I don’t know who nicknamed our former Chief Executive “the Monk”. The first time I heard it I just thought it was such an apt name for a man whose face is always looking very serene, never looks agitated or fazed by anything, or betrays any emotion. Little did I know that most people look and behave like that in Nepal where he comes from! It hit me as I boarded Qatar airways on my way to Kathmandu from Doha. I was probably one of five women, and one of less than 12 non Nepalese on that flight – not counting the flight attendants.
I wondered why they announced boarding for that flight at least an hour and half ahead of slated departure time. I was soon to find out the reason. That flight is the equivalent of the “chicken bus” to Zimbabwe departing from Johannesburg’s park station. Some 250 men returning home, carry lots of “stuff”. The airline staff – migrant workers themselves – harassed these men no end. Packages were weighed and re-weighed. Solidarity groups were hastily formed, so that everyone could carry home everything they had bought. Nothing could be left at the boarding gate. I volunteered to carry on someone’s package, but I was given such a tongue lashing by a Kenyan “official”, I dropped it hastily. I was about to let rip some vile words, and then remembered the documentary I had watched about the justice system in the Emirates, so I scowled and walked away muttering to myself. The Nepali men all took it in their serene stride. Nobody cursed. Nobody shouted back at the flight officials.
I sat between Keshav and Raj, who were both returning home after five years’ absence. Keshav showed me pictures of his twin sons, who he had never seen. He had left his young new wife pregnant and gone in search of work in the sweat-pits of Doha. Raj was on his way to find a wife, get married, leave her pregnant – he told me with a wink, and return to his job, all in three weeks! I told them stories of Zimbabwean migrant workers in South Africa. By the end of the flight we had become kindred spirits, united by the bond of our dysfunctional countries.
I arrived in Kathmandu 20 hours after I had left home, tired but strangely energized. Must be the serenity vibes transmitted to me in that B seat. Going through customs and immigration was a breeze, with officials very happy to see someone from “Jimbabwe”. I had to remember not to laugh throughout my stay in Nepal. Whenever I needed a good laugh in the office I would ask the big boss to pronounce the name of my country or the name of the South African country director. Jimbabwe and Janele, would just kill me every time. I was to discover other little Nepalisms; for some inexplicable reason an extra S always finds its way into Nepa-nglish, as in “providing supports to partners”. Then there is the disappearing H, as in “socks” – instead of shocks, “soez”. In a little mountain hotel, on my third night I asked for the room service menu. This was an absolute delight. On the menu were two interesting items; Chicken domestic, and poise egg. We shall return to these delicious items later.
Nepal is an ancient country, whose history dates back many centuries. Never having been colonized by anyone, the country is...how do I put it, just itself. My history lessons failed me totally. The country was not at all what I had assumed. I had expected a smaller version of India. No it isn’t. First difference was the food. I had expected very spicy, oily and ghee heavy curries. Nepali food is what health fanatics live on; steamed rice, nicely cooked lentils, lots of steamed greens, and the tiniest portions of chicken or lamb. Even the rotis were made from healthy unrefined flour. I am afraid my non health conscious- carnivorous- Southern African- beef cattle farmers’ daughter’s palate was not impressed. By day two I was near starvation. I resorted to the only two items that could satisfy my cravings, fanta orange and white bread. There was no McDonalds or Pizza Inn to run to.
Travelling to Dolakha district in the NorthEast of the country, I kept wondering why there were so many flags fluttering in the wind. Every household we passed had a flag pole, and several colourful flags. I thought Nepalis must be a very patriotic people. When I eventually asked my colleagues, (I am always afraid to ask things, nay I am too stubborn to ask, always thinking that my Form 3 history lessons should have covered all this and I can’t betray my ignorance), I was told these were Buddhist prayer flags. Even though we had called our boss the monk I just hadn’t internalized monk of which religion. In Nepal Buddhism and Hinduism co-exist side by side. In some cases, I was informed, families practice both, Buddhism today, Hinduism tomorrow. I like with this way of practicing religion, not the kind where you feel it is this or nothing else, or where people kill one another or violate women’s rights supposedly on behalf of distant Gods. Although I was made to understand that the caste system, enshrined in Hinduism was still rampant and a huge problem in the country, I still felt a huge difference from what I had experienced in India where caste discrimination and negative attitudes hit you the minute you land. In India, blacks are regarded as untouchables, as I have discovered in my travels there. Shop keepers will not take money, or put goods directly in my hand. In some establishments I was not greeted back despite my cheerily acknowledging people. If I was a Dalit in Nepali Hinduism then they certainly have a good way of hiding it. Everyone was polite, gentle, and always wanted to talk to me. Some wanted to touch me – my hair and size 18 hips being the big attractions!
Speaking of touching, my daughter’s friend, Maia, a young South African who has been living in Kathmandu for the last five months and I reflected on how we felt very safe with Nepali men. We each felt that in Africa, Europe and the Americas, we were often treated like pieces of meat each time we came in contact with men, who behaved like dogs. From security guards, to newspaper vendors to colleagues in offices, we are often hit by the sexual vibes, undertones and direct harassment. Yet in Nepal we both felt safe. That Buddhist monkish thing again?
Because of its unique history, Nepal can be described as “untouched”. Yet there was another intriguing part of it that I was to discover, its flirtation with and love for the hippie and rock and roll! Saturday night found me sitting in a beautiful bar-restaurant with Maia and her Danish partner listening to ‘70s to 80s hard rock. Earlier in the day I had seen a poster advertising a Bryan Adams show. I had assumed that someone had stuck it atop the tallest building just for fun. Oh no! My lovely little hotel simply called Hotel Tibet – and run by Nepali-Tibetans cranked up the volume on Sunday morning when Van Halen’s Jump played. For the life of me I still cannot imagine these quiet sweet people actually throwing their hair back and yodelling “Jump! Yeah! Yeah! Jump!” But apparently Nepal was once the hippie and rockers’ destination of choice. According to the internet and Nepalis old enough to remember, hundreds of long haired, weed smoking westerners made their way to Nepal in the last century. Ostensibly to smoke, and go mountain climbing. Reminders of that era are still very visible. Dozens of shops and stalls in Thamel, the tourists’ favourite market in Kathmandu still sell some rather dodgy looking long skirts, bell-bottomed trousers and some seriously off season jackets and sweaters. And the long haired ones, sans ganja, are still to be found wandering all over Nepal. These days though they come dressed in funky parkas, designer climbing shoes and matching sun shades, complemented by Arnold Schwarzenegger muscled torsos. Every hotel I went to was full of them and they were dotted over every mountain track.
Travelling inside a mountainous country was a huge challenge for someone with bad vertigo. The roads were narrow and the terrain – hairy, to put it mildly. Competing for this narrow space with “kombi” drivers made it even more hairy. You know the type that hog the road, and have a “my car is bigger than yours” mentality. We were pushed to within inches of a precipice several times that I began to worry if I had signed the latest version of my will. In the rural areas I saw dozens of people, young, old, male and female riding on the roofs of people carriers. This did not deter the drivers though, they careened and zig-zagged through this terrain without a thought for those holding on for dear life.
When several people asked me how Nepal was, I had said something quite foolish like; It is India without the spices, its China without the billion, and its Tibet without the Dalai Lama. But actually, Nepal is just, itself. At the risk of stereotyping an entire nation, the people are indeed gentle like “the monk”, quietly laid back, and struggling to find its democratic feet in the 21st century. Just like most of us.
Back to that delightful menu. I didn’t have time to order the “poise egg”, but I thoroughly enjoyed the “chicken domestic”. A bottle of the best Bayerskloof red wine coming your way if you can tell me what those are!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Happy Birthday Mr President
I am not Marilyn Monroe, so I can’t say it in that breathless tone of hers. Happy birthday, Comrade Mugabe. You have had one so many, it must be tiring now, no?
I turned 46 two weeks ago. I could hardly stay awake throughout the festivities of my little soiree. I amazed myself by staying awake till 2am. How do you do it? How do you manage to stay so……energetic? So alert?
I really want to know your secrets. But first I want to know the reasons.
At a mere 46 I feel tired. If anyone could give me a nice package which can send my 16 year old child to school I would simply take it and run to the nearest island. I love my life, my job, and all the travelling. But I find that I love myself more than all these things. I want to take care of ME! I want to sit in a nice chair and write. My blog. Letters to my friends. Letters to my children. I want to read nice books. Watch good fun movies. I just want to put my feet up. Heck! I am tired of running a three bed-roomed apartment, and five children. I have to keep a job so I can meet my obligations.
Why are you still working at 87? Don’t you just want to love yourself for a change? Take care of number one, you? Aren’t you exhausted? Surely you must be tempted to just take your little back pack and wave goodbye to running a country? When will you write your memoirs? You can do that. Plus you can wake up to the Herald at your door each day. Read all that interesting “news”, they publish. The very laden obituary pages should keep you entertained and happy when you see how young they seem to die these days, compared to yourself. When you are done, you can watch nice reruns of the armed struggle, the ones ZTV seems to have plenty of. If you don’t feel like those, you can watch reruns of Dallas, they stock those too. You will be spoilt for choice of reruns of films you can relate to. Whatever you do, don’t watch DSTV. Please sir. It will depress you no end. What with all your friends and presidential cohort in trouble. You really don’t want to see those silly Libyans calling for Gaddafi to step down. The rest of today’s television is pointless drivel, or naked girls your daughter Bona’s age. No, it is just too much. They say you like cricket. You can watch that to your heart’s content. I avoid most of what they call entertainment. I watch the history channel, football, and of course Al Jazeera. But as psychologists always tell us, television is not really good for relaxation. So stay away from it or watch very little.
When the eyes hurt, you can take a little walk around your neighbourhood, with an MP3 in your ears, like I do. Only yours will be filled with great revolutionary songs. Or when you get bored you can listen to any of our four radio stations. They are a great delight those. Every half hour your blood gets pumped up by rendition of a revolutionary advert or song. Don’t let your young son Chatunga convince you to get an I-pod. Useless things those, to people of a certain age. They don’t have FM radio. If Chatunga is like my son he will load it with hip hop from I-tunes. Not recommended. It all sounds the same after the first three songs.
Anyway, back to your secrets, how do you do it? My father, who is 78 can hardly remember the names of extended family members. Very frequently a relative will pass by and say, “how are you khulu?” And he will respond enthusiastically, “I am well mzukhulu how are you?” Only for him to ask one of us nearby, who the hell that was! How do you remember the names of everyone in the politburo? How do you tell Nick Clegg and David Cameron apart? I am not even half a century old but I struggle to remember the names of some of my work colleagues. Last week I wrote an email in Ndebele to one American and in Shona to a Greek colleague. How do you remember stuff? Is there medication for that? Do share it please.
As I grow older I am increasingly suffering from attention deficit disorder, blind spots, and selective hearing. Do you suffer the same? Would that be why you seem not to hear certain voices in the country? Or why you seem to have a blind spot to very poor people’s plight? Do you pay attention to all parts of the country and all your citizens the same? I am failing. I blank certain things out. Completely. Do send me your recipes for how you cope with these age ailments. Relying on those around me doesn’t help, because they seem to tell me only what they think or what they want. Don’t you sometimes have that feeling?
The day before my birthday I wanted to buy a cheaper facial brand to the one I had used for five years, which I must say did work wonders for me. It seems many people can’t work out how old I am by just looking at my buffed and cleansed face! That was never my intention. I only intended to keep my skin looking clean, and bright. So on this day last week the beautician suggested I use something called “Age-Defying”, something or other. I politely explained that I was happy with my age and did not want to defy gravity. She frowned in amazement, and shoved the brand into my basket. It really was half the price of my former brand, so I took it. Do you use the same age defying what not? I know you dye your hair pitch black. I have never understood that sort of thing, because it really does confuse matters. I don’t want to have a disconnection between my hair, face hands and age. They also say you eat very healthy food, and take lots of energy drinks? Good luck with all that. Each to their own, eh comrade?
So happy birthday once again, I don’t know why, or how you continue to do what you do. Enjoy your cake. Good luck with blowing that many candles. You will need it.
I will continue to write and enjoy myself. I love myself that much.
I turned 46 two weeks ago. I could hardly stay awake throughout the festivities of my little soiree. I amazed myself by staying awake till 2am. How do you do it? How do you manage to stay so……energetic? So alert?
I really want to know your secrets. But first I want to know the reasons.
At a mere 46 I feel tired. If anyone could give me a nice package which can send my 16 year old child to school I would simply take it and run to the nearest island. I love my life, my job, and all the travelling. But I find that I love myself more than all these things. I want to take care of ME! I want to sit in a nice chair and write. My blog. Letters to my friends. Letters to my children. I want to read nice books. Watch good fun movies. I just want to put my feet up. Heck! I am tired of running a three bed-roomed apartment, and five children. I have to keep a job so I can meet my obligations.
Why are you still working at 87? Don’t you just want to love yourself for a change? Take care of number one, you? Aren’t you exhausted? Surely you must be tempted to just take your little back pack and wave goodbye to running a country? When will you write your memoirs? You can do that. Plus you can wake up to the Herald at your door each day. Read all that interesting “news”, they publish. The very laden obituary pages should keep you entertained and happy when you see how young they seem to die these days, compared to yourself. When you are done, you can watch nice reruns of the armed struggle, the ones ZTV seems to have plenty of. If you don’t feel like those, you can watch reruns of Dallas, they stock those too. You will be spoilt for choice of reruns of films you can relate to. Whatever you do, don’t watch DSTV. Please sir. It will depress you no end. What with all your friends and presidential cohort in trouble. You really don’t want to see those silly Libyans calling for Gaddafi to step down. The rest of today’s television is pointless drivel, or naked girls your daughter Bona’s age. No, it is just too much. They say you like cricket. You can watch that to your heart’s content. I avoid most of what they call entertainment. I watch the history channel, football, and of course Al Jazeera. But as psychologists always tell us, television is not really good for relaxation. So stay away from it or watch very little.
When the eyes hurt, you can take a little walk around your neighbourhood, with an MP3 in your ears, like I do. Only yours will be filled with great revolutionary songs. Or when you get bored you can listen to any of our four radio stations. They are a great delight those. Every half hour your blood gets pumped up by rendition of a revolutionary advert or song. Don’t let your young son Chatunga convince you to get an I-pod. Useless things those, to people of a certain age. They don’t have FM radio. If Chatunga is like my son he will load it with hip hop from I-tunes. Not recommended. It all sounds the same after the first three songs.
Anyway, back to your secrets, how do you do it? My father, who is 78 can hardly remember the names of extended family members. Very frequently a relative will pass by and say, “how are you khulu?” And he will respond enthusiastically, “I am well mzukhulu how are you?” Only for him to ask one of us nearby, who the hell that was! How do you remember the names of everyone in the politburo? How do you tell Nick Clegg and David Cameron apart? I am not even half a century old but I struggle to remember the names of some of my work colleagues. Last week I wrote an email in Ndebele to one American and in Shona to a Greek colleague. How do you remember stuff? Is there medication for that? Do share it please.
As I grow older I am increasingly suffering from attention deficit disorder, blind spots, and selective hearing. Do you suffer the same? Would that be why you seem not to hear certain voices in the country? Or why you seem to have a blind spot to very poor people’s plight? Do you pay attention to all parts of the country and all your citizens the same? I am failing. I blank certain things out. Completely. Do send me your recipes for how you cope with these age ailments. Relying on those around me doesn’t help, because they seem to tell me only what they think or what they want. Don’t you sometimes have that feeling?
The day before my birthday I wanted to buy a cheaper facial brand to the one I had used for five years, which I must say did work wonders for me. It seems many people can’t work out how old I am by just looking at my buffed and cleansed face! That was never my intention. I only intended to keep my skin looking clean, and bright. So on this day last week the beautician suggested I use something called “Age-Defying”, something or other. I politely explained that I was happy with my age and did not want to defy gravity. She frowned in amazement, and shoved the brand into my basket. It really was half the price of my former brand, so I took it. Do you use the same age defying what not? I know you dye your hair pitch black. I have never understood that sort of thing, because it really does confuse matters. I don’t want to have a disconnection between my hair, face hands and age. They also say you eat very healthy food, and take lots of energy drinks? Good luck with all that. Each to their own, eh comrade?
So happy birthday once again, I don’t know why, or how you continue to do what you do. Enjoy your cake. Good luck with blowing that many candles. You will need it.
I will continue to write and enjoy myself. I love myself that much.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
2010 in retrospect
It really was a good year. Nobody died. Well, lots of people died. But I didn’t have to go home to bury anyone. This is how I measure goodness and badness in a year. My family and I were very happy and grateful for this rather long respite. My brother Bruce thinks that we are in for a bad year now. But we shall see.
You might find it odd that I am writing this piece in February. Technically that is when my year starts. I was born in Feb. January always passes in a blur anyway, fees to be paid, Christmas over-expenditure starring me in the face, performance evaluation, (work not sexual, but of that later), and just the hassle of trying to convince myself that it will be indeed a “happy new year”, as we all like to think at this time. February is a good time to reflect on the year that was.
The bad
Who can forget the haunting images of the Haitian earthquake which opened 2010? I had been to Haiti in September 2009, with my two colleagues, Ennie and Korto. One evening on the way back to our lovely hotel in Petionville, I thought – rather loudly – I hope this place never gets hit by an earthquake. Nobody said anything. Korto called me from Liberia as soon as she saw the news on television, “EJ your fear has come true, Port-Au-Prince has been hit by an earthquake”. It took me a few minutes to turn on the television. I thought of all the people I know there; Jean-Claude and his beautiful daughter named after the country, Marie-Ange, Myra, Marie-Andree, my colleagues in our office in Haiti. I even remembered the rude translator who had refused to translate what women in a village were telling us about sexual and domestic violence! I thought of the wonderful feminists whose offices I had visited, KayFamn, the feisty young woman in the Ministry of Women. The fabulous service staff at our hotel who took turns to give us delightful pancakes plus a nod and a wink each time. Oh Ayiti! I am going to go back one day. I just need the courage to face it.
The year closed on yet another sour note, the disputed elections in Ivory Coast. What more can one say to what has been so well chronicled and analyzed by more able people than me. Save to say, my heart broke, just seeing yet another beautiful African country held hostage to the whims of a few men. Ivory Coast is one of those countries that some of us counted as a possible place to go and live. Who doesn’t want to stay in a nice, clean, functioning, hip and happening place? Plus fashions to die for! Poof went that dream.
My country continued to limp along, still deeply wounded. No end in sight. Not that we know or agree on what a good “end” would be. The story has become more complex, opposition parties changing their constitutions so that their leaders can continue to stand. All parties have such internecine fights that, as Zexie Manatsa once sang, “vaparidzi vawanda hatichazivi wokutevera honai baba tadzungaira!” English translation, we have too many preachers we don’t know who to follow anymore. Occasionally I broke my own mantra, wake me up when it’s over, to read the papers, the online news, and even to participate in a little political palaver or two. But each time I came away more cynical, more disheartened. I reverted to my original state of non-engagement. It’s a coward’s way out. But I can only cope with limited amounts of idiocy and even more limited amounts of anger that follow. As my favorite (new obsession), singer, Beres Hammond asks in Weary Soldier, “As smart as we are, can we tell ourselves that we have really done our best? Give me one good reason why this war must carry on…”
Love from a safe distance
In one of my first blogs last year I said that I felt that something big was going to happen in 2010. I said I felt it in my bones. Two major things did happen. And it’s not just about the World Cup, of which I wrote several blogs last year, read them if you haven’t.
First, I finally, here goes, finally, I can’t even write it. I applied for Permanent Residence in South Africa. This dear friends, was one of the most painful things I have ever voluntarily done in my life, second only after choosing to walk away from a deliciously painful relationship many moons ago. Remind me to tell you about it someday when I am in a good head space. I finally had to accept the reality that I have kept an illusion in my heart about going back to a Zimbabwe that no longer exists. The Zimbabwe that I was born in, grew up in, where I was first loved (that story again), where I loved, no longer exists. This new country I can’t relate to. It always feels weird saying that. The Shurugwi of my idyllic childhood is now a ramshackle village wracked by poverty. The beautiful city of Harare where I set up home and shop for most of my adult life is a dysfunctional city running itself on auto pilot. My beautiful suburb of Westgate each time I go back, has growing heaps of uncollected rubbish right in front of my gate. I can not kid myself by saying that I was born kwaNhema with no electricity or running water therefore I can cope with the unscheduled cut offs of such essential services in the capital city. Not having google-chat on my mobile 24/7, and no access to AlJazeera for even three hours drives me to hysterics. I am an urbanized-mall crawling-news-entertainment-internet junkie. The three occasions I went home in the 18months preceding my unpatriotic decision, the penny finally dropped. I was kidding no-one. I love the convenience and simple pleasures of my neon lit life in Johannesburg. The deafening traffic outside my bedroom windows give me a little kick each morning, just a small reminder that I am in the middle of a functional city! I can sit for hours at Melrose Arch, watching the well heeled shopping, eating, drinking or just living out their lives in prayer to Mammon. I live for my sundowners with Nancy in our favorite bar, at the top of Southern Sun Hyde Park Hotel. Just looking across that beautiful landscape as the sun sets gives me a zing which lasts all week. The mojitos from there or from Doppio Zero at Rosebank carried me through many a dreary week in 2010. This is now my life. And I love it!
I stopped pretending that I will settle for less. So I applied for permanent residence. I am waiting for it to come out. I still wake up at night and hope that they lost my application. Sometimes I pray that I don’t get it. I want it. But I don’t want it. I feel as if I have let my country down. As if I have abandoned it. I continue to carry my green-mamba, my Zimbabwean passport, as proof of my citizenship. This I am not ready to let go of. Sometimes I take it out of its pouch just to check on it, to make sure that my passport is still valid and it’s safe.
Then came the second big thing. In November, I made a decision to leave my current job. I will be leaving at the end of August after 9 glorious years. And they have truly been glorious. Look out for the long letter that I will write all about my 9 years when the time comes. This is a great organization, full of passionate, committed people. It’s a fabulous employer, and seriously, the perks were wonderful. Where else can one “shop” from allover the world without ever leaving home? The shoes from Brazil, the cute bags from Vietnam, the amazing jeans made for my butt from New York! All of them landed on my desk. I am a moving United Nations. I have truly learnt what it means to be a global citizen, and it’s not just about the shopping. But after 9 years I feel it is time to move on. Some people are lifers. I don’t think I will ever be one in any relationship! I will be leaving this great organization absolutely proud of the magnificent achievements that my team led on women’s human rights. We put it on the organization’s map and if the new draft 5 year strategy is anything to go by, it will stay there for life…I lied that I wasn’t a lifer didn’t I?
I am even more proud to be handing over to a new generation of young feminists who joined my team during 2010. They are all smart, full of energy, seriously well read, (I can’t cope with the amount of literature they churn out and their levels of knowledge on everything!), and they are all stunningly beautiful. I know it’s considered sexist to talk about women’s looks, but I don’t think so. Give praise where it’s due. After all, these women shatter the myth of feminists as ugly and badly dressed! Yoh! Yoh! Yoh! This lot has style. I always see a lot of men we interact with trying to cope with each one of them’s beauty while at the same time trying to take in their seriously well thought thru feminist analysis of global politics. One has the most amazingly beautiful eyes, another flawless mocha looks plus a sexy French tinged but unplaceable accent and the other two’s gorgeous dreadlocks –The internal conflicts! I digress as always.
So to all the world’s young women who are always giving us old feminists lots of lip that we don’t want to let go and we don’t support them, there, I have done my duty to movement and globe. Can I get my gold star please?
Having made the decision to go, I don’t even know where I am going. I just know I am going. Somewhere. This too has been a difficult decision. I get mini panic attacks about how I am going to pay the blasted mortgage I went and got after the age of 40? How I will send my youngest son to Stanford, (if I keep saying it, it will happen right, Andile is going to Stanford, Andile is going to Stanford)? How will I sustain my parents’ medical aid?
Of all the weirdest answers I give myself or to anyone that dares ask, I say, Jesus will intervene! The fact that I haven’t spoken to he of the miracles for the last decade is taken into account of course. There is nothing like delusion to keep one in a good mood.
I am scared stiff. I don’t know how I will navigate my own way round the world. I don’t know if my new employers will allow me to have meetings in Doppio Zero? And I worry that my much cherished work-life balance will go out of the window if I work for some workaholic organization. But I have plenty of time to worry so I am not yet hypertensive. Worst case scenario I will simply up and go back to my parents, who I am sure will be glad to have me back, for a month or two, before their hypertensions start playing up.
The scary parts
My very good friend Shamim’s mother Fatima Meer passed away during the year. Shamim is a dear friend who I first met way back in 1990 when I first came to visit South Africa. We became fast friends. As I sat in Fatima’s lounge absorbed in the Islamic prayers and chants by the women around me on that sunny day, I marveled at the spirit, the patience and the love of women. The men could not concentrate on anything for more than five minutes. They came in, gave quick hugs, said few words, and quickly retreated. It was the women who stayed. I sat next to the famous and very, very stunningly beautiful Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, (my three hours of fame!). She gave a heartfelt and deeply moving eulogy to Fatima.
In August, my dear friend Nozipho’s dad suffered a serious heart attack and was hospitalized for weeks. I went to see him in Bulawayo and spent time with Nozi and her mum. I was so frightened. Thankfully daddy Dube has recovered and he is still with us. When I saw him in December we engaged in our serious political debates as always. Although I noticed he got tired after a short time, (he could normally go on for three or four hours, lecturing me about how my generation doesn’t fully appreciate the struggle for independence!).
Both Sham’s mum going and Nozi’s dad being seriously ill showed me how as we grow older we change roles with our parents. They are now the children, we are the parents. We take care of them. My mum whines when she wants a new hat, just like I used to whine when I wanted new shoes. My dad calls me all the way from Gweru to ask me some tiny thing about banking or his medical aid. Both of them now depend on one of my sons to send and read text messages. If Colin leaves the house they don’t know how to operate the television. I have always thought of my parents as immortal. Who hasn’t? That they will always be here, clever, solving my problems, dusting me up when I fall. I am scared of waking up one day without one or both of them. They are the true North on my compass and I don’t know how I will find my bearings. So I worry. Thankfully both of them are largely in good health. Long may it stay that way.
It was a good year…….
I have to keep saying it, it was a good year. In April I went on a 10 day visit to Brazil. I visited Recife in the North and various parts of Rio. I shopped for shoes till I was afraid that South African customs would throw me in prison for smuggling. I communed with my black sisters as we swapped stories of racism, sexism and huge inequalities.
In November, I went to the other end of the world, India. There I communed with my Dalit sisters and swapped stories of our different “tsunamis” in life. I had an equally great time and shopped for nice cotton and silver jewelry. My wonderful teammate Neelanjana had left us in October to go back to her home in Delhi, (the pain, the pain, I still can’t write about that!). She took us to the most fabulous linen shop and the best jeweler. And we had the most tasteful coffee that side of the Indian Ocean in a cute café. It was so funny to see and hear Neelanjana being….an Indian, in India. For the five years and some we worked together we had never been to India together, and I had never seen here in her natural lair so to say. I giggled and told her continuously how funny it was to see and hear her in this context. Don’t ask me what I mean. But even hearing her say, “chalo, chalo, tikke tikke”, (Ok I know that is not how its all spelt but hey that is how I hear it!), was hilarious. She was like a different person.
I spent close to a month in Kenya during the month of May. Now there is a story to be told. Here is a country fully in love with itself and it shows. Here is a country that has found its voice, its pride and restored itself to its former glory. Each day I had a choice of radio and television stations to tune into. I gobbled up the newspapers. The analysis. The political satire. I drank the best coffee on this side of the Indian Ocean at the famous Java cafes. I bought exciting jewelry from Kazuri. I engaged in deep political conversations with my friend Christine, her brother Tom, and the barman at Naro Moru lodge. There too we had a week long shared learning forum on women’s rights to land with my colleagues from all over the world. It was such a joy being in a functional black African country at ease with itself. Seeing black people talk to each other and to themselves with such pride and understanding. In August I stayed glued to my television watching them celebrate the adoption of their new constitution. For a more selfish reason I am happy to put Kenya back on my list of countries to run to should I need another refuge. Deep down I am jealous of what I experienced in Kenya. This could be us…I wrote to my friend Percy. This could be us.
Aches and pains
Way back when I lived in Shurugwi I hardly went to doctors, dentists or quacks. When I acquired these things called medical aid, read too much book and knew too much, I have discovered I have diseases whose names I can’t even pronounce. In one year alone, 2010, doctors told me I have; calcaneal spurs in both my feet, my degenerative muscle disease in my lower back is not slowing down, and I have low blood pressure! Wasn’t life simpler when we just knew…I was bewitched by Mai Xander next door? I am happy that what I have has a name, medications, plus means of managing. At times I feel like I am being very yuppie for acquiring such fancy diseases. Still, I am happy I am in good shape.
In February, I deluded myself into signing up for gym membership. Hmm, the less said here the better. I enjoyed the first three months. I had a cute personal trainer, Rodney – fancy Group A school graduate with the most hilarious Ndau accent heard anywhere outside Chipinge. His good looks were not enough to keep me interested though. I dropped out by July. I have firmly concluded that I do dislike gyms and their culture. Full stop. All that preening, my-ass is better than yours and ain’t I wonderful subtext just left me quite frazzled.
So I took up walking. Yes, walking, from my apartment, to the office, and back. Three times a week I do this now. And it’s not a bad route. Highly entertaining actually. I walk past groups of men and women who drink moonshine right behind the walls of a very “toff” preparatory school. Morning, noon and night they are there. On some occasions when I am feeling friendly, rather than listening to the Reggae on my MP3, I smile at these drunk men and their antics and we chat. Several of them say they want to marry me. I am waiting for them to turn black again (since they are now all orange or some reddish hue from drinking too much of the stuff). It’s actually quite sad to see human beings reduced to this condition.
The walking has done wonders for my achy muscles and feet. I have discovered these glorious shoes called Fit-flops! I can walk from here to Hyde Park (the Joburg one not the London one), in them. Johannesburg is a truly beautiful city, and walking around my neighborhood has given me glimpses of its beauty. Granted I still feel unsafe. But walking is truly a liberating experience in so many senses and I will keep at it. Best of all it is free!
Somewhere old somewhere new
In July I travelled back to Vienna for the world AIDS conference. I was invited as a plenary speaker. Everyone tells me I spoke well on VAW and HIV. I am not sure I will be doing another AIDS conference anytime soon. Because AIDS is an issue so close to my bone, I find it hard to talk, engage and listen in a dispassionate way. I find it extremely difficult to look at those figures on power point presentations without thinking of my siblings. I know I should see the importance of it all and be grateful for the scientific advances that have enabled many more of my family to survive beyond the 34 year life expectancy that had so become the norm. Yet, I just feel I want to be as far away as possible from AIDS conferences and all that goes with it, because I can’t relate all that to my life.
I said “back” to Vienna because of course it is the city where my friend Georgina died in such terrible circumstances two days before I was due to visit her in January 2009. It was a good thing this was in summer because I don’t think I would have coped being there in winter again, as I had done when we went to repatriate her body to Zimbabwe.
Vienna was lovely, bright. I spent time with another friend and ex colleague Srilata. Trust Sri to have already discovered the nooks and crannies of Vie. She took us to a party held in an old restored castle on the outskirts of Vie. I saw cakes I have never seen in my life! Pink ones, green ones, square ones, triangular ones. Sweet and sour ones. We did not stay long enough to eat the pig that was roasting on the spit. It looked like that piggy would be a-turning till the stars came out!
We also reconnected with the delightful Chetty, who now works at UNESCO in Paris. Five minutes in Chetty’s company is enough to put anyone with a sense of humor in a good mood. He told us hilarious stories about the snooty tomato sellers in Paris who correct his pronunciation, the equally snooty waiters who roll their ears when he gets the table, wine or food etiquette wrong. Note to self; send Andile to Paris in 2012.
Then there was Istanbul. Ah the land of the Sultans! In July I also went to an AWID forum preparatory committee meeting. Just getting the visa is a story that needs some documentation. Getting there was a real pleasure. The food was as wondrous as they always said it was. The sights and sounds are as grand as the books painted them.
Strangely I didn’t even buy a rug! I was too overwhelmed by such a wide variety that I didn’t know what was which. A trip to the Grand Bazaar yielded nothing because….too much choice. I walked right in and walked right out! I will be going back this year.
My pride and joy….my rhyme and song
My children continue to be my pride and joy, and as the song says, my rhyme and song. My eldest son’s daughter Ratidzo was a mini bride at Doris’ wedding. She still can’t get over herself I hear. She is now a talkative little Miss, with her own ideas about what she wants and how she wants it. Long may she stay that way. Go girl!
Colin started his BA in International Studies at the Midlands State University. I so enjoy our long conversations about politics, the economy and life in general. Finally a child after my own self! This one will go far. He came down to Johannesburg in December and was so taken by mall-hopping, (that might delay his journey to that “far”). Colin is now the eyes and ears of my parents, helping them navigate this strange new world. He is a loving, sensitive and patient soul, and knows how to manage the two of them gently but firmly. It’s so gratifying and so much fun to watch him with them.
Miss Lorraine finally got a work permit to remain in South Africa, after losing her job in August. She now has a job as a hostess, (no it’s not a sleazy joint, trust me), in a very famous restaurant. We shall visit her soon.
Levison is fleeting along in Durban. Let us just say I am glad he is alive. That he can look after himself. And he calls his grandparents each month. We lapsed Methodists know how to be grateful for small mercies.
Andile inched towards his final year of high school, passing all his Grade 11 subjects comfortably. He still hates Maths, (incurable family disease), but loves English, History and Dramatic Art. We are trying to encourage him to lower the bar on being the next Denzel Washington. Selfishly I need him to be a lawyer or famous journalist whose royalties will keep me in the manner and style I am entitled to! We shall see.
Dancing into the new year
What started as a good year, ended as a good year, Ivory Coast not withstanding. My daughter (don’t ask for the English explanations please), Doris got married on December 18, same day that her late elder sister Dorcas was born. She was so beautiful and graceful in her gown and our whole family was delighted to be in a joyous gathering for a change. We all put on our finest hats. If I haven’t sent you the photos with the hats let me know. On the 22nd of December, my sister Laiza (did I hear you ask sister, sister?), also got married in a fuchsia themed wedding. More hats.
We rounded up the year with the joint 40th birthday party for my sister Portia and my brother Fungwa, (ok stop asking or I will throw this computer at you). As we danced to Solomon Skuza’s very danceable song, ‘Banolila,” (me, my brothers and my son in law, a whole army general please note!), my heart was filled with joy and gratitude for a good year. A good life. A wonderful family. Relatively good health, (no menopause yet, still! Yeah!). Amazing friends, like you!
I want 2011 to be a good year. It has started really well. It will end well. I can feel it in my arthritic bones.
You might find it odd that I am writing this piece in February. Technically that is when my year starts. I was born in Feb. January always passes in a blur anyway, fees to be paid, Christmas over-expenditure starring me in the face, performance evaluation, (work not sexual, but of that later), and just the hassle of trying to convince myself that it will be indeed a “happy new year”, as we all like to think at this time. February is a good time to reflect on the year that was.
The bad
Who can forget the haunting images of the Haitian earthquake which opened 2010? I had been to Haiti in September 2009, with my two colleagues, Ennie and Korto. One evening on the way back to our lovely hotel in Petionville, I thought – rather loudly – I hope this place never gets hit by an earthquake. Nobody said anything. Korto called me from Liberia as soon as she saw the news on television, “EJ your fear has come true, Port-Au-Prince has been hit by an earthquake”. It took me a few minutes to turn on the television. I thought of all the people I know there; Jean-Claude and his beautiful daughter named after the country, Marie-Ange, Myra, Marie-Andree, my colleagues in our office in Haiti. I even remembered the rude translator who had refused to translate what women in a village were telling us about sexual and domestic violence! I thought of the wonderful feminists whose offices I had visited, KayFamn, the feisty young woman in the Ministry of Women. The fabulous service staff at our hotel who took turns to give us delightful pancakes plus a nod and a wink each time. Oh Ayiti! I am going to go back one day. I just need the courage to face it.
The year closed on yet another sour note, the disputed elections in Ivory Coast. What more can one say to what has been so well chronicled and analyzed by more able people than me. Save to say, my heart broke, just seeing yet another beautiful African country held hostage to the whims of a few men. Ivory Coast is one of those countries that some of us counted as a possible place to go and live. Who doesn’t want to stay in a nice, clean, functioning, hip and happening place? Plus fashions to die for! Poof went that dream.
My country continued to limp along, still deeply wounded. No end in sight. Not that we know or agree on what a good “end” would be. The story has become more complex, opposition parties changing their constitutions so that their leaders can continue to stand. All parties have such internecine fights that, as Zexie Manatsa once sang, “vaparidzi vawanda hatichazivi wokutevera honai baba tadzungaira!” English translation, we have too many preachers we don’t know who to follow anymore. Occasionally I broke my own mantra, wake me up when it’s over, to read the papers, the online news, and even to participate in a little political palaver or two. But each time I came away more cynical, more disheartened. I reverted to my original state of non-engagement. It’s a coward’s way out. But I can only cope with limited amounts of idiocy and even more limited amounts of anger that follow. As my favorite (new obsession), singer, Beres Hammond asks in Weary Soldier, “As smart as we are, can we tell ourselves that we have really done our best? Give me one good reason why this war must carry on…”
Love from a safe distance
In one of my first blogs last year I said that I felt that something big was going to happen in 2010. I said I felt it in my bones. Two major things did happen. And it’s not just about the World Cup, of which I wrote several blogs last year, read them if you haven’t.
First, I finally, here goes, finally, I can’t even write it. I applied for Permanent Residence in South Africa. This dear friends, was one of the most painful things I have ever voluntarily done in my life, second only after choosing to walk away from a deliciously painful relationship many moons ago. Remind me to tell you about it someday when I am in a good head space. I finally had to accept the reality that I have kept an illusion in my heart about going back to a Zimbabwe that no longer exists. The Zimbabwe that I was born in, grew up in, where I was first loved (that story again), where I loved, no longer exists. This new country I can’t relate to. It always feels weird saying that. The Shurugwi of my idyllic childhood is now a ramshackle village wracked by poverty. The beautiful city of Harare where I set up home and shop for most of my adult life is a dysfunctional city running itself on auto pilot. My beautiful suburb of Westgate each time I go back, has growing heaps of uncollected rubbish right in front of my gate. I can not kid myself by saying that I was born kwaNhema with no electricity or running water therefore I can cope with the unscheduled cut offs of such essential services in the capital city. Not having google-chat on my mobile 24/7, and no access to AlJazeera for even three hours drives me to hysterics. I am an urbanized-mall crawling-news-entertainment-internet junkie. The three occasions I went home in the 18months preceding my unpatriotic decision, the penny finally dropped. I was kidding no-one. I love the convenience and simple pleasures of my neon lit life in Johannesburg. The deafening traffic outside my bedroom windows give me a little kick each morning, just a small reminder that I am in the middle of a functional city! I can sit for hours at Melrose Arch, watching the well heeled shopping, eating, drinking or just living out their lives in prayer to Mammon. I live for my sundowners with Nancy in our favorite bar, at the top of Southern Sun Hyde Park Hotel. Just looking across that beautiful landscape as the sun sets gives me a zing which lasts all week. The mojitos from there or from Doppio Zero at Rosebank carried me through many a dreary week in 2010. This is now my life. And I love it!
I stopped pretending that I will settle for less. So I applied for permanent residence. I am waiting for it to come out. I still wake up at night and hope that they lost my application. Sometimes I pray that I don’t get it. I want it. But I don’t want it. I feel as if I have let my country down. As if I have abandoned it. I continue to carry my green-mamba, my Zimbabwean passport, as proof of my citizenship. This I am not ready to let go of. Sometimes I take it out of its pouch just to check on it, to make sure that my passport is still valid and it’s safe.
Then came the second big thing. In November, I made a decision to leave my current job. I will be leaving at the end of August after 9 glorious years. And they have truly been glorious. Look out for the long letter that I will write all about my 9 years when the time comes. This is a great organization, full of passionate, committed people. It’s a fabulous employer, and seriously, the perks were wonderful. Where else can one “shop” from allover the world without ever leaving home? The shoes from Brazil, the cute bags from Vietnam, the amazing jeans made for my butt from New York! All of them landed on my desk. I am a moving United Nations. I have truly learnt what it means to be a global citizen, and it’s not just about the shopping. But after 9 years I feel it is time to move on. Some people are lifers. I don’t think I will ever be one in any relationship! I will be leaving this great organization absolutely proud of the magnificent achievements that my team led on women’s human rights. We put it on the organization’s map and if the new draft 5 year strategy is anything to go by, it will stay there for life…I lied that I wasn’t a lifer didn’t I?
I am even more proud to be handing over to a new generation of young feminists who joined my team during 2010. They are all smart, full of energy, seriously well read, (I can’t cope with the amount of literature they churn out and their levels of knowledge on everything!), and they are all stunningly beautiful. I know it’s considered sexist to talk about women’s looks, but I don’t think so. Give praise where it’s due. After all, these women shatter the myth of feminists as ugly and badly dressed! Yoh! Yoh! Yoh! This lot has style. I always see a lot of men we interact with trying to cope with each one of them’s beauty while at the same time trying to take in their seriously well thought thru feminist analysis of global politics. One has the most amazingly beautiful eyes, another flawless mocha looks plus a sexy French tinged but unplaceable accent and the other two’s gorgeous dreadlocks –The internal conflicts! I digress as always.
So to all the world’s young women who are always giving us old feminists lots of lip that we don’t want to let go and we don’t support them, there, I have done my duty to movement and globe. Can I get my gold star please?
Having made the decision to go, I don’t even know where I am going. I just know I am going. Somewhere. This too has been a difficult decision. I get mini panic attacks about how I am going to pay the blasted mortgage I went and got after the age of 40? How I will send my youngest son to Stanford, (if I keep saying it, it will happen right, Andile is going to Stanford, Andile is going to Stanford)? How will I sustain my parents’ medical aid?
Of all the weirdest answers I give myself or to anyone that dares ask, I say, Jesus will intervene! The fact that I haven’t spoken to he of the miracles for the last decade is taken into account of course. There is nothing like delusion to keep one in a good mood.
I am scared stiff. I don’t know how I will navigate my own way round the world. I don’t know if my new employers will allow me to have meetings in Doppio Zero? And I worry that my much cherished work-life balance will go out of the window if I work for some workaholic organization. But I have plenty of time to worry so I am not yet hypertensive. Worst case scenario I will simply up and go back to my parents, who I am sure will be glad to have me back, for a month or two, before their hypertensions start playing up.
The scary parts
My very good friend Shamim’s mother Fatima Meer passed away during the year. Shamim is a dear friend who I first met way back in 1990 when I first came to visit South Africa. We became fast friends. As I sat in Fatima’s lounge absorbed in the Islamic prayers and chants by the women around me on that sunny day, I marveled at the spirit, the patience and the love of women. The men could not concentrate on anything for more than five minutes. They came in, gave quick hugs, said few words, and quickly retreated. It was the women who stayed. I sat next to the famous and very, very stunningly beautiful Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, (my three hours of fame!). She gave a heartfelt and deeply moving eulogy to Fatima.
In August, my dear friend Nozipho’s dad suffered a serious heart attack and was hospitalized for weeks. I went to see him in Bulawayo and spent time with Nozi and her mum. I was so frightened. Thankfully daddy Dube has recovered and he is still with us. When I saw him in December we engaged in our serious political debates as always. Although I noticed he got tired after a short time, (he could normally go on for three or four hours, lecturing me about how my generation doesn’t fully appreciate the struggle for independence!).
Both Sham’s mum going and Nozi’s dad being seriously ill showed me how as we grow older we change roles with our parents. They are now the children, we are the parents. We take care of them. My mum whines when she wants a new hat, just like I used to whine when I wanted new shoes. My dad calls me all the way from Gweru to ask me some tiny thing about banking or his medical aid. Both of them now depend on one of my sons to send and read text messages. If Colin leaves the house they don’t know how to operate the television. I have always thought of my parents as immortal. Who hasn’t? That they will always be here, clever, solving my problems, dusting me up when I fall. I am scared of waking up one day without one or both of them. They are the true North on my compass and I don’t know how I will find my bearings. So I worry. Thankfully both of them are largely in good health. Long may it stay that way.
It was a good year…….
I have to keep saying it, it was a good year. In April I went on a 10 day visit to Brazil. I visited Recife in the North and various parts of Rio. I shopped for shoes till I was afraid that South African customs would throw me in prison for smuggling. I communed with my black sisters as we swapped stories of racism, sexism and huge inequalities.
In November, I went to the other end of the world, India. There I communed with my Dalit sisters and swapped stories of our different “tsunamis” in life. I had an equally great time and shopped for nice cotton and silver jewelry. My wonderful teammate Neelanjana had left us in October to go back to her home in Delhi, (the pain, the pain, I still can’t write about that!). She took us to the most fabulous linen shop and the best jeweler. And we had the most tasteful coffee that side of the Indian Ocean in a cute café. It was so funny to see and hear Neelanjana being….an Indian, in India. For the five years and some we worked together we had never been to India together, and I had never seen here in her natural lair so to say. I giggled and told her continuously how funny it was to see and hear her in this context. Don’t ask me what I mean. But even hearing her say, “chalo, chalo, tikke tikke”, (Ok I know that is not how its all spelt but hey that is how I hear it!), was hilarious. She was like a different person.
I spent close to a month in Kenya during the month of May. Now there is a story to be told. Here is a country fully in love with itself and it shows. Here is a country that has found its voice, its pride and restored itself to its former glory. Each day I had a choice of radio and television stations to tune into. I gobbled up the newspapers. The analysis. The political satire. I drank the best coffee on this side of the Indian Ocean at the famous Java cafes. I bought exciting jewelry from Kazuri. I engaged in deep political conversations with my friend Christine, her brother Tom, and the barman at Naro Moru lodge. There too we had a week long shared learning forum on women’s rights to land with my colleagues from all over the world. It was such a joy being in a functional black African country at ease with itself. Seeing black people talk to each other and to themselves with such pride and understanding. In August I stayed glued to my television watching them celebrate the adoption of their new constitution. For a more selfish reason I am happy to put Kenya back on my list of countries to run to should I need another refuge. Deep down I am jealous of what I experienced in Kenya. This could be us…I wrote to my friend Percy. This could be us.
Aches and pains
Way back when I lived in Shurugwi I hardly went to doctors, dentists or quacks. When I acquired these things called medical aid, read too much book and knew too much, I have discovered I have diseases whose names I can’t even pronounce. In one year alone, 2010, doctors told me I have; calcaneal spurs in both my feet, my degenerative muscle disease in my lower back is not slowing down, and I have low blood pressure! Wasn’t life simpler when we just knew…I was bewitched by Mai Xander next door? I am happy that what I have has a name, medications, plus means of managing. At times I feel like I am being very yuppie for acquiring such fancy diseases. Still, I am happy I am in good shape.
In February, I deluded myself into signing up for gym membership. Hmm, the less said here the better. I enjoyed the first three months. I had a cute personal trainer, Rodney – fancy Group A school graduate with the most hilarious Ndau accent heard anywhere outside Chipinge. His good looks were not enough to keep me interested though. I dropped out by July. I have firmly concluded that I do dislike gyms and their culture. Full stop. All that preening, my-ass is better than yours and ain’t I wonderful subtext just left me quite frazzled.
So I took up walking. Yes, walking, from my apartment, to the office, and back. Three times a week I do this now. And it’s not a bad route. Highly entertaining actually. I walk past groups of men and women who drink moonshine right behind the walls of a very “toff” preparatory school. Morning, noon and night they are there. On some occasions when I am feeling friendly, rather than listening to the Reggae on my MP3, I smile at these drunk men and their antics and we chat. Several of them say they want to marry me. I am waiting for them to turn black again (since they are now all orange or some reddish hue from drinking too much of the stuff). It’s actually quite sad to see human beings reduced to this condition.
The walking has done wonders for my achy muscles and feet. I have discovered these glorious shoes called Fit-flops! I can walk from here to Hyde Park (the Joburg one not the London one), in them. Johannesburg is a truly beautiful city, and walking around my neighborhood has given me glimpses of its beauty. Granted I still feel unsafe. But walking is truly a liberating experience in so many senses and I will keep at it. Best of all it is free!
Somewhere old somewhere new
In July I travelled back to Vienna for the world AIDS conference. I was invited as a plenary speaker. Everyone tells me I spoke well on VAW and HIV. I am not sure I will be doing another AIDS conference anytime soon. Because AIDS is an issue so close to my bone, I find it hard to talk, engage and listen in a dispassionate way. I find it extremely difficult to look at those figures on power point presentations without thinking of my siblings. I know I should see the importance of it all and be grateful for the scientific advances that have enabled many more of my family to survive beyond the 34 year life expectancy that had so become the norm. Yet, I just feel I want to be as far away as possible from AIDS conferences and all that goes with it, because I can’t relate all that to my life.
I said “back” to Vienna because of course it is the city where my friend Georgina died in such terrible circumstances two days before I was due to visit her in January 2009. It was a good thing this was in summer because I don’t think I would have coped being there in winter again, as I had done when we went to repatriate her body to Zimbabwe.
Vienna was lovely, bright. I spent time with another friend and ex colleague Srilata. Trust Sri to have already discovered the nooks and crannies of Vie. She took us to a party held in an old restored castle on the outskirts of Vie. I saw cakes I have never seen in my life! Pink ones, green ones, square ones, triangular ones. Sweet and sour ones. We did not stay long enough to eat the pig that was roasting on the spit. It looked like that piggy would be a-turning till the stars came out!
We also reconnected with the delightful Chetty, who now works at UNESCO in Paris. Five minutes in Chetty’s company is enough to put anyone with a sense of humor in a good mood. He told us hilarious stories about the snooty tomato sellers in Paris who correct his pronunciation, the equally snooty waiters who roll their ears when he gets the table, wine or food etiquette wrong. Note to self; send Andile to Paris in 2012.
Then there was Istanbul. Ah the land of the Sultans! In July I also went to an AWID forum preparatory committee meeting. Just getting the visa is a story that needs some documentation. Getting there was a real pleasure. The food was as wondrous as they always said it was. The sights and sounds are as grand as the books painted them.
Strangely I didn’t even buy a rug! I was too overwhelmed by such a wide variety that I didn’t know what was which. A trip to the Grand Bazaar yielded nothing because….too much choice. I walked right in and walked right out! I will be going back this year.
My pride and joy….my rhyme and song
My children continue to be my pride and joy, and as the song says, my rhyme and song. My eldest son’s daughter Ratidzo was a mini bride at Doris’ wedding. She still can’t get over herself I hear. She is now a talkative little Miss, with her own ideas about what she wants and how she wants it. Long may she stay that way. Go girl!
Colin started his BA in International Studies at the Midlands State University. I so enjoy our long conversations about politics, the economy and life in general. Finally a child after my own self! This one will go far. He came down to Johannesburg in December and was so taken by mall-hopping, (that might delay his journey to that “far”). Colin is now the eyes and ears of my parents, helping them navigate this strange new world. He is a loving, sensitive and patient soul, and knows how to manage the two of them gently but firmly. It’s so gratifying and so much fun to watch him with them.
Miss Lorraine finally got a work permit to remain in South Africa, after losing her job in August. She now has a job as a hostess, (no it’s not a sleazy joint, trust me), in a very famous restaurant. We shall visit her soon.
Levison is fleeting along in Durban. Let us just say I am glad he is alive. That he can look after himself. And he calls his grandparents each month. We lapsed Methodists know how to be grateful for small mercies.
Andile inched towards his final year of high school, passing all his Grade 11 subjects comfortably. He still hates Maths, (incurable family disease), but loves English, History and Dramatic Art. We are trying to encourage him to lower the bar on being the next Denzel Washington. Selfishly I need him to be a lawyer or famous journalist whose royalties will keep me in the manner and style I am entitled to! We shall see.
Dancing into the new year
What started as a good year, ended as a good year, Ivory Coast not withstanding. My daughter (don’t ask for the English explanations please), Doris got married on December 18, same day that her late elder sister Dorcas was born. She was so beautiful and graceful in her gown and our whole family was delighted to be in a joyous gathering for a change. We all put on our finest hats. If I haven’t sent you the photos with the hats let me know. On the 22nd of December, my sister Laiza (did I hear you ask sister, sister?), also got married in a fuchsia themed wedding. More hats.
We rounded up the year with the joint 40th birthday party for my sister Portia and my brother Fungwa, (ok stop asking or I will throw this computer at you). As we danced to Solomon Skuza’s very danceable song, ‘Banolila,” (me, my brothers and my son in law, a whole army general please note!), my heart was filled with joy and gratitude for a good year. A good life. A wonderful family. Relatively good health, (no menopause yet, still! Yeah!). Amazing friends, like you!
I want 2011 to be a good year. It has started really well. It will end well. I can feel it in my arthritic bones.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Why I am "de'friending" you
Dear fr…..ahem, person,
Happy new year, happy birthday, anniversary, new job, new lover, divorce, new baby, new hairdo, and whatever other happy occasion will come your way this year and thereafter. I am doing this to save time, space, and the guilt – when you accuse me of having forgotten any such event in the course of the year.
Having been this nice, let me immediately say why I am writing this letter. I have decided to de-friend you from this day hence-forth. I am de-friending you on Facebook, Plaxo, Linkedin, skype, google-chat, yahoo chat, and of course my mobile phones. All three of them. You see dear person, the new year is a time to take stock of one’s life, set new goals, clean up one’s nooks and crannies, and generally move onto new and fresher things. At the beginning of each year, I clean out my cupboards, my wardrobe, my desk, my emails, and my files. But I have noticed that I have neglected one area – people. Relationships. These too need cleaning up, don’t you think? Now that I am done with cleaning all these other areas of my life, I am paying doing a people clean up exercise. There are various reasons that have led to this. Some of these might apply to you, while others you may not be aware of.
I really don’t know you really do I? When I happily accepted your “advances|” on facebook/plaxo etc, I was just too shy to say no. It didn’t seem right to reject you. Truth be told though, you don’t know me, and I don’t really know you. You can’t possibly be my friend when I have to keep reminding you how many children I have? And you can’t even remember any one of their names! There are five of them. If you just kept asking me about one of them, I would understand. But five? Nah! I on the other hand, don’t know a thing about you other than your name and the odd conference/gathering/once off event where we meet. Or I simply know that we work/ed in the same organization. That hardly makes you my friend does it? If it does I might as well befriend the guy who waters our plants each week, the regular DHL delivery man, and the cashier at my favourite coffee shop? I think I have much richer rapport with my hair dresser and my gynaecologist. The former has two children and her mother has diabetes, while the latter knows my entire biological make up and we have running jokes about our body parts. You, no, I don’t even know where you live.
Let’s just walk away now. At least nobody will be hurt. I am just one more name in your inbox and on your profile.
Then there is you, the one I was under the illusion I knew and liked. But over the last year, I found out I really don’t. First, there is the company that I see you keep; that reactionary politics, that homo-phobia, those misogynistic views – all paraded on public platforms. The less said here the better. Lets just say, I can’t afford to be seen in that company.
Then there is your own politics my, erm, friend; the same homophobia, the anti women, anti other human beings’ rights stuff you make little comments about via email, on skype, on text, and on those social networks. I shall none of it. Goodbye.
Then there is you, the religious zealot, who thinks you have been sent on a mission to save me, (not sure from what?), convert me, make me see what you call “the light”.
Let me break it down for you honey. I am over 40 going on half a century. I know where I am going, and what I believe. The only relationships I want to parade in public are sexual ones, strange as that might sound. My faith or lack thereof is a private matter. Jesus, Allah, Lord Shiva, the prophets and I go way back….sometimes earlier than when you were born my dear. I don’t want to be assailed by religious verses in my own space. I don’t want you to preach to me. Between my mum, my spiritual mentors (who don’t include you please note), and my Grade 2 teacher, (she is alive and sings beautifully), we have the whole faith thing covered. If I want to get some ‘ol’ time religion, I know exactly where to go and who to go to. It’s certainly not to facebook, outlook, or text messaging. I live in a secular world. Let me enjoy it please. Goodbye to you too.
I am tired of you, my soon to be ex-friend, trying to mobilize me to a “cause”. I am a cause! Plus I have enough causes that I actually work for day and night. Maybe you haven’t been politically active, so YOU need a cause? Good for you, and welcome to the world of human beings who care about others. Let me know if you need help identifying worthy causes as some of the ones you have been sending me are, eh…..suspect.
You are my relative, not my friend. We are simply related biologically, but we don’t have a relationship as such. Do you get the difference my relative? I am de-friending you too because other than our blood ties we haven’t got much in common. We hardly exchange more than two sentences at funerals and weddings. So I don’t see why I should keep you on my books. Sadly there is no chance of me deleting you from my life, or you deleting me. We just have to bear it and grin when our mothers ask, “how is your sister there in Johanazbeg”. We will say what we always say, |”ha she is ok”, meaning, you are alive and if you had died, then I would surely have been the one to repatriate your body home. You I will simply keep on the contact list stuck to my fridge. That way my children or the complex care taker can reach you should they need to. Off with your mug on my facebook list!
Finally there is you, my old friend. You were my friend in many senses for many years. I knew you from primary/high/work/socially/church/mosque or all of the above. We had something in common, once. But we have both moved on. We hardly communicate. Be honest when was the last time you called me on the phone? Sent me a note on my birthday? Do you even remember when it is? When did I last sit with you and laugh at a private joke we share? When we try to communicate, the conversations are strained. I don’t know half the folks you now call your friends, neither do you know mine. We give each other’s contacts to others who make better use of them than we each do. Let’s stop pretending. It’s not working anymore.
Happy everything once again and have a fantastic the rest of your life!
PS. Feel free to de-friend me too, in case you relate to what I said here...
Happy new year, happy birthday, anniversary, new job, new lover, divorce, new baby, new hairdo, and whatever other happy occasion will come your way this year and thereafter. I am doing this to save time, space, and the guilt – when you accuse me of having forgotten any such event in the course of the year.
Having been this nice, let me immediately say why I am writing this letter. I have decided to de-friend you from this day hence-forth. I am de-friending you on Facebook, Plaxo, Linkedin, skype, google-chat, yahoo chat, and of course my mobile phones. All three of them. You see dear person, the new year is a time to take stock of one’s life, set new goals, clean up one’s nooks and crannies, and generally move onto new and fresher things. At the beginning of each year, I clean out my cupboards, my wardrobe, my desk, my emails, and my files. But I have noticed that I have neglected one area – people. Relationships. These too need cleaning up, don’t you think? Now that I am done with cleaning all these other areas of my life, I am paying doing a people clean up exercise. There are various reasons that have led to this. Some of these might apply to you, while others you may not be aware of.
I really don’t know you really do I? When I happily accepted your “advances|” on facebook/plaxo etc, I was just too shy to say no. It didn’t seem right to reject you. Truth be told though, you don’t know me, and I don’t really know you. You can’t possibly be my friend when I have to keep reminding you how many children I have? And you can’t even remember any one of their names! There are five of them. If you just kept asking me about one of them, I would understand. But five? Nah! I on the other hand, don’t know a thing about you other than your name and the odd conference/gathering/once off event where we meet. Or I simply know that we work/ed in the same organization. That hardly makes you my friend does it? If it does I might as well befriend the guy who waters our plants each week, the regular DHL delivery man, and the cashier at my favourite coffee shop? I think I have much richer rapport with my hair dresser and my gynaecologist. The former has two children and her mother has diabetes, while the latter knows my entire biological make up and we have running jokes about our body parts. You, no, I don’t even know where you live.
Let’s just walk away now. At least nobody will be hurt. I am just one more name in your inbox and on your profile.
Then there is you, the one I was under the illusion I knew and liked. But over the last year, I found out I really don’t. First, there is the company that I see you keep; that reactionary politics, that homo-phobia, those misogynistic views – all paraded on public platforms. The less said here the better. Lets just say, I can’t afford to be seen in that company.
Then there is your own politics my, erm, friend; the same homophobia, the anti women, anti other human beings’ rights stuff you make little comments about via email, on skype, on text, and on those social networks. I shall none of it. Goodbye.
Then there is you, the religious zealot, who thinks you have been sent on a mission to save me, (not sure from what?), convert me, make me see what you call “the light”.
Let me break it down for you honey. I am over 40 going on half a century. I know where I am going, and what I believe. The only relationships I want to parade in public are sexual ones, strange as that might sound. My faith or lack thereof is a private matter. Jesus, Allah, Lord Shiva, the prophets and I go way back….sometimes earlier than when you were born my dear. I don’t want to be assailed by religious verses in my own space. I don’t want you to preach to me. Between my mum, my spiritual mentors (who don’t include you please note), and my Grade 2 teacher, (she is alive and sings beautifully), we have the whole faith thing covered. If I want to get some ‘ol’ time religion, I know exactly where to go and who to go to. It’s certainly not to facebook, outlook, or text messaging. I live in a secular world. Let me enjoy it please. Goodbye to you too.
I am tired of you, my soon to be ex-friend, trying to mobilize me to a “cause”. I am a cause! Plus I have enough causes that I actually work for day and night. Maybe you haven’t been politically active, so YOU need a cause? Good for you, and welcome to the world of human beings who care about others. Let me know if you need help identifying worthy causes as some of the ones you have been sending me are, eh…..suspect.
You are my relative, not my friend. We are simply related biologically, but we don’t have a relationship as such. Do you get the difference my relative? I am de-friending you too because other than our blood ties we haven’t got much in common. We hardly exchange more than two sentences at funerals and weddings. So I don’t see why I should keep you on my books. Sadly there is no chance of me deleting you from my life, or you deleting me. We just have to bear it and grin when our mothers ask, “how is your sister there in Johanazbeg”. We will say what we always say, |”ha she is ok”, meaning, you are alive and if you had died, then I would surely have been the one to repatriate your body home. You I will simply keep on the contact list stuck to my fridge. That way my children or the complex care taker can reach you should they need to. Off with your mug on my facebook list!
Finally there is you, my old friend. You were my friend in many senses for many years. I knew you from primary/high/work/socially/church/mosque or all of the above. We had something in common, once. But we have both moved on. We hardly communicate. Be honest when was the last time you called me on the phone? Sent me a note on my birthday? Do you even remember when it is? When did I last sit with you and laugh at a private joke we share? When we try to communicate, the conversations are strained. I don’t know half the folks you now call your friends, neither do you know mine. We give each other’s contacts to others who make better use of them than we each do. Let’s stop pretending. It’s not working anymore.
Happy everything once again and have a fantastic the rest of your life!
PS. Feel free to de-friend me too, in case you relate to what I said here...
Monday, December 13, 2010
Incredible India
This blogging thing is not as easy as it sounds. One has to make time for it and I always find I have less hours in a day than I thought there were! Agh well. Enjoy this piece on my recent travel to India.
I worked myself up until I had an eczema outbreak on my forehead and chest. I was not looking forward to it. The last three times I had been to India I came back with some skin infection. And here was I getting myself sick before I even boarded the flight! The first time (2003 – Mumbai and Delhi), my 5 year old dreadlocks were infested with head lice and a fungus that the dermatologist simply ordered me to have a chis’kop (bald head)! The second time, (Bangalore - 2007), I sat in Dubai airport on my way back to Johannesburg, for five hours, scratching myself all over until a concerned observer pointed me to a chemist. I wrote a letter there and then to my Directors telling them I was not going back to India unless I was assured I would be put up in hotels where there were no goggas (creepy crawlies) of any kind. Of course I was dismissed as an upper caste Diva who just wasn’t suitable to work in an organization that supports poor people. I retorted that I had grown up in poverty and didn’t cherish being thrust back into it. I was ignored.
So here I was worried sick for my newly tended 3 year old dreadlocks. I was not fooled by the picture of my Delhi hotel which I found on the net. It all looked too swanky to be real. My organization of course doesn’t do swanky, ever, so this remained to be seen.
Travelling to Asia via Dubai has to be one of life’s little pleasures. Even in economy class, Emirates airlines are just absolutely amazing. Firstly they are always on time. And if they get delayed it’s never their fault, (no really, it’s true!). The seats in economy class are wide enough to fit people like me who normally struggle on other Asian airliners! The best part is the food and the movies. The first time I travelled on Emirates I kept skipping channels that I just never watched anything till we landed. I managed to catch up with all the current movies that I haven’t seen this year. New movies, not ten year old rehashes that a certain national carrier will show on the excruciating 18 hour voyage to New York.
Emirates serve real food, well cooked rice, (not some plasticky tasting half cooked substance on that alluded to national carrier), and really tasty curry dishes. On the Dubai-Delhi leg they had proper dhal and rotis! Talk about cultural sensitivity.
In between meals, one can get very tasty wraps with all kinds of fillings, plus so many drinks, little snacks, chocolate. Yes, unlike that carrier which only offers very dry biscuits, and some nameless yellow drink that tastes quite vile!
I arrived in Delhi 13 hours after leaving Joburg, in a very good mood. My cheerful mood continued as we disembarked into the brand spanking new Indira Ghandi International Airport. This was not the Delhi I remembered with a tiny little airport, characterized by pit latrines that left my jeans all wet when I tried to use one back in 2003. The new massive airport was completed in time for the Commonwealth Games of course. The arrivals hall is covered in a lush multi coloured carpet, (I worried about how they will keep it clean?). There are beautiful toilets where I could sit – yeah!
But some things don’t change so quickly. I could swear the same Dalit (previously known as “untouchable”) woman who I met inside the toilet is still there. Her face had been burnt, she told me back then, by an upper caste family when she went to fetch water from a water point that was reserved only for Brahmins. This woman literally “lives” in the toilet. She is paid a wage for cleaning the toilet, I assume. But she practically hangs around inside the toilet, hands you hand wipes, and for her pains gets some “tips” from toilet users. We greeted each other like long lost friends.
The division of Indian society into castes is something that I still can’t get my head around. Even having lived through and still experiencing racism in this part of the world, I still find myself completely defeated by the caste system. Not that the two systems are poles apart, but I still don’t even have the language to express how I feel each time. In 2003, I had come face to face with it, when the mother in law of one colleague whose home I visited, refused to serve me tea in her good china. She gave me the tin plate and tin cup reserved for the Dalits.
Maybe this is why on this trip I bonded so much with my fellow Dalits. On the third day of my visit I travelled to very remote villages in Tamil Nadu state to meet a Dalit movement which has been reclaiming its land taken by Brahmins in the 19th century. We swapped stories about land, what it means for women’s empowerment and what land rights struggles are going on in my region.
In Chennai city, I met a group of women who talked about life before the tsunami and after the tsunami. I told them about women’s experiences in my country before HIV and after HIV. “Every woman has their own tsunami”, one wise one reflected.
We talked about women’s stuff. Wherever I went, the women were completely fascinated by my dreadlocks, touching them, playing with their own hair wondering if they could “lock” it too. Everyone wanted a picture with my hair! We giggled about sex and sexuality. I was asked why I wore silver jewelry. As opposed to, I asked foolishly? Gold of course! All the women, regardless of where they were and their social circumstances were decked in gold; earrings, necklaces, one bangle amongst twenty plastic ones, nose rings. They all looked amazingly beautiful. I worried about how much they must have paid for it. But I fully understood, it doesn’t mean that if one is poor one must always look it. It was amazing how despite the differences, women’s experiences are similar, just a different geography and different nuances.
The biggest reason I keep going back to India has got to be the food. Indian food is the only one I can eat in its own country. Thai food is very overpowering in Thailand. And I was scared off Chinese food during the Beijing conference (1995), when I was asked to choose my own snake at the door of a very classy restaurant. I can eat Indian food five times a day. And I can eat everything that is put before me. It all tastes wonderful. It smells heavenly. Whether its “wej” or “non-wej”, (that’s veg or non-veg in Ind-lish), everything is just delish. I must confess though how ignorant I was about the sheer numbers of people in India who are vegetarian. I knew about the not eating beef part, but not vegetarians. Being the carnivore that I am, I was delightfully surprised to discover the very many ways in which one can cook vegetables. Of course they seem to have a lot more veggies over there not just the cabbage and carrots one tends to be stuck with in Southern Africa. The fruit on the sides of the road is big, juicy and not genetically modified. I threw the travel doctor’s advice out of the window and gorged.
I was struck by the abundance of food everywhere I went. Eating and or drinking is a constant exercise. Hardly would half an hour pass before I was offered chai, or biscuits, or juice, or chai, and more biscuits. These days I am a caffeine addict so I need strong coffee or cappuccino to get me going. Sorry wrong country I was told, we only have tea.
Strangely I had been in Brazil in April and I was in a tea phase, and I was told the same thing, wrong country, we don’t drink tea here. India has some of the best tea in the world. To enjoy it I soon learnt that I had to say, “tea please, and hot milk, separate- separate”. You have to say the separate twice, accompanied by that nice shake of the head, otherwise you will get very milky tea, with what must surely be a whole basin full of sugar! Even when I eventually got the coffee, I had to ask for separate-separate, so I could get the instant coffee, separate from the water, milk and the sugar and mix it myself. Not quite up to my Doppio Zero standard, but it served the purpose.
But even the best tasting food does get to you after a full week. So on day eight the sight of the big M on the side of the road elicited a huge yipeeee from my Brazilian colleague and I. Imagine our disappointment when we found out that donkeys would have to grow horns before even MacDonald’s could serve beef Macs in the heart of Hindu land, North India. Fair enough. We had to settle for Chicken Macs. Not the same thing.
That India is the new rising global power is visible everywhere. There is construction all over. Even at night, construction work goes on. From Delhi, to Bhopal to Chennai, the country is a giant work in progress. Roads, bridges, shopping malls, offices are going up. The hand of global capital hovers all around. So called international brand chain stores with their dime a dozen similar looking merchandise are taking over. Restaurant and hotel chains equally pollute the space. Young Indian yuppies dressed in the latest jeans under beautifully designed kurtas, sit with their laptops (made in India or China), in air conditioned shiny cafes, speaking like their “cousins” in South Africa in a mixture of Hindi or Tamil, and English.
India’s free media is a delight. Every night I went to bed in the wee hours hopping between channels. Such a pleasure to have so much choice – unlike my local so called cable where we are served warmed up movies and talk shows day after day. I even watched Bollywood movies in Hindi (I think it was Hindi) just for the fun of it. The most fascinating are the news channels. I enjoyed the fiery debates between very serious Marxists, and die hard neo-liberals. I was mesmerized by the quality of reporting and political analysis, from Obama’s visit to the unfolding land scandal in Maharashtra state.
As for my hotels and the goggas, well, this time it was different. I stayed in a two and half star lodge in Delhi and my bad back loved being on one of the firmest mattresses I have ever had. Bliss! In Chennai I was put up in a three and half star, with the whitest sheets that side of the Indian Ocean. This was the incredible India that they advertise on my small screen. I will be going back!
I worked myself up until I had an eczema outbreak on my forehead and chest. I was not looking forward to it. The last three times I had been to India I came back with some skin infection. And here was I getting myself sick before I even boarded the flight! The first time (2003 – Mumbai and Delhi), my 5 year old dreadlocks were infested with head lice and a fungus that the dermatologist simply ordered me to have a chis’kop (bald head)! The second time, (Bangalore - 2007), I sat in Dubai airport on my way back to Johannesburg, for five hours, scratching myself all over until a concerned observer pointed me to a chemist. I wrote a letter there and then to my Directors telling them I was not going back to India unless I was assured I would be put up in hotels where there were no goggas (creepy crawlies) of any kind. Of course I was dismissed as an upper caste Diva who just wasn’t suitable to work in an organization that supports poor people. I retorted that I had grown up in poverty and didn’t cherish being thrust back into it. I was ignored.
So here I was worried sick for my newly tended 3 year old dreadlocks. I was not fooled by the picture of my Delhi hotel which I found on the net. It all looked too swanky to be real. My organization of course doesn’t do swanky, ever, so this remained to be seen.
Travelling to Asia via Dubai has to be one of life’s little pleasures. Even in economy class, Emirates airlines are just absolutely amazing. Firstly they are always on time. And if they get delayed it’s never their fault, (no really, it’s true!). The seats in economy class are wide enough to fit people like me who normally struggle on other Asian airliners! The best part is the food and the movies. The first time I travelled on Emirates I kept skipping channels that I just never watched anything till we landed. I managed to catch up with all the current movies that I haven’t seen this year. New movies, not ten year old rehashes that a certain national carrier will show on the excruciating 18 hour voyage to New York.
Emirates serve real food, well cooked rice, (not some plasticky tasting half cooked substance on that alluded to national carrier), and really tasty curry dishes. On the Dubai-Delhi leg they had proper dhal and rotis! Talk about cultural sensitivity.
In between meals, one can get very tasty wraps with all kinds of fillings, plus so many drinks, little snacks, chocolate. Yes, unlike that carrier which only offers very dry biscuits, and some nameless yellow drink that tastes quite vile!
I arrived in Delhi 13 hours after leaving Joburg, in a very good mood. My cheerful mood continued as we disembarked into the brand spanking new Indira Ghandi International Airport. This was not the Delhi I remembered with a tiny little airport, characterized by pit latrines that left my jeans all wet when I tried to use one back in 2003. The new massive airport was completed in time for the Commonwealth Games of course. The arrivals hall is covered in a lush multi coloured carpet, (I worried about how they will keep it clean?). There are beautiful toilets where I could sit – yeah!
But some things don’t change so quickly. I could swear the same Dalit (previously known as “untouchable”) woman who I met inside the toilet is still there. Her face had been burnt, she told me back then, by an upper caste family when she went to fetch water from a water point that was reserved only for Brahmins. This woman literally “lives” in the toilet. She is paid a wage for cleaning the toilet, I assume. But she practically hangs around inside the toilet, hands you hand wipes, and for her pains gets some “tips” from toilet users. We greeted each other like long lost friends.
The division of Indian society into castes is something that I still can’t get my head around. Even having lived through and still experiencing racism in this part of the world, I still find myself completely defeated by the caste system. Not that the two systems are poles apart, but I still don’t even have the language to express how I feel each time. In 2003, I had come face to face with it, when the mother in law of one colleague whose home I visited, refused to serve me tea in her good china. She gave me the tin plate and tin cup reserved for the Dalits.
Maybe this is why on this trip I bonded so much with my fellow Dalits. On the third day of my visit I travelled to very remote villages in Tamil Nadu state to meet a Dalit movement which has been reclaiming its land taken by Brahmins in the 19th century. We swapped stories about land, what it means for women’s empowerment and what land rights struggles are going on in my region.
In Chennai city, I met a group of women who talked about life before the tsunami and after the tsunami. I told them about women’s experiences in my country before HIV and after HIV. “Every woman has their own tsunami”, one wise one reflected.
We talked about women’s stuff. Wherever I went, the women were completely fascinated by my dreadlocks, touching them, playing with their own hair wondering if they could “lock” it too. Everyone wanted a picture with my hair! We giggled about sex and sexuality. I was asked why I wore silver jewelry. As opposed to, I asked foolishly? Gold of course! All the women, regardless of where they were and their social circumstances were decked in gold; earrings, necklaces, one bangle amongst twenty plastic ones, nose rings. They all looked amazingly beautiful. I worried about how much they must have paid for it. But I fully understood, it doesn’t mean that if one is poor one must always look it. It was amazing how despite the differences, women’s experiences are similar, just a different geography and different nuances.
The biggest reason I keep going back to India has got to be the food. Indian food is the only one I can eat in its own country. Thai food is very overpowering in Thailand. And I was scared off Chinese food during the Beijing conference (1995), when I was asked to choose my own snake at the door of a very classy restaurant. I can eat Indian food five times a day. And I can eat everything that is put before me. It all tastes wonderful. It smells heavenly. Whether its “wej” or “non-wej”, (that’s veg or non-veg in Ind-lish), everything is just delish. I must confess though how ignorant I was about the sheer numbers of people in India who are vegetarian. I knew about the not eating beef part, but not vegetarians. Being the carnivore that I am, I was delightfully surprised to discover the very many ways in which one can cook vegetables. Of course they seem to have a lot more veggies over there not just the cabbage and carrots one tends to be stuck with in Southern Africa. The fruit on the sides of the road is big, juicy and not genetically modified. I threw the travel doctor’s advice out of the window and gorged.
I was struck by the abundance of food everywhere I went. Eating and or drinking is a constant exercise. Hardly would half an hour pass before I was offered chai, or biscuits, or juice, or chai, and more biscuits. These days I am a caffeine addict so I need strong coffee or cappuccino to get me going. Sorry wrong country I was told, we only have tea.
Strangely I had been in Brazil in April and I was in a tea phase, and I was told the same thing, wrong country, we don’t drink tea here. India has some of the best tea in the world. To enjoy it I soon learnt that I had to say, “tea please, and hot milk, separate- separate”. You have to say the separate twice, accompanied by that nice shake of the head, otherwise you will get very milky tea, with what must surely be a whole basin full of sugar! Even when I eventually got the coffee, I had to ask for separate-separate, so I could get the instant coffee, separate from the water, milk and the sugar and mix it myself. Not quite up to my Doppio Zero standard, but it served the purpose.
But even the best tasting food does get to you after a full week. So on day eight the sight of the big M on the side of the road elicited a huge yipeeee from my Brazilian colleague and I. Imagine our disappointment when we found out that donkeys would have to grow horns before even MacDonald’s could serve beef Macs in the heart of Hindu land, North India. Fair enough. We had to settle for Chicken Macs. Not the same thing.
That India is the new rising global power is visible everywhere. There is construction all over. Even at night, construction work goes on. From Delhi, to Bhopal to Chennai, the country is a giant work in progress. Roads, bridges, shopping malls, offices are going up. The hand of global capital hovers all around. So called international brand chain stores with their dime a dozen similar looking merchandise are taking over. Restaurant and hotel chains equally pollute the space. Young Indian yuppies dressed in the latest jeans under beautifully designed kurtas, sit with their laptops (made in India or China), in air conditioned shiny cafes, speaking like their “cousins” in South Africa in a mixture of Hindi or Tamil, and English.
India’s free media is a delight. Every night I went to bed in the wee hours hopping between channels. Such a pleasure to have so much choice – unlike my local so called cable where we are served warmed up movies and talk shows day after day. I even watched Bollywood movies in Hindi (I think it was Hindi) just for the fun of it. The most fascinating are the news channels. I enjoyed the fiery debates between very serious Marxists, and die hard neo-liberals. I was mesmerized by the quality of reporting and political analysis, from Obama’s visit to the unfolding land scandal in Maharashtra state.
As for my hotels and the goggas, well, this time it was different. I stayed in a two and half star lodge in Delhi and my bad back loved being on one of the firmest mattresses I have ever had. Bliss! In Chennai I was put up in a three and half star, with the whitest sheets that side of the Indian Ocean. This was the incredible India that they advertise on my small screen. I will be going back!
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Songs for My Country 2
“Lelilizwe khalila mali…hee khalila mali…Lelilizwe ligcwele olovha, hee ligcwele olovhola”. This country has no money, hee it has no money. This country is full of loafers/unemployed people, hee it is full of unemployed people”. Lovemore Majaivana was way ahead of his time when he sang this one in the early 1990s. He was wrong on one thing though, this country is awash with money. It is just that it is held by a tiny minority. A week into my holiday, and am exhausted from listening to stories of poverty. Out of guilt, empathy, or both, I just keep giving away cash. This one’s child needs school shoes if she is to go back to classes, that one needs $20 to get good medical treatment. By the end of my holiday, I start borrowing to survive in Zimbabwe myself!
Out of a sense of duty, I accompany my mother to church. Jesus and I have an on-off relationship. We are currently in an off phase. I don’t understand how with all the piety that fills this country he and his father can turn their backs on people like this. Why can’t they hear the Methodists lift the roof with hymn 191. I hope against hope that we will not sing this song today. But right on cue the voices go up, the wailing begins. Ulabantu bakho Nkosi, kuzozonk’izkhathi….You are with your people Lord, all the time. I can’t bear this. I stick an I-pod speaker into my good ear. It’s not my lucky day. I land on UB40, I am the one in ten number one on a list, I am the one in ten even though I don’t exist, nobody knows me but am always there, a statistic a reminder of a world that doesn’t care….
Has Jesus cared to look at all the beautiful churches that have been built in his honor in the last ten years in Zimbabwe? Beautiful, grand edifices, in the middle of townships and cities, fast deteriorating into shanty towns. The chandeliers in my mother’s church are fit for a diplomat’s residence. The congregation is in various states of need and want. I feel over-dressed.
My aunt’s congregation is building a pastor’s manse fit for a prince. The prosperity gospel types are a sight to behold. Just standing outside one is like being on the sidelines of the Oscars’ red carpet. Prayers seem to be answered on that side of town. In the poorest communities churches are under trees. No frills there. I don’t remember which verse says class division of this sort is ok. I should brush up on my psalms when Jesus and I are on again.
I hope against hope again that the preacher won’t ask us to “pray for our leaders”. First they have to define who they mean. Then they have to provide a rationale. My NGO proposal writing nonsense won’t wash here though. A rather over-dressed woman (thank God I have a partner in crime!), stands up to pray for the so called leaders. I don’t want to be part of it. This time I deliberately scroll through the I-pod.
We’ve been taken for granted much too long,
Building church and university,
Deceiving the people continually,
Tell the children the truth,
Tell the children the truth right now.
Bob Marley is most apt in times like these.
“Zimbabwe will never be a colony again,” they like to proclaim on big placards at Mugabe’s rallies and speak-a-thons. Whoever came up with that outdated slogan should be court marshaled by the generals. Everywhere I look my country has quickly, quietly and yet so visibly become one country or another’s colony. The mere fact that we no longer have a national currency is evidence enough. I do a double take when I see American dollar notes and South African rand in the Sunday collection plate. I am yet to be convinced that a US$2 is legal tender. I have never seen this note anywhere. Not even in America itself. Someone seems to have printed two tones of them and dumped them in Zimbabwe. There is a story there…..
It is so ironic that South Africans, particularly white business were so loud in their condemnation of Thabo Mbeki’s role in Zimbabwe. Yet they seem to be the clearest winners from our crisis. From the goods in the shops, to the best cars on the roads, Zimbabwe could very well be a province of South Africa. Bulawayo was long taken over, the rest of the country is following suit. Young men in Mr. Price jeans and thuggish beanie hats speak in Xhosarized Ndebele in Mpopoma township it’s not funny. My friend Sophie’s dad gives me bubble gum and potato crisps from his shop. The rather strange gum which oozes some yoghurt tasting liquid is from China. The chips are South African. Where is a nation going if it can’t even produce and sell its own sweets? Sweeties! Everything is over priced. A mere litre of Cape juice is US$5. Forget good quality, two-ply toilet paper.
A poorly made Zhingaz (as we call Chinese stuff in slang), polyester blouse will set you back US$40. I wonder how many months it will take a civil servant to save up for the skirt to go with said blouse.
Everybody keeps talking about how things have improved. At least things are full in the shops. I am outraged by the prices. There’s no consistency, I feel cheated most of the time. I eventually stop trying to understand this new economy. I ask friends and family to find me what I need. They know where to go and what a fair price is. I feel hopelessly incapacitated. This is my country for heaven’s sake! I was born here. I grew up here. I should find my own way around it. I am angry. “I can’t navigate myself around my own supposed home anymore”, I post my update on Facebook. Nobody “likes”.
Tell me what can you say?
Tell me who do you blame?
No matter what you say it never gets any better,
No matter what you do, we never see any change….
Phil Collins and I are on the same page. Maybe my eyes are clouded by Johannesburg pollution I can’t see this change they all talk about.
The government no longer controls what people read, watch or listen to. There is a silver lining there! Anyone who can afford to, work for it, or steal it, has a satellite dish to watch DSTV (cable). At the lower end of the spectrum everyone who has electricity has the little gadget for pirating South African television stations. Zimbabweans are up to speed with Generations, Isidingo, and the goings on in the South African body politic. An old portable radio is an asset if you want to hear unofficial Zimbabwean news. You catch the offshore radio stations on Short Wave, not on FM. My 75 year old uncle stumbles upon one such station and he is in news heaven. He can’t stop telling me about it.
“I only buy The Herald and Sunday Mail for the obituaries, and business tender opportunities”, a friend tells me. True the obituaries page in state controlled papers are a marvel. We get to know which of the dead people has five sisters all in London. Which of the late woman’s children are all in Canada and or Australia. Who said there was no glamour in death? A chance to show off your diaspora links.
The fictionalized accounts of political goings on are even more entertaining. But I can’t waste a good US dollar on such painful entertainment. I will save it for the toll-gates.
Zimbabwe is a little outpost for media products from across the border as well. The Sunday Times (SA), Mail and Guardian have Zimbabwean editions. I am happy people have alternatives to State controlled media. I worry about the long term consequences. Acquired tastes are hard to drop.
I am ecstatic when I finally lay my hands on the new independent daily, News-Day. I text Trevor Ncube, (the publisher), based in Johannesburg, “your newspaper and sweet potatoes are making my stay enjoyable”. Finally, a paper with an alternative and factual view. But the steady stream of bad news can be depressing. Senior officials paying themselves obscene salaries. Ministers buying yet more new fancy cars. Nothing gives a sense that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Or as someone said, to even tell us that we are indeed in a tunnel, and of what shape?
After two and half weeks I am constipated from all that starch. I am equally constipated from the litany of bad news. I miss my morning fix, Kaya FM and the very loud traffic outside my window on Corlett drive. Isn’t that bizarre? The former gives me a great laugh, the latter reminds me that I am living in a ‘happening’ country. I begin to miss having a proper bath, not splash my rather substantial self from a small bucket. I can’t get a handle on when electricity goes off and comes back on. I have become a big city rat. I want convenience.
I am happy to go back to Johannesburg. I am deeply sad to leave. I want to go. I want to stay. I don’t want to be in South Africa. I don’t want to be in Zimbabwe. If my relationship with God was in a good phase I could sing a hopeful hymn, or even talk to him. I turn to the next best thing I know. I chose Beres Hammond;
The sun, is gonna shine again
Nine out of ten
Remember,
It’s gonna shine again
Your day will come come
Don’t worry about the rocky road its gonna be
At the end of your tunnel
Is gonna be a light
I sure hope that light is not from an on-coming high speed train.
Out of a sense of duty, I accompany my mother to church. Jesus and I have an on-off relationship. We are currently in an off phase. I don’t understand how with all the piety that fills this country he and his father can turn their backs on people like this. Why can’t they hear the Methodists lift the roof with hymn 191. I hope against hope that we will not sing this song today. But right on cue the voices go up, the wailing begins. Ulabantu bakho Nkosi, kuzozonk’izkhathi….You are with your people Lord, all the time. I can’t bear this. I stick an I-pod speaker into my good ear. It’s not my lucky day. I land on UB40, I am the one in ten number one on a list, I am the one in ten even though I don’t exist, nobody knows me but am always there, a statistic a reminder of a world that doesn’t care….
Has Jesus cared to look at all the beautiful churches that have been built in his honor in the last ten years in Zimbabwe? Beautiful, grand edifices, in the middle of townships and cities, fast deteriorating into shanty towns. The chandeliers in my mother’s church are fit for a diplomat’s residence. The congregation is in various states of need and want. I feel over-dressed.
My aunt’s congregation is building a pastor’s manse fit for a prince. The prosperity gospel types are a sight to behold. Just standing outside one is like being on the sidelines of the Oscars’ red carpet. Prayers seem to be answered on that side of town. In the poorest communities churches are under trees. No frills there. I don’t remember which verse says class division of this sort is ok. I should brush up on my psalms when Jesus and I are on again.
I hope against hope again that the preacher won’t ask us to “pray for our leaders”. First they have to define who they mean. Then they have to provide a rationale. My NGO proposal writing nonsense won’t wash here though. A rather over-dressed woman (thank God I have a partner in crime!), stands up to pray for the so called leaders. I don’t want to be part of it. This time I deliberately scroll through the I-pod.
We’ve been taken for granted much too long,
Building church and university,
Deceiving the people continually,
Tell the children the truth,
Tell the children the truth right now.
Bob Marley is most apt in times like these.
“Zimbabwe will never be a colony again,” they like to proclaim on big placards at Mugabe’s rallies and speak-a-thons. Whoever came up with that outdated slogan should be court marshaled by the generals. Everywhere I look my country has quickly, quietly and yet so visibly become one country or another’s colony. The mere fact that we no longer have a national currency is evidence enough. I do a double take when I see American dollar notes and South African rand in the Sunday collection plate. I am yet to be convinced that a US$2 is legal tender. I have never seen this note anywhere. Not even in America itself. Someone seems to have printed two tones of them and dumped them in Zimbabwe. There is a story there…..
It is so ironic that South Africans, particularly white business were so loud in their condemnation of Thabo Mbeki’s role in Zimbabwe. Yet they seem to be the clearest winners from our crisis. From the goods in the shops, to the best cars on the roads, Zimbabwe could very well be a province of South Africa. Bulawayo was long taken over, the rest of the country is following suit. Young men in Mr. Price jeans and thuggish beanie hats speak in Xhosarized Ndebele in Mpopoma township it’s not funny. My friend Sophie’s dad gives me bubble gum and potato crisps from his shop. The rather strange gum which oozes some yoghurt tasting liquid is from China. The chips are South African. Where is a nation going if it can’t even produce and sell its own sweets? Sweeties! Everything is over priced. A mere litre of Cape juice is US$5. Forget good quality, two-ply toilet paper.
A poorly made Zhingaz (as we call Chinese stuff in slang), polyester blouse will set you back US$40. I wonder how many months it will take a civil servant to save up for the skirt to go with said blouse.
Everybody keeps talking about how things have improved. At least things are full in the shops. I am outraged by the prices. There’s no consistency, I feel cheated most of the time. I eventually stop trying to understand this new economy. I ask friends and family to find me what I need. They know where to go and what a fair price is. I feel hopelessly incapacitated. This is my country for heaven’s sake! I was born here. I grew up here. I should find my own way around it. I am angry. “I can’t navigate myself around my own supposed home anymore”, I post my update on Facebook. Nobody “likes”.
Tell me what can you say?
Tell me who do you blame?
No matter what you say it never gets any better,
No matter what you do, we never see any change….
Phil Collins and I are on the same page. Maybe my eyes are clouded by Johannesburg pollution I can’t see this change they all talk about.
The government no longer controls what people read, watch or listen to. There is a silver lining there! Anyone who can afford to, work for it, or steal it, has a satellite dish to watch DSTV (cable). At the lower end of the spectrum everyone who has electricity has the little gadget for pirating South African television stations. Zimbabweans are up to speed with Generations, Isidingo, and the goings on in the South African body politic. An old portable radio is an asset if you want to hear unofficial Zimbabwean news. You catch the offshore radio stations on Short Wave, not on FM. My 75 year old uncle stumbles upon one such station and he is in news heaven. He can’t stop telling me about it.
“I only buy The Herald and Sunday Mail for the obituaries, and business tender opportunities”, a friend tells me. True the obituaries page in state controlled papers are a marvel. We get to know which of the dead people has five sisters all in London. Which of the late woman’s children are all in Canada and or Australia. Who said there was no glamour in death? A chance to show off your diaspora links.
The fictionalized accounts of political goings on are even more entertaining. But I can’t waste a good US dollar on such painful entertainment. I will save it for the toll-gates.
Zimbabwe is a little outpost for media products from across the border as well. The Sunday Times (SA), Mail and Guardian have Zimbabwean editions. I am happy people have alternatives to State controlled media. I worry about the long term consequences. Acquired tastes are hard to drop.
I am ecstatic when I finally lay my hands on the new independent daily, News-Day. I text Trevor Ncube, (the publisher), based in Johannesburg, “your newspaper and sweet potatoes are making my stay enjoyable”. Finally, a paper with an alternative and factual view. But the steady stream of bad news can be depressing. Senior officials paying themselves obscene salaries. Ministers buying yet more new fancy cars. Nothing gives a sense that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Or as someone said, to even tell us that we are indeed in a tunnel, and of what shape?
After two and half weeks I am constipated from all that starch. I am equally constipated from the litany of bad news. I miss my morning fix, Kaya FM and the very loud traffic outside my window on Corlett drive. Isn’t that bizarre? The former gives me a great laugh, the latter reminds me that I am living in a ‘happening’ country. I begin to miss having a proper bath, not splash my rather substantial self from a small bucket. I can’t get a handle on when electricity goes off and comes back on. I have become a big city rat. I want convenience.
I am happy to go back to Johannesburg. I am deeply sad to leave. I want to go. I want to stay. I don’t want to be in South Africa. I don’t want to be in Zimbabwe. If my relationship with God was in a good phase I could sing a hopeful hymn, or even talk to him. I turn to the next best thing I know. I chose Beres Hammond;
The sun, is gonna shine again
Nine out of ten
Remember,
It’s gonna shine again
Your day will come come
Don’t worry about the rocky road its gonna be
At the end of your tunnel
Is gonna be a light
I sure hope that light is not from an on-coming high speed train.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Songs for my country 1
You can always tell the state Zimbabwe is in from the paper in public toilets and government offices. In December, when I was last here, it was coarse single ply dull beige. The kind that comes apart between your fingers before it even gets to do the job. This August, the public toilets in Harare international airport have a slighter softer pink, but still single ply. A slight improvement but no soap to wash your hands after. The diamond money clearly hasn’t trickled this far down then. “I am a-longing to see you I wanna know how you’ve been doing …..I am gonna catch this flight and when I get home I hope you will be smiling…” Freddie McGregor had sung in my ears, as I got ready to go home for my annual pilgrimage as I call it. So a lack of adequate ablutions is not going to dent my spirits.
August is a great time to be here. Schools are closed, the harvest is done, sweet-potatoes are three dollars for a substantial bucket. That is 3 genuine Obamas as we call the Green buck here, not the Zim dollar which of course no longer exists. It is spring time. Nothing beats the sunshine of a spring day in a Harare garden. It seeps into your bones. Thaws your soul, gives you hope even when there is nothing in the political realm to make you this optimistic about life. For a lazy-bone-sun-lizard like me, it is a good time to forget about the office.
Or maybe I am much more patriotic than I realize. August is Heroes’ Day month. Cynical as much as I try to be, those liberation war songs get to me all the time. “Taigara mumakomo tishingirira Zimbabwe". (We hid in the mountains, determined to free Zimbabwe). The tunes are danceable too. But it is not just music. It is my country’s history. When ZANU keeps reminding us of the 16 years of hard struggle, and you see the endless footage of the war, replayed, over and over again on ZTV, and repeated every half hour on ZBC radio stations, you have to be the most cynical idiot not to feel what it all meant and what it still means to whole generations of us who are still alive.
I love radio, and go to sleep with my MP3 plugged into my ears. I wake up on Heroes’ Day itself to loud commentary from Heroes’ Acre. My friend Nozipho has long left the house to go to the ceremony. Her uncle is one of our national heroes. Every year her family is picked up and taken by the state to breakfast, the ceremony, and then lunch afterwards. All the heroes’ families are given this treat. Thank God the electricity is on today. I curl up on Nozi’s sofa and watch the whole thing on television, from beginning to end. I steel myself to be cynical, I want to dismiss it all as ZANU PF propaganda. After all, Heroes’ Day used to be called Rhodes and Founders, after the big colonialist and his band of merry enslavers. But I can not be cynical. This is real. The commentators read us the histories of the women and men lying on that hill and what their contribution was; JZ Moyo, Albert Nxele, Ruth Chinamano, Herbert Chitepo, Leopold Takawira. I look at their families crowding around the graves, laying flowers, saying prayers. I suddenly find myself weeping. I text my friends Percy and Nyaradzo in Johannesburg; “This is just too painful. Where did it all go wrong? How did we betray all these people?” I ask rhetorically. Percy sends me a rather unsympathetic response, and Nyaradzo tells me she is on Plett Bay having such fun. I am now in a foetal position and howl even more. I console myself with Bunny Wailer;
You better stop this power struggle….it’s causing the nation too much trouble endangering lives of innocent ones…With all this knowledge and education we are in a sad situation…so you better stop this power struggle….”
Dreadful and yet insignificant as this sounds, the one thing that cheers me about Heroes’ Day is seeing Morgan Tsvangirai, Thokozani Khupe, and Arthur Mutambara being saluted by members of the armed forces. The cherry on top is seeing each one of them getting into their own Benz! If inclusive government is only measured by how included every political party is at the trough, I will hide my values under the pillow and cheer. For one day only.
We will, we will rule you
My cheering is short lived though. The day following Heroes is Defence Forces’ day.
We fast forward from the people’s revolution to the men in uniform’s moment to remind us they run and own this country, including us, what we think, hear, feel, and the minerals underground. There they are, goose-stepping just the way Caucescue and Kim Il Sung taught them. They are armed to the teeth. They flex their muscles and their arms, sending chills down the spines of citizens. The words of Chairman Mao, sung by the ZANLA choir over radio Mozambique suddenly ring in my ears, “Kune nzira dzemasoja dzekuzvibata nadzo….Tisave tinotora zvinhu zvemass yedu. Dzoserai zvinhu zvose zvatorwa kumuridzi….” (These are the ways we must conduct ourselves as good revolutionary soldiers. Don’t take things from the masses. Return anything you take to its rightful owners”. Yah right Chairman Mao, have you seen what this lot has been up to in the last 10 years? You think they remember any of your exhortions?
That this is a militarized state is consistently shoved in my face for the two weeks I am in Zimbabwe. State media refer to Mugabe His Excellency the President and Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces. We always knew that. We just need to be reminded about the militarization of our state, lest we forget who is in control.
There are eight roadblocks between Harare and Bulawayo. There is no consistent pattern nor ny reasonable explanation for the search and questioning at each one. At one, we (all three of us in the car), are ordered out of the car while they turn my rickety Mazda 323 inside out. At the next one, the policeman/soldier (same difference), demands identification documents, questions me earnestly about my seemingly too long South African work permit. Driving back towards Bulawayo in a friend’s fancier car, we are told that there is some document missing. We can all tell he wants a bribe since the policeman has decided we must be swimming in American dollars. Arguing with a fully armed, testosterone filled group of men is a no win situation. I have been away for too long though. When they say “make a plan” in Johannesburg or at Beitbridge border post I know exactly how much to take out. I can even haggle to get a good “deal”. I don’t know the code word or what the appropriate amount here is. A dollar? Twenty rands? Blasting the man’s ears off with Peter Tosh’s “ I am an honest man and I love honest people…” won’t help. From the look on our driver’s face and the shocked smile on the policeman’s I know I have over done it. I reason that I have increased his measly wages by 10%.
Even at the extortionate toll-gates, there are armed men sitting, watching from the sidelines. In case someone tries to drive off without paying, I am told. They will shoot to kill. Why doesn’t Zuma send General Bheki Cele up here on secondment? I hand over the dirtiest looking one dollar note from my little stash. At least there is evidence that these little dollars are being used to repair some roads where huge craters characterized our highways.
Zvakaoma
I am struck this time by the absence of political conversation. Everybody I meet and hang out with only wants to talk about the just ended football World Cup, family issues, or just pointless gossip. When I do ask the political questions, I get the very cryptic Zimbabwean response, zvakaoma. I love and hate that word in equal measure because it means and says so much, yet at the same time, it means or says absolutely nothing! You the listener have to divine what the speaker means; it is hard, it is unspeakable, where do I begin, it is too complicated, why do you have to ask a question like that as if you don’t know the answer? Shut up sweetie. Take your pick.
Besides the media and NGO types, most of the nation doesn’t hold its collective breadth, as the SADC heads of state summit in Windhoek rolls past. Meanwhile the constitutional road show seems to be chugging along with nary great excitement amongst normal folks who are too busy chasing that elusive dollar. It is the NGO types like me who want to talk about the mechanics of the sham exercise. But no substantive issues thank you, we are not Kenyans. What had I expected? Rip roaring debate? Over what? All the big political milestones have come and gone. None has delivered meaningful change.
I am not sure which song is the most apt for this phase Zimbabwe is going through. I can’t even think of any that comes close to describing this feeling, this state of nothingness. Not hopelessness. Nothingness. This is where that little cryptic word is useful, but used in a joke-sentence – zvakaoma sekupema mupositori. It is as hard as trying to perm the hair of a member of the |Apolostic sect, (who are normally clean shaven). But then again trust Zimbabwean humor, perming a mupositori is not that hard, you just wait for the hair to grow, and hope that someone; the policeman, the soldier, the politicians, don’t chop it off before you get to it with your perm lotion.
It’ll be a hell of a wait. There are many songs to sing while we wait. Bob Marley’s “Zimbabwe” will do for me. Soon we’ll find out who is the real revolutionary…
August is a great time to be here. Schools are closed, the harvest is done, sweet-potatoes are three dollars for a substantial bucket. That is 3 genuine Obamas as we call the Green buck here, not the Zim dollar which of course no longer exists. It is spring time. Nothing beats the sunshine of a spring day in a Harare garden. It seeps into your bones. Thaws your soul, gives you hope even when there is nothing in the political realm to make you this optimistic about life. For a lazy-bone-sun-lizard like me, it is a good time to forget about the office.
Or maybe I am much more patriotic than I realize. August is Heroes’ Day month. Cynical as much as I try to be, those liberation war songs get to me all the time. “Taigara mumakomo tishingirira Zimbabwe". (We hid in the mountains, determined to free Zimbabwe). The tunes are danceable too. But it is not just music. It is my country’s history. When ZANU keeps reminding us of the 16 years of hard struggle, and you see the endless footage of the war, replayed, over and over again on ZTV, and repeated every half hour on ZBC radio stations, you have to be the most cynical idiot not to feel what it all meant and what it still means to whole generations of us who are still alive.
I love radio, and go to sleep with my MP3 plugged into my ears. I wake up on Heroes’ Day itself to loud commentary from Heroes’ Acre. My friend Nozipho has long left the house to go to the ceremony. Her uncle is one of our national heroes. Every year her family is picked up and taken by the state to breakfast, the ceremony, and then lunch afterwards. All the heroes’ families are given this treat. Thank God the electricity is on today. I curl up on Nozi’s sofa and watch the whole thing on television, from beginning to end. I steel myself to be cynical, I want to dismiss it all as ZANU PF propaganda. After all, Heroes’ Day used to be called Rhodes and Founders, after the big colonialist and his band of merry enslavers. But I can not be cynical. This is real. The commentators read us the histories of the women and men lying on that hill and what their contribution was; JZ Moyo, Albert Nxele, Ruth Chinamano, Herbert Chitepo, Leopold Takawira. I look at their families crowding around the graves, laying flowers, saying prayers. I suddenly find myself weeping. I text my friends Percy and Nyaradzo in Johannesburg; “This is just too painful. Where did it all go wrong? How did we betray all these people?” I ask rhetorically. Percy sends me a rather unsympathetic response, and Nyaradzo tells me she is on Plett Bay having such fun. I am now in a foetal position and howl even more. I console myself with Bunny Wailer;
You better stop this power struggle….it’s causing the nation too much trouble endangering lives of innocent ones…With all this knowledge and education we are in a sad situation…so you better stop this power struggle….”
Dreadful and yet insignificant as this sounds, the one thing that cheers me about Heroes’ Day is seeing Morgan Tsvangirai, Thokozani Khupe, and Arthur Mutambara being saluted by members of the armed forces. The cherry on top is seeing each one of them getting into their own Benz! If inclusive government is only measured by how included every political party is at the trough, I will hide my values under the pillow and cheer. For one day only.
We will, we will rule you
My cheering is short lived though. The day following Heroes is Defence Forces’ day.
We fast forward from the people’s revolution to the men in uniform’s moment to remind us they run and own this country, including us, what we think, hear, feel, and the minerals underground. There they are, goose-stepping just the way Caucescue and Kim Il Sung taught them. They are armed to the teeth. They flex their muscles and their arms, sending chills down the spines of citizens. The words of Chairman Mao, sung by the ZANLA choir over radio Mozambique suddenly ring in my ears, “Kune nzira dzemasoja dzekuzvibata nadzo….Tisave tinotora zvinhu zvemass yedu. Dzoserai zvinhu zvose zvatorwa kumuridzi….” (These are the ways we must conduct ourselves as good revolutionary soldiers. Don’t take things from the masses. Return anything you take to its rightful owners”. Yah right Chairman Mao, have you seen what this lot has been up to in the last 10 years? You think they remember any of your exhortions?
That this is a militarized state is consistently shoved in my face for the two weeks I am in Zimbabwe. State media refer to Mugabe His Excellency the President and Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces. We always knew that. We just need to be reminded about the militarization of our state, lest we forget who is in control.
There are eight roadblocks between Harare and Bulawayo. There is no consistent pattern nor ny reasonable explanation for the search and questioning at each one. At one, we (all three of us in the car), are ordered out of the car while they turn my rickety Mazda 323 inside out. At the next one, the policeman/soldier (same difference), demands identification documents, questions me earnestly about my seemingly too long South African work permit. Driving back towards Bulawayo in a friend’s fancier car, we are told that there is some document missing. We can all tell he wants a bribe since the policeman has decided we must be swimming in American dollars. Arguing with a fully armed, testosterone filled group of men is a no win situation. I have been away for too long though. When they say “make a plan” in Johannesburg or at Beitbridge border post I know exactly how much to take out. I can even haggle to get a good “deal”. I don’t know the code word or what the appropriate amount here is. A dollar? Twenty rands? Blasting the man’s ears off with Peter Tosh’s “ I am an honest man and I love honest people…” won’t help. From the look on our driver’s face and the shocked smile on the policeman’s I know I have over done it. I reason that I have increased his measly wages by 10%.
Even at the extortionate toll-gates, there are armed men sitting, watching from the sidelines. In case someone tries to drive off without paying, I am told. They will shoot to kill. Why doesn’t Zuma send General Bheki Cele up here on secondment? I hand over the dirtiest looking one dollar note from my little stash. At least there is evidence that these little dollars are being used to repair some roads where huge craters characterized our highways.
Zvakaoma
I am struck this time by the absence of political conversation. Everybody I meet and hang out with only wants to talk about the just ended football World Cup, family issues, or just pointless gossip. When I do ask the political questions, I get the very cryptic Zimbabwean response, zvakaoma. I love and hate that word in equal measure because it means and says so much, yet at the same time, it means or says absolutely nothing! You the listener have to divine what the speaker means; it is hard, it is unspeakable, where do I begin, it is too complicated, why do you have to ask a question like that as if you don’t know the answer? Shut up sweetie. Take your pick.
Besides the media and NGO types, most of the nation doesn’t hold its collective breadth, as the SADC heads of state summit in Windhoek rolls past. Meanwhile the constitutional road show seems to be chugging along with nary great excitement amongst normal folks who are too busy chasing that elusive dollar. It is the NGO types like me who want to talk about the mechanics of the sham exercise. But no substantive issues thank you, we are not Kenyans. What had I expected? Rip roaring debate? Over what? All the big political milestones have come and gone. None has delivered meaningful change.
I am not sure which song is the most apt for this phase Zimbabwe is going through. I can’t even think of any that comes close to describing this feeling, this state of nothingness. Not hopelessness. Nothingness. This is where that little cryptic word is useful, but used in a joke-sentence – zvakaoma sekupema mupositori. It is as hard as trying to perm the hair of a member of the |Apolostic sect, (who are normally clean shaven). But then again trust Zimbabwean humor, perming a mupositori is not that hard, you just wait for the hair to grow, and hope that someone; the policeman, the soldier, the politicians, don’t chop it off before you get to it with your perm lotion.
It’ll be a hell of a wait. There are many songs to sing while we wait. Bob Marley’s “Zimbabwe” will do for me. Soon we’ll find out who is the real revolutionary…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)