Two Years Apart: A Volunteer Assignment in Africa

By Audrey Garratt

This story describes a short period of my life when I left behind my husband and family to take up an assignment with the New Zealand Volunteer Service Abroad. This organisation employed me to work in Zimbabwe from 2002 to 2004, a difficult time in that countrys history. For me, it was a life-changing experience that a decade later I feel compelled to share. I have used the diaries I kept during my time there and also drawings to convey the lasting memories of the people I met and my experiences working and living alongside them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Sep 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781499097412

Audrey Garratt

Born in 1940 in the picturesque seaside town of Kaikoura, New Zealand, Audrey grew up with a love of the country that surrounded her, the mountains that met the sea, and the rural landscapes together with the people that worked in these environments. She showed early promise with drawing and painting, finally making a career of teaching art, where she was known for her ability to promote the creative capabilities of her students, encouraging them in developing their own personal style. She taught for thirty years at primary, secondary, and tertiary level in New Zealand, Canada, and finally with the New Zealand Volunteer Service Abroad in landlocked Zimbabwe. She and her husband, Bruce, were married in 1966, raising their five children in Wellington and later in Levin. Her colourful works in oils, acrylics, and stained glass are in many homes within NZ and overseas. AudreyÊs account of her Zimbabwean experience has been written during her recent recuperation from cancer. Some of the illustrations are live sketches drawn at the time, others are drawn from photographs or memory, mostly done in graphite pencil and ink pens, with an occasional ink wash.

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Copyright © 2015 by Audrey Garratt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/15/2015

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

June 2002 Newsletter

Chapter 1:  Goodbyes. The Journey. Winkfield Hospitality

Chapter 2:  First Days in Zimbabwe

Chapter 3:  Mutare. Marange. Apostolic Passover

Chapter 4:  Waiting in Harare. Multiple Lessons in Patience

Chapter 5:  Dining in Style. Intimidation. A Picnic. Farewell Luncheon

Chapter 6:  Church Fair. Mazowe Valley. AIDS Village. Winkfields to England

Chapter 7:  Forming the Mutare Contract. Shona Wedding. Renovating a Garden

Chapter 8:  Mutare Graduation. Sickness. Nyanga National Park. A Shona Name

Chapter 9:  Preparation. First Days on Assignment. Park Vista Becomes Home

Chapter 10:  Homemaking. Museum Preparation. A Phone. Transport

Chapter 11:  New Friends. Transport. First Course. Gardens Galore. Burma Valley

Chapter 12:  Shifting Catherine. Game Park Holiday. A Shona Surprise

Chapter 13:  Last Days of December. New Year. Hard Times

Chapter 14:  Orientation. Accident and Aftermath. Aussie Grandchild. Diesel Queue

Chapter 15:  Photocopy Problems. Field Trip. Playground Plans. March Newsletter. Eviction Notice for Anne.

Chapter 16:  Wedding Anniversary. Miriam Visits. Eviction and a Baby. David

Chapter 17:  Frames for Paintings. Doll Mending. Stay-aways. Bruce Books Flights. May Newsletter.

Chapter 18:  Security Bars. Monkey Stealth. June Newsletter. Boysitting. Bruce’s Arrival.

Chapter 19:  Imire Safari Park. Sightseeing. Great Zimbabwe. To Pretoria for Rugby

Chapter 20:  Ziwa and Tamunesa Primary. Pardon’s Rural Home. Bruce’s Birthday. Bag Snatch

Chapter 21:  Workshops and Talks. The Beggar. Spring and Babies. Disconnected. The Show

Chapter 22:  Spring into Summer. Victoria Falls

Chapter 23:  Early Morning Activity. Pangolin. School Visits. November Newsletter

Chapter 24:  Honde Valley. New York. Decision Time. Sally Harassed. Newsletter February 2004.

Chapter 25:  Neighbour’s Leaving Party. Mozambique. Iron-Age Sites. Workshop at Tamunesa

Chapter 26:  Second Moz. Trip. Anne. March Newsletter. Zimunya. Wedding. ’Vumba Cottage

Chapter 27:  Jody Comes. Matopos. Cam and Nom Arrive. Suncrest. Honde. Kariba

Chapter 28:  Cam and Nom Leave. Police Stop at Bromley. A Photo Too Many! Sydney

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Zimbabwe Place Names

Independence Arch

Sadza and mealies for factory workers

Boy with home-made football

Balancing rocks

Singing thanks

Brick kiln Marange

Inquisitive Eyes

Tuck shop women

Queuing, a daily activity

Faith, language teacher

Lakeside fun

Mabvuku Village

Do you like sadza?

