul a person off to jail indefinitely, or charge any fees they wish, and the average citizen best say nothing and just try to get it over with quickly. If a person is pleasant and pays the fine, then the next time through, it can be less intimidating. Only later in the week do I hear stories where Armstrong ran 25 kilometers all night to escape political and social battering, endured jail, beating, and barely escaped being marked on his face by the jagged edge of a broken bottle. He explains that things are much better now, but that there is no sense of power for Zimbabweans because they are forced to continue voting for the current politicians in order to survive. Indeed, the last two elections in Zimbabwe affirm that, where at one point the whole country was shut down while the military plundered and destroyed those who had not supported the current leaders; the ensuing election grandly supported Robert Mugabe's reign, the number of votes even surpassing the population of Zimbabwe. Is that called a super majority?
Our safari visit in Zimbabwe is shadowed by comparison. We will soon be amazed by Armstrong's tour of the bush and his innate knowledge of the Hawange Park area where he grew up as a child. I could relate our adventures tracking animals on game drives, but there are other forces in Africa which intrigue me more.
COMPOUNDED POWER
On one particular day as we drive near the village of Dete in Zimbabwe, I comment to Armstrong about the beautifully sculpted mud compounds we pass, small villages seated in the wooded savannah bush just off the roadway. Each rectangular (sometimes circular) formation of earthen huts is housed within baked brown walls, containing around five to eight hand-smoothed structures with pointed thatched roofs. The color is a luscious light chocolate brown, stunning against golden grasses and green Acacia scrub. Most groupings are surrounded by mud or stick fences along the properties, appearing to accommodate several families. “I would love to take a photo of that property,” I say to Armstrong as we pass a particularly well-kept compound. Traveling with us in the car is Bheki, our game tracker. I am not sure why he has accompanied us today, but when he hears me, he immediately leaps out of the car. He tells us to come along, then enters the gate of the property. As we follow, he whispers to us, “Say this greeting...Singee,” and he gives us the word in Tonga or Shona which means, “Are we welcome here?” He demonstrates how to cross our elbow over our other arm to greet the man who approaches us, and we all say the greeting and cross our arms with his so that we can show respect without touching hands because he has been working on his land and is unclean. The order of the land whirls around me as I try to take in this family setting, the host, the outbuildings, the raked dirt, the bushes, his wife in the background doing laundry outside a hut, the porches of huts with tennis shoes and plastic sandals strewn about, and smoke pouring from one of the huts where inside I view a cauldron of food boiling on an open fire. It is close to noon. The sun is beating down, but inside the compound it is organized, shaded and protected.
The male head of the household appears wary at first, but seems to warm up. He speaks in
the native language to Bheki. There are at least eight languages in this area of Zimbabwe, among them English, which is taught in the school system where an astounding 90% of the population is literate in English. Our host now welcomes us after our greeting and proceeds to tell about his land. He does not know us nor does he know Bheki or Armstrong, but in very strong English, he indicates his openness as he explains his holdings.
the native language to Bheki. There are at least eight languages in this area of Zimbabwe, among them English, which is taught in the school system where an astounding 90% of the population is literate in English. Our host now welcomes us after our greeting and proceeds to tell about his land. He does not know us nor does he know Bheki or Armstrong, but in very strong English, he indicates his openness as he explains his holdings.
Right up front, he tells us that his most valuable possession is his wife, who does all the work. “She does everything here. She is very good. She bore me 10 children,” he says as he looks proudly her way. “I just build a few things here, but she cooks, gets the water and firewood, tends the fire and does all the labor.” Her husband suggests that I take a photograph, his wife still squeezing her laundry, and I wonder how I would feel if someone marched into my house without warning and photographed me alongside my front-loading washer and dryer, perhaps before I’ve had my hot shower and put on my makeup. She quickly tries to adjust her hair, but we both know that this photo will not please her. I try to apologize with my eyes. It is compromising for me to do this to another woman, yet all the men around me seem oblivious of our unspoken discomfort. So I take the photo [ed. note--dv took the crummy photo.]
The tour takes about 25 minutes as the household head explains that the Village Chief has allowed him to live on this parcel of land, and that he moved here because it was close to the elementary school where the grandchildren attend. His sons and their children and some other extended family live here, a total of 15 people. There is one cooking hut (see a picture of me below stirring the beans inside the hut…this is another photo suggested by my hosts which makes me feel extremely uneasy! I decline to pose, but they insist. To me, it feels as though I am making fun of the kitchen area, whereas truly I am in awe of the hand-carved long-handled cooking spoon, the lovely arrangement of the coals, and the huge quantity of bubbling mixed beans. This woman can obviously do everything!). Aside from the kitchen area, a grain storage hut built off the ground and several other houses fill in the terrain. No electricity or running water seems evident. I can't tell if there is an outhouse. I ask our host how his English is so good, and he tells me he went through fourth grade. He stands tall, bare feet planted firmly on the land.
Finally we bid farewell, the wife still bent over her aluminum bowl of laundry. We thank our host for opening his home to us and for allowing us to photograph his daily life. I stumble back to our car, thinking of my ridiculously grand home in Olympia, contemplating how a dirt compound, a thatched roof and an inflated billion dollar loaf of bread might bring understanding to my life.
Armstrong, who grew up in this area near Hawange National Park, explains that a family will produce as many children as possible (average lifespan 47 years of age!) The oldest girls will all be married off and move out to their husband’s compound. Boys must make their own way and build their own hut nearby. The youngest male remains in the family compound to care for the aging parents, and will take over the parents’ hut one day. Land is allotted to a family by the Chief. The Chief has all the power, and usually is given a cell phone and car by governing politicians if he can bring in votes for whoever is in power. The Chief may also receive electricity for his house or parts of his village if he is loyal to the political party. If a family or individual falls into disfavor with a chief, he can force them to leave the property and homes or take away their holdings. To engage a meeting with the Chief, a person must learn to know the local people, then schedule a meeting, bringing along a bottle of whiskey and gifts.
Armstrong also tells me that most families “poach” for their food, using snares to catch impala or edible game. It appears that even a safari guide must poach in order to feed the family. He says they poach about once a week unless they can get a buffalo, which they will share with others because it feeds many. He differentiates between ‘poaching’ and 'hunting,' explaining that hunting is for those who come into Africa to pay thousands of dollars for permits. He says this is okay, as long as they are not killing off huge amounts of game or endangered species, because this brings big revenue into the country. I am surprised about the poaching, but then, I see how many impala there are (like the pest deer around Olympia who run into my car every few years and cause fiscal headaches). Maybe poaching is okay....until I hear about the snares, and how they kill the Painted Dog, and other game such as antelope which is struggling in this area, and illegal harvesting of big game. I had thought this was supposed to be a relaxing trip to Zimbabwe. Now I am thinking this life is not so simple after all. The protocol for living alongside Zimbabweans is more structured than I had imagined. I am grateful for our glimpse into daily family life. Now I better understand the need to poach game, roadblocks, why everyone is paying off the Chief for property, electricity, and POWER, and how the current President Mugabe will continue to be elected without challenge by the people. They have no choice.
THE POWER OF THINKING
Getting Schooled in Zimbabwe
Visiting two schools near Dete seems like a simple thing to do. Armstrong says he can arrange it. Off we go. But Zimbabwe doesn’t let us off so easily. This turns into a four hour adventure. We drive on a paved road which turns into a dirt road bordered by trees, scampering baboons, and rutted dusty potholes.
This public secondary school houses 400 students between grades 8-12, and 20 teachers. Not many older students have the means to attend because the students must pay $150 US a year, plus their own school supplies (pencils and paper notebooks). How do the students get to this school, seemingly situated in the middle of nowhere out in the wooded bush savannah? The teachers tell me that many students run through the bush and along the roadside 3 hours each way to school... on empty stomachs. (I saw this as we drove to our game park and wondered why young kids were running along the road in the heat. Now I know. They were returning home from school!) Many of the teachers live on the property in cottages, three teachers per cottage. Each cottage is about 500 square feet. There does not seem to be power to the school, although there is a library with a few computers which are stored in an anteroom for hopeful future use. There might be a generator, but I cannot see it. School hours are from 7:30 am until 4:30 pm with one hour for lunch. Some students board at the school because their homes are far away in the bush. The teachers allow us to enter their classrooms, at which time all students stand and greet us in unison. Lessons are in English. The rooms are stark, with basically bare walls and chalkboards filled with equations and neatly spaced lessons. The teachers tell me that students are thrilled for the opportunity to learn, and there are few discipline problems. It is an honor to study. The teachers are beautifully dressed (although some in extremely frayed clothes...the men always wear a sport coat and tie) and obviously proud of their school. We are asked to sign in on an official document, and the whole tour is directed by the librarian, the English teacher named Esther, and another male teacher. All leave their classrooms full of students to guide us as though we are topnotch dignitaries. They point out the new school water system, the future athletic field (a weedy patch behind the school), the library with its six shelves of well-worn books, and the area where the flag is raised each morning.
Then we climb back into the car and travel fifteen minutes away to the nearby elementary school where the assistant supervisor takes us on a tour. She is also the kindergarten teacher, and escorts us into her classroom. The children are quietly sitting at tables awaiting her. “What are they doing while you are not here?” I ask her. “They wait for me,” she answers. “I have many duties and cannot always be here.” The students are aged 5-8, sitting in darling rows. I love them already. There is nothing in the classroom except a chalkboard, some tables and benches, and some homemade letters and numbers pinned to the walls. The children are extraordinarily beautiful, dressed in knit sweaters and garments to protect them from the cool winter mornings. Many are barefooted. They pay $15US per term ($45 per year) plus their school supplies in order to attend this public school. Paths outside are outlined in rocks. The parents of the students contributed to building the school, and come in each day to cook a lunch for the students on a fire outside the school. Teachers board here as well, three per cottage. In one classroom, the students stand and sing three songs, one so plaintive that I see Don wiping away tears.
We are very moved by the dedication of the teachers and the spirit of the students at both schools. Our pitiful donations to the schools seem inadequate. As we drive back to our game lodge, I wonder how this country can ever meet the educational needs of its people. The schools seem overwhelmed and undeserved. The eyes and smiles of the students haunt me. It is so different than what I have seen at schools in the US where I have been working and lecturing with Toren across the nation over the past 6 years. The earnestness and desperation of these students cannot be ignored. I hope that they think about their politics, use their knowledge at a higher level, and perhaps one day move their country forward. That is the POWER OF THINKING.
Eight Head of Cattle and $3000 = a Zimbabwean Dowry
That’s Esther’s dowry. She is a lovely teacher at the secondary school. I ask Armstrong what Esther would be worth in the typical culture, having learned that she is engaged. Armstrong says that Esther is valuable because she is a teacher; up front she would be worth about eight head of cattle and $3000US. She is about 22 years old and lives in the teachers’ cottages. So far her fiancé has paid about $600, but he is behind and has not lived up to his promise. The marriage may not happen. He must also give Esther’s mother some blankets, a dress, new shoes, pillow cases and sheets. To Esther’s father he must give a watch, a cell phone, a suit, and shoes. One thousand dollars US must also be forked over as kitchen money (for wedding food and groceries.) All of this must be paid before the wedding will happen.
With the average income in Zimbabwe less than $100 per person, to me this dowry seems impossible. Furthermore, Armstrong tells me that Esther’s fiancé has already had three previous wives but has abandoned them. It sounds shaky. But since women can profit from the marriages, it looks like some of them take advantage. Armstrong says that nowadays some women make their living off marriage…and remarriage. They will marry someone, take in the goods, then divorce them and remarry for a new dowry. He believes that daughters are very valuable because they bring more material wealth to the family. He has one son and one daughter, and he knows that in order to find a good bride for his son, he will have to pay a lot of money. He is already saving up and his son is five years old.
Comparing prices of marriage in the countries we have visited is fascinating. Cambodia seems to have a similar system, where men must purchase their future spouses. Our guides in China told us that many marriages there are still arranged, and material possessions change hands. That is also the situation in Egypt, where men must “pay” for a bride. I do not know who pays whom in many countries of the world, but certainly, marriages are an expensive arrangement in any culture. When we were in the Bedouin camp in Jordan, Nayeil assured Don that I would be worth at least 40 camels for having been married to Don 40 years. I figure that 40 camels probably equal at least a Trip Around the World. Now that’s SOME KINDA POWER!
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Cairo to Cape Town:
Yeah, we did that. Just happened to stop off at Zimbabwe and Zambia on the way.
See Chris’s blurb above for details!
But here are links to some albums of photos showing some of what we saw and did:
First, we stalked Big Game with Armstrong, our Safari guide and new friend introduced to us through Kathy Hughes. Armstrong and another guide, Bheki expertly showed us animal after animal on several safaris morning, afternoon and night for a few days. And these guys knew the fauna and flora and what made the savannas tick. BTW, it was friggin’ Winter on the high savanna plains of Zimbabwe in June—I measured 34 degrees one early morn! This is Africa? Yes, this IS Africa [TIA as Kathy explained], a phrase used to explain much about the conditions, attitudes and expectations. One shrugs the shoulders, smiles and moves on. It’s a beautiful place to deal with conditions that can be so harsh in so many ways. Our hearts go out to the lovely people of Zimbabwe who have suffered so much during the oppressive regime of Robert Mugabe.
These safari pictures are ours and show some of the animals that we saw. The pics are not award winning, not even really interesting. But being there and hunting [via binoculars and digital cameras]these wild beasts and learning about them in their territory was an incredible adventure. Scan quickly as you should.
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| Hwange Safari |
You may have noticed one BIG animal was missing in the last set of photos—the African Elephant. I have highlighted them here in the next album because Zimbabwe has more elephants than anywhere in Africa and they were nearly omnipresent. These are wild, huge and beautiful animals. One of our guides, Bheki had established a personal relationship with one of the head elephants in one group and because of that we were able to get close enough to pet her trunk. It was “touching.”
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| Zimbabwe Elephants |
After our safari and schools and all that, Armstrong drove us back to Vic Falls where we met up with Tyson, who had been traveling for a month through South Africa, Namibia, Mozambique and other places in Zimbabwe.
We spent a few days around Victoria Falls, exploring the falls and trading road warrior stories with Tyson. Tyson and I had the privilege of taking a helicopter ride over the falls, as well:
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| Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe |
Being in Vic Falls provides a unique opportunity to walk across the bridge into Zambia [at a premium visa price, btw] and explore the falls from that side [much more savage.]
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| Zambia Vic Falls |
We picked up a taxi from the Zambian side of Vic falls and motored 20 km. to Livingstone [I presume.] We spent the day going to markets, getting ripped off by money changers and otherwise blending into the community:
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| Zambia |
And now, the reason we did all of this trip and our final chapter: South Africa is next.
Cape Town was calling us. The World Cup, our destiny!
Cape Town was calling us. The World Cup, our destiny!
Stay tuned for that outrageous Vlog, coming soon to a computer near you!
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