Zebras embrace

Leo Berekai, sculptor

Sakubva cottage

Wedding feast sadza and relish

Dancing begins

Markets

Graduation watchers

Live music

Chapman Golf Club A

Chapman Golf Club B

Woman crotcheting, waiting for customers

Milk vendor

Burn-up

Women with children

Postman Samuel

Grubbing with badza-hoes

Daniel’s well

Herdsman with Daniel’s oxen

Lake Kyle, Mutirikwi

Potato Vendor

Choosing from the bicycle baskets

Mutunzi Home

Women passing by my home

Off to school and pre-school

Aunty, will you have some tea?

Truckies wait for diesel

Changing the wheel

Loaded up and disappearing into the bush

Tie-dye students

Waiting for the train

Steve and Leita’s cottage

Women carrying water

Resource teachers at work

Stars of my exhibition, singing practice

Cricket watchers

Lake Alexandra, Boat Club

Blind man and companion

Preparing the school lunch

Pardon’s mother cooking in her kitchen

Hillside golf course

Schoolgirls carry bricks for new classroom

Monkey family play on my truck

Giraffes nibbling and necking

Donkey wagon, daylight transport

Pangolin

School children drawing

Jeremiah translates

Waiting for treatment

Mozambique market

Manjowe rock paintings

Crossing the Save

Nutritious lunch, yum!

Anne and baby Gift

Making mats from factory off-cuts

Washing in the stream

Bull elephant, L.Kariba

The four lecturers and me

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

M y special thanks to Hilary Smith for her professional assistance. Her encouragement to me during the development of this manuscript was always appreci ated.

June 2002 Newsletter

Subject: Permit has arrived!

At long last, my temporary employment permit has arrived. Volunteer Service Abroad (VSA), contacted me last Friday to tell me this good news, but they also told me that I would have to wait a further few days because discussions were taking place with the NZ High Commission. A review of the Africa Programme in the light of the worsening drought and the possibility of harassment of VSA workers due to political statements concerning smart sanctions was being considered. However, yesterday in spite of this, I received the news that VSA is going ahead with my assignment because the Mutare locality is relatively settled following the elections. So now, it’s all go because my leaving date is July 5.

Although the rolled-over leaving dates (one every two weeks from Feb. 28) have caused me to exercise a certain amount of patience, and learn my first lesson in TIA (This Is Africa), it has been a good time for husband Bruce and me. I had resigned from my teaching job at Upper Hutt College in December of last year, enabling the principal to appoint a new head of department to begin the New Year. We attended the weddings of the last two of our five children who married their long-term partners in February, Jonathan to Areana and Campbell to Naomi.

Since then, for the last six months with no classes to prepare for, I have been able to completely relax, getting back into my fitness program. As well, Bruce and I have been to Christchurch to spend time with eldest son Daniel, his wife Maree, and our three rambunctious red-headed granddaughters. This was a very precious time for us because we were able to attend their classes at school and kindy as well as see them involved in their after-school activities. Our daughter Jessica and her husband Andy also live in Christchurch, so we had some great family times together.

One experience I enjoyed was mountain biking up the bridle path with Daniel—my first go at off-road with a bike! A few more attempts and I could get the hang of it! Bruce and I did some touring, going over to see the Apimaeras (Jono’s in-laws) in Akaroa. We were also able to spend time with our grandsons (Thomas and Sarah’s boys) in the Wairarapa. I have put my half-acre garden under bark, with the final rockery completed on Monday. Although 20 cubic metres represents many days of hard graft with the wheelbarrow, it is a good feeling to be able to leave the garden fed and mulched under a thick layer of bark shavings that hopefully will keep the weed growth down for Bruce. We have enjoyed such a wonderful autumn and been spoilt for fine balmy weather.

Throughout the last six months, there have been many times when friends and loved ones have questioned the wisdom of my two-year African adventure alone.

I want to thank you all. I am unable to explain in a few words how I feel, but I have appreciated your concern and have considered what each of you said. Somehow, just as I begin to wonder if I am doing the right thing, along comes a confirmation that reinforces my resolve. I will leave you with this one:

I was late for the church service that the rest of my family was attending in Christchurch. The whole place was packed with people, but Maree had saved a seat for me in their row. I sat down and found myself beside two black Africans. I could hardly wait till the service ended, when I could ask them where they were from, and they both replied, ‘Mutare, Zimbabwe.’

‘That’s where I’m going very soon,’ I said. I found out from further conversation with them that the mother of one of them was a translator for a VSA worker, Catherine Harris, with whom I was already corresponding and with whom I shall be working for a short period. I took a photo of them both to send by email to Catherine, who may be able to print it out for one of the lads’ mothers to see. That incident was no coincidence and it reaffirmed for me that the journey I was about to make was indeed the opportunity I needed to take to fulfil a deep inner longing.

My next newsletter may possibly come from Mutare.

Cheers for now,

Audrey

1A%20Zimbabwe%20Place%20Names..jpg

CHAPTER 1

Goodbyes. The Journey. Winkfield Hospitality

I sat with my second to eldest son, enjoying a lager in the departure lounge of Sydney airport before boarding the plane for the twelve-hour flight to Johannesburg. This goodbye was the last to our family of five children. Without exception, they had been excited for me, urging me to make the most of an opportunity provided by New Zealand Volunteer Service Abroad (VSA). They each had encouraged me during the selection process, had celebrated with me when I had been chosen, and now that my work visa had been granted, were sending me off to Zimbabwe with their good wishes. Bruce, my husband, my husband of thirty-six years, was initially reticent, but having watched me go through the process of selection, he was ready to stand behind my decision and support me f ully.

Two of our sons had recently married their long-time girlfriends, and I had been on a weekend stopover with one of the newly-weds, Jonathan and wife Areana. They had settled in Sydney near Bondi Beach. Both were working, Jonathan as a civil engineer and Areana in a part-time capacity at a nearby hotel. Bruce and I had spent the previous Thursday night in Wellington, New Zealand, with our other newly married couple, Campbell and Naomi. Campbell was at university studying architecture and Naomi was supporting him through her accountancy job.

They had given me a low-key leaving party at their flat on my final night in New Zealand, inviting our third son Thomas, his wife Sarah, and their baby son Joey to enjoy a farewell meal before final farewells. It was great to touch base with them since the wait for my visa had been so long and protracted. But for us, the delay had given Bruce and me time to travel to Christchurch to say goodbye to our South Island children and grandchildren. It had been a precious time, and without exception they were happy for me. I was grateful that they showed their enthusiasm for my volunteer teaching assignment.

The party in Wellington was a simple meal—a chance to wish me well. Thomas had left with his family around 9 p.m., allowing us to get some sleep before Bruce was to drive me to the airport, ready for the early morning flight to Australia. This had been the first leg of my journey to Zimbabwe—a long two years of separation for Bruce and me. Our parting had been tender, but resolute. We had expressed everything in the days leading up to this and there was little more to be said, but even so we parted with heightened emotions. Bruce would eventually join me for six weeks at the midway point of my two-year appointment. Until then he would keep the home fires burning. But now, as I looked over at Jono here in Sydney, I had come to the last goodbye that was to be made.

‘I’m so proud of you, Mum, I can’t believe that Dad has let you go so easily,’ Jono said, smiling at me as he took my empty glass, then putting his arms around my shoulders, hugging me closely.

‘Oh, the last few months since my selection haven’t been easy for either of us, but through it Bruce and I have come to a deeper understanding. I feel closer to your dad in a much deeper way, more grounded somehow!’

Jonathan grinned. ‘That’s good, but I admire your pluck, going there by yourself when the outlook for that country is so grim—oh, I can understand your reasons for going, and I share your excitement, but Dad’s concerns are pretty real too. Be careful,’ he said as we both stood. ‘We want our mum back!’ He kissed me and helped me with the straps of my backpack. I picked up the computer bag, blew him another kiss and waved as I walked through to customs, my emotions once more barely in check.

Take-off was on time at 10 a.m. Soon we were in the air and climbing, turning to the south, and before long we passed over the Blue Mountains and the Great Dividing Range with Wagga Wagga to our left. It was fascinating to see this great continent for the first time from thirty thousand feet, the in-flight tracker helping me to name the various landmarks, over Bass Strait, past Tasmania, and gliding over a seemingly endless Southern Ocean at thirty-seven thousand feet. With no more land to see from my window, I extricated myself from my row, past sleeping passengers, and went for a walk to stretch my legs and try to locate Ken, who was in business class. Ken was a seasoned traveller and had lived with us for a couple of years when Bruce and I were first married. He had remained single and devoted his time to mission work, training young evangelists in various foreign countries. I found him easily, his large frame stretched out on the reclining chair. He sat up at once, then stood and suggested we move to the lobby space at the back, so we could talk without blocking the aisles.

‘I had an email from Bruce telling me you were on this flight,’ he said as he manoeuvred his lanky body into the small space at the rear of business class seating.

‘But, what makes you decide to do this all by yourself?’

I brushed aside the thought that of all people, Ken should understand my desire to follow my inner voice, and said instead, ‘Bruce thought about it, but preferred to remain at home. He felt it was dangerous, but if I was selected from the other three very able applicants, and if I was determined to go, feeling it to be right, then he would support me, allowing me to go and fulfil a childhood dream.’

He nodded. ‘But what about the family—what do they think?’

‘Oh, they are right behind me, telling me to go for it.’ Ken smiled, but he looked unconvinced.

‘I haven’t been there in a while but I hear the anti feeling against whites in Zimbabwe is increasing. Where are you to be stationed?’

‘Mutare,’ I replied, ‘in the highlands to the east, bordering Mozambique.’ Ken now seemed more positive. ‘You should enjoy the climate. It’s higher up, more like New Zealand. What will you do there?’

‘My assignment is to open an art department at Mutare Polytechnic, write courses to a university standard for students and train up a suitable lecturer to take my place when I leave in two years. I am also to spend one day a week at the Mutare Museum, running courses for unemployed youth, enabling them to make a living from the skills I teach.’

‘That’ll keep you busy,’ he said. ‘And probably out of harm’s way too.’ He added with a wink, ‘Just keep away from the politics!’

‘Oh, you needn’t worry on that score. That’s a subject that holds no interest for me whatsoever!’

‘Glad to hear it. Regards to Bruce and blessings on you in your new venture.’ Ken returned to his seat, where the flight attendant had put his meal, and I went back to my seat to muse on our conversation.

Like many, Ken had voiced his trepidation about the unusual action of me going to Zimbabwe alone—not only that, but the fact I would choose to leave behind a husband, children, and grandchildren in order to follow a dream. People in the main seemed to expect Bruce and me to always be physically together, yet we had come to the conclusion that closeness was not just about physical proximity to each other. If we truly cherished each other, there was a deeper love that we felt we could access, allowing our true selves to develop no matter where we were physically, and this should enhance our relationship. We had raised our five children—they had chosen wonderful mates and had recently married them. Now some were beginning to raise their own families. They had left the nest, and we were no longer responsible for their care. We had both retired, Bruce from managing a fabric importing firm and me from teaching art in secondary schools. This then, was our time, a time of discovery, time to unveil the hidden depths that we’d been too busy raising children or earning a living to access. Who would know what we’d uncover? Somehow this space felt good and I knew in my heart that my appointment to this position in Zimbabwe was part of life’s journey for the two of us, not just for me.

My flight companion woke as I returned to my place and told me he was a priest at a South African orphanage. His hobby was astronomy and he was particularly interested in eclipses—he was returning from observing a recent one in outback Australia. I would have liked to ask him more about the orphanage but I glimpsed the sight of land below us. We were flying over the African coastline. My heart skipped a beat! I peered through the cabin window, anxious not to miss a moment of this great continent as it unfolded thirty thousand feet below. I thought, ‘Bruce will be asleep right now because it’s 12.45 a.m. New Zealand time, but here am I in the daylight, able to see the farms, the villages, the rivers… and closer to Johannesburg, the irrigation booms that painted giant-sized coloured wheels like an enormous abstract painting on the ground—an oasis in a parched landscape. Later the smog caused by burning-off made the viewing blue-hazy so I contented myself with writing up my diary and preparing for landing in South Africa.

I made my way to the second floor of the Johannesburg terminal where another passenger from my flight waited for his plane to London. It was 4.30 a.m. and I had two hours wait ahead of me. I had now been awake for a full twenty-four hours, but I was too excited to sleep or even doze. Instead I watched people coming and going on the floor below, and the night cleaners at work. It was fascinating, as the proportion of blacks to whites was greater than I’d ever seen before.

Eventually my flight was announced, and a bus delivered us to the waiting plane. Take off was late and no explanation or apology was given. The passengers seemed unfazed by this and most settled to read their morning papers without complaint. I asked my companion if being late would affect his travel plans. He shrugged and said that in his line of work anything could happen and the best thing to do was to take opportunities when they presented themselves. He explained that he led a small team of bomb disposal experts who, with their highly trained sniffer dogs, were clearing Mozambique of unexploded shells, a grim legacy of the thirty-year war only recently ended. After I’d exclaimed at the risky nature of such a job, he responded quickly.

‘But it’s very necessary—there are too many poor buggers with legs blown off and no way of earning a living for their families! If we can clear tracks through the hills, allowing safe trails for people to walk from one village to the next, then we are doing them a huge service. Most people walk,’ he grinned, guessing correctly that I had little experience of the African way of life, ‘pushing their carts that carry their produce. There’s no way they can afford prosthetics, so no legs, no job and no food!’

That tempered my excitement and I reflected soberly on how much I had yet to learn. As the plane landed and I wished him well, I realized again how fortunate I was to have lived my life in New Zealand, a sheltered existence in comparison to what I could possibly witness over the following two years. We landed at Harare Airport, where the observation tower dominated every other building.

Walking through the internal double glass doors after collecting my tramping pack from the carousel, I was amazed at the internal size

and also the height of the ceiling of this building—it hadn’t looked particularly big from outside. An obliging official in a smart uniform directed me to a queue patiently waiting in line at a customs desk. When my turn came, I answered the many questions while my bags were inspected. Seeming satisfied, the customs official stamped my visa and wrote something in a logbook, before pointing me to the small corridor through the free-standing partitions. I walked out to see a crowd of faces turned toward me, some leaning over the banisters of a gallery, patiently waiting for the return of loved ones as they were processed through customs. Among them was Catherine Harris, a New Zealand volunteer in the final months of her assignment, and with her were Richard and Venetia Winkfield, who had generously offered accommodation for me during my initial few weeks in Zimbabwe.

With introductions over, they led me out of the airport to their parked vehicle, Richard valiantly shouldering my pack. He took the ring road to Marlborough, pointing out and giving an explanation of the Freedom Archway that spanned the motorway not far from the airport. The bulky structure looked incongruous in its setting, being visually too heavy. My critical eye thought that the arch had the depressed curve of a deflated balloon and I wondered why it had been chosen to represent such an important moment in Zimbabwe’s history. At one end, two spires arrogantly thrust skywards, in a two-fingered salute. When I considered this landmark later, I thought that perhaps it was quite appropriate to represent the character of Zimbabwe’s president.

Catherine kept a running commentary on places and features in the morning landscape, but also asked questions and gave information as we travelled. It was our first meeting, and although we had exchanged emails, there was a lot to learn about each other and our host companions. Catherine had known Richard and Venetia from previous times when she had lived with her policeman husband almost directly over the road from the Winkfields. Divorced and with two children, Catherine had gone back to New Zealand, later offering her services to VSA, and returning to Zimbabwe to teach small-business skills to women in rural areas. Richard had recently stepped down as director of the Agricultural Research Trust, a world-renowned research facility in Zimbabwe. He was also a writer, penning a regular column on life, times, and strategies for The Farmer, a weekly magazine for the agricultural sector. Presently he was involved with the white

1B%20Freedom%20Arch..jpg

farming community in an advisory capacity, seeking to help them make alternative plans during these present unsettling times when Mugabe’s agreement to halt farm invasions was proving tenuous. Venetia worked from home, editing books and articles. They had two adult children, a married son in England and their daughter who, with her farmer husband and their three small children, lived a short distance away from Harare in Mazowe.

We turned off the ring road, entering the suburb of Marlborough across a wide grassy area lined with trees. This first journey etched itself on my excited mind. As the house lots appeared, I noted the forbidding high barricading fences topped with rolled razor wire and large locked gates, allowing just small glimpses of the properties within. It was so very different from suburbia in New Zealand. Whereas the roads we had travelled so far were well kept, the streets here were pockmarked with holes in the seal, undefined edges and in some cases unkempt grass verges. We made a right-hand turn into Taormina Avenue, and after a couple of blocks, slowed and turned left over a little bridge spanning a culvert into a driveway. We had reached the Winkfields’ home. Venetia unlocked the gate and was greeted by the barking of two happy guard dogs as they bounded along the length of an interior fence and jumped up to her.

Venetia’s housemaid Bobina was already at the internal gate, opening it for the car to pass through. She had been with the family for many years, and Richard had built her a small house at the rear of their property. The many trees planted strategically along the curved drive impressed me, and the sound of birds, now that the dogs were quiet at Richard’s command. I was led through a small gate to a fenced area behind the main house, past an oval in-ground swimming pool to the cottage where Catherine and I were to stay. It was an ideal guestroom, with its own en-suite toilet and shower. I looked longingly at the comfortable beds, suddenly feeling the effects of my journey. Venetia caught my glance and understood, immediately suggesting I take time to freshen up and if I liked to have a sleep then I was to please do so.

‘Supper will be ready at six,’ she said, leaving Catherine and me to decide who slept where. The room had both a double and a single bed, each with a mosquito net tied carefully into a knot and suspended from the ceiling. There were empty drawers to house underwear and an open closet to hang clothes. On the bench bathroom bench there was a kettle and the makings for tea and coffee. A little vase of flowers sat on the dresser between a candlestick and reading lamp. I kicked off my shoes and sat on the single bed.

‘This is absolutely fabulous,’ I said. ‘How welcoming and what a lovely surprise!’

Catherine agreed. ‘This is my home away from home, and a wonderful refuge in which to recharge, but I’ll leave you now to shower and recoup. Join us when you’re ready.’

Refreshed from the shower, I lay relaxed on the bed and was soon fast asleep.

A gentle tapping on the door woke me sometime later—Bobina had come to call me to the evening meal. We entered the main house together through the back door, into a quite spacious kitchen with a scullery to the right. Opposite the kitchen entrance, a door led to an open-style living room with a dining table at the nearest end, set with silverware on a pristine cloth, and a freshly picked posy of flowers decorating the centre. More flowers were on a sideboard that separated the lounge area with its ample seating and large windows. French doors opening to large garden beds were on the long side of this room and it was furnished with comfortable sofas and chairs surrounding the fireplace. The whole effect was a homely atmosphere, simply but tastefully decorated.

Richard poured a pre-dinner drink for each of us and, after formally welcoming me to their home, indicated my place at the table. Bobina brought in the meal, cooked by Venetia with Catherine’s help. The food was delicious and the conversation covered a wide range of topics. Richard recounted the story of a farming couple, their long-time friends who had lost their farm through being evicted by Mugabe’s war vets and were now living temporarily in Harare. They were deeply traumatized and Richard was helping them implement their plan B. Catherine told of a business venture with a group of women in the rural area of Marange. These women had grown and harvested paprika to sell at the auction house in Harare, and another group, not so successful, who had raised chickens, but then slaughtered the breeding hens when food had become scarce! There were many such stories that followed, told with humour and an understanding of the African life and way of thinking. They questioned me too about my family and what had led me to come to Zimbabwe at this time. Then Venetia, practical and thoughtful as I came to realize was her way, instructed Catherine to help me access her email account so I could write to Bruce, telling him of my safe arrival. I thanked her and the two of us moved to the office that was crammed with books and ledgers, the business hub of the Winkfield home.

There was much to tell Bruce, but I kept it brief, saving the descriptions for longer emails at a later date when I was less tired, then I listened while the dial-up system sang its familiar tune and my message was magically transmitted to Bruce who was waiting on the other side of the globe. ‘Yesterday,’ I thought, ‘I was kissing him for real, and today I’m sending him email XXs, but thank goodness for modern technology!’ I rejoined the others, who had dealt with the dishes and were preparing for an early bedtime. My body clock was not yet in sync with Zimbabwean time but I gratefully slipped between the sheets of my bed in the cottage, more than ready to make up for lost sleep.

CHAPTER 2

First Days in Zimbabwe

I woke after a refreshing dreamless sleep. It was 6 a.m. and I was immediately aware of the different bird sounds: pigeons cooing and a rooster in full voice. Otherwise it was quiet, with no sound of traffic or of planes overhead. Catherine was already in the shower and I followed soon after, marvelling that I seemed free of jet lag.

‘Today we’ll take things easy,’ announced Catherine as she put the finishing touches to her make-up. ‘You need to report into the VSA office, and then I’ll take you to the auction rooms to complete the sale of our paprika. But first there’s breakfast.’

I was quite willing to follow along with anything Catherine suggested. After all, she knew the ropes and I could tell she was enjoying the prospect of showing me around and introducing me to people and places new to me. When breakfast was over, I joined Richard while Catherine made some phone calls. He was exercising the dogs, throwing a pinecone the full length of a large lawn spreading to the two-meter-high brick boundary wall. The dogs tumbled over each other in their eagerness to be the first to return the cone to his feet. Tricking the younger dog by feigning a long throw to the left, he then deliberately threw it to the older dog. She’d been slower each time, missing out on getting the prize. She retrieved it and, with her tail wagging the whole rear of her body, dropped it on the ground, her face up, waiting for Richard’s approving pat.

‘Ready to go!’ Catherine called. I picked up my small carry bag and hurried to the VSA vehicle, a blue-green utility with a solid canopy and the VSA logo on the door. Venetia waved to us as she opened and then closed each of the gates, passing Catherine a set of gate and house keys, in case we should return and find them out. On one side of Taormina Avenue, there was a large tract of wasteland and Catherine explained that because of the food shortage, many urban dwellers had taken to growing maize and vegetables in small plots. Some were evident from the road and we passed a man with a water bucket suspended at each end of a long pole across his shoulders, bent to a crescent under the weight.

‘That’s an unusual sight,’ Catherine laughed as she changed gear, and steered the truck round a large pothole. ‘It’s the women who do most of the heavy work, carrying a child on their backs as well as a full water bucket on their heads!’

Many people were walking on the sides of the streets leading to Lomagundi Road, avoiding the deep trenches where there were large patches of blackened ground. Some of these were showing new green growth, but most were recent burn-offs. From Lomagundi, we turned a right south into Second Street and continued through the avenues, under leafy boughs of jacaranda and flamboyant that almost met overhead. It was very pleasant, and as we neared the business area, we glimpsed the tall glass and concrete high-rise buildings through the foliage that softened the harsh outlines. A set of lights that turned red at our approach brought us to a stop. This was Samora Machel, one of the main arterial roads leading through the city.

Immediately a throng of people waving phone cards and newspapers descended on the vehicles trapped by the red-lit ‘robots’, as the locals called the traffic lights. One young boy with bucket and brush made to clean our windscreen, but Catherine waved him away, so he turned to the more obliging vehicle beside us.

‘You get hardened to it,’ Catherine explained. ‘There are so many people begging and selling, you can’t indulge them all. Besides there are many con artists as well and it’s best to keep windows up and doors locked!’ When the lights turned green, we moved to the right lane. I was mentally taking note of each change of direction for future use. A right-hand turn took us into Fourth Street. Catherine pointed out that this area was well-lit at night and had a relatively regular power supply, because Mugabe’s town residence was not far away, opposite the cricket grounds to the north-east. Fourth was an impressively wide street, with a tree-lined central verge dividing the four lanes of busy traffic. Movement in the morning traffic was slow, giving me time to take note of the varied forms of architecture—quaint squat buildings directly opposite a tall modern hotel. Small sidewalk stalls under coloured umbrellas began to line the pavement. We passed a large church, where a crowd of mourners stood in small groups around a black hearse that was moving out, about to join our line of traffic.

‘Lots of funerals,’ Catherine said. ‘AIDS has reached epidemic level, leaving dozens of kids as orphans, many taking to the streets and begging.’ We turned left into George Silundika Street, weaving through the pedestrians who preferred to use the road for walking rather than the footpath, which was clogged with carts and had several kerbside open holes showing there’d been recent water—or perhaps sewage—problems that remained unresolved. Not far from the corner, Catherine pulled in beside another vehicle.

‘This is VSA Zimbabwe branch,’ she announced. Indicating the other vehicle, she added, ‘Sue and Tom must be here from Plumtree. They have finished their assignment and return back home this week.’

A small gate led to the door of the concrete bungalow. It was several degrees cooler in here. We entered through a sitting area with barred windows then up a step to a central room, where a large reception desk divided the space. Immediately two African women greeted us with excited cries of welcome, one seated at the desk and the other coming out from an office to our left. We exchanged hugs and Caroline introduced the women to me.

‘This is Miriam-two, called that to differentiate between the two Miriams,’ she said, indicating the older woman. ‘She’s our two-IC, our mainstay. She keeps the books and knows the answer to every problem!’ Miriam took my hand and smiled shyly at Catherine’s praise. I felt myself drawn to this softly spoken woman, knowing immediately that I could trust her.

‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, Miriam-one is at an out-of- town funeral, but she’ll be in tomorrow. She will want to see you to fill you in on the present situation in Mutare. Meanwhile, meet Phyllis, who is project manager and is keeping the front desk today. She will take you through your initiation course when you’ve recovered from your flight.’

‘Not today,’ Phyllis laughed, shaking her elegantly styled and plaited hairdo, ‘tomorrow at one will be soon enough. Don’t want to overload you on your first day!’ Her strong accent was difficult for me to follow, but I understood the gist of what she had said and told her I was looking forward to it. Catherine had gone through to the next room and was catching up with Sue. She and husband Tom were packing up, listing their treasures before packing them into one of several open tea chests. Tom was weighing one of these on a set of scales as I went through.

‘Yes!’ he said with triumph. ‘One down, and five to go!’ He grinned and moved forward to shake my hand.

‘Welcome to Zimbabwe—hope it goes well for you. This is Sue,’ he said, indicating his wife with an outstretched arm. Sue put down her paper and pen, giving me a quick hug. ‘As you can see, we’re on our way out!’ she said with a sigh. They were a young couple in their thirties and as Catherine informed me later, had had a difficult few months in the recent post-election period, necessitating an earlier-than-planned exit back home to New Zealand.

Catherine said, ‘We’ll let you get on with the job, because we are due at the auction house to see what my women’s group made for their paprika.’

It was a relatively short distance to the sprawling untidy industrial area, and we passed many queues on the way. Some were vehicles waiting for fuel at pumps—others were people waiting outside supermarkets and stores.

‘Bush telegraph is alive and well in Zimbabwe,’ said Catherine when I remarked on the line-ups. ‘They soon get to know where a store may have oil or bread for sale! Times are hard for many, especially city folk.’

We pulled into a large industrial area, making our way past rickety corrugated iron buildings housing countless small enterprises. Waste bins were scattered around, as well as piles of partly burned rubbish, abandoned car parts and dozens of discarded car-tyres. Beneath the few trees, women were gathered in groups cooking on metal fire-boxes, some with large long-handled blackened pots of sadza—white cornmeal beaten to a thick porridge that formed the main element of their diet—and others were barbecuing maize cobs. They sold their wares to the factory workers, but for many we could see, lunch was a mere doorstep slice of white bread and a cup of sweet tea. We parked opposite the

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paprika factory, to find it in a mild state of panic. The building was being evacuated and smoke was escaping from part of the factory roof.

‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Catherine. ‘We’d better wait and see what happens. Must be one of the drying rooms. I’ll ask.’ She wound her window down to ask a worker that stood near our truck, part of the quickly gathering crowd.

‘Could be an electrical fault,’ he said in perfect English. ‘We’ve had a number of them recently. The equipment’s getting old. They’ll have it fixed soon and we can get back to work. We don’t get paid for time-off like this!’

We watched as two men who were already on the roof dragged a hose and tools with them, lifting the roofing iron and directing the hose below. Within half an hour, the excitement was over and the workers trooped back to resume their jobs. Our informant grinned at us and joined the returning staff. We went to the office, and Catherine spoke to a manager who seemed completely unperturbed by the disruption caused by the fire. He consulted a ledger and paid Catherine the appropriate amount. An acrid smoky smell pervaded the vast floor space, together with the more pleasant smell of drying paprika. It was extremely hot inside this unlined shed, and I wondered how the workers managed to do their jobs in such trying conditions.

We returned briefly to the VSA office, where Catherine reported her success, and then we walked to a bank along Silundika, where the payment was eventually deposited, after a wait in a reasonably short queue. The pavements there and back were tricky to negotiate, with uneven patchwork paving and many holes revealing the underlying pipes.

Surprisingly, when we returned, Venetia was at the office. She explained that Richard had needed her car as his was being repaired, so she’d come to town by combi van—the much-used and quite reliable public transport, hoping that Catherine could take her to a paper-making course because she was sure it would be helpful for both of our assignments. Catherine enthusiastically agreed, so we were soon on our way to visit Walter Ruprecht and his mapepe (paper-making) students.

We crossed the railway line and headed toward Hatfield Extension. It was my first glimpse of high-density housing—tiny shacks, made in many cases of bamboo poles covered with plastic. Little children were playing with soccer balls made with paper stuffed into an orange net

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sock that once held fruit. There were long rows of sturdier houses, cheek by jowl, each approximately four metres long and two metres deep. Between the rows, the bare earth sported occasional clumps of kale, but mostly it was a space to sit or walk or cook the meals.

The papermaking was intriguing. It had become large-scale because of the interest shown by women who were desperately looking for ways to support their families. Walter and his wife had provided the equipment and taught the women the papermaking process. Now they were taking responsibility for more of the operation. I was impressed with the final products, produced for marketing with the tourist trade. Photo albums, writing paper, diaries, papers for wrapping, papers for covering boxes, and heavier-grade papers for painting or printing art images, all made from recycled papers, plants, and flowers. I had previously taught school classes in the technique and was familiar with the process, but I could see the potential that lay with teaching this skill to the unemployed youth of Mutare in programs supported by the museum. I thanked Venetia for her foresight and Walter for showing us round. Seeing this successful operation had added another string to my bow of resources.

Happy with what we had learned, we made our way back to Marlborough by a different route, passing by President Mugabe’s residence. Guards in impeccable uniforms stood at the gate. Others kept a regular beat along the perimeter, AK-47s slung over their shoulders or pistols at their sides. For an unaccountable moment, I felt compassion for the man, his dwelling looking more like a prison fortress than a home.

Our next stop on our way home was a supermarket in Avondale. Many whites and well-endowed blacks were frequenting the stores. I was amazed at the zeros on the prices—a bottle of wine, $2,650, and at the basic end, baked beans, $150. Everything marked in hundreds of dollars! No flour, no sugar, no oil, and little choice in fruit or vegetables, but Venetia had managed to get the meat she needed and also some cleaning products.

That night I wrote a long email to Bruce, making a valiant attempt to convey all I had witnessed on my first day in Africa. I had been overwhelmed with the rawness of life, the constant fight for survival and the marked differences between the haves and the have-nots.

The next morning, I felt quite recovered from the flight and needed to go for a run, just as I was used to doing at home. I dressed in running gear, but wore full-length cycling tights instead of my usual shorts. Using the keys we were given to undo the padlocks on the gate, I then ran anticlockwise around the block. Not many people were out and about, but I felt that the twenty minutes it took me was sufficient for my first effort.

Catherine was awake when I returned ready for my shower, and she suggested that I might like to go with her to the Australian High Commission, where she had applied for a grant. She knew my initiation wasn’t due to begin till the afternoon. I said I would, and after breakfast we were soon on our way to 29 Mazowe Street. Here, Rene Cooper welcomed us, and she called in Scott McLaren, the person in charge of funding. For some reason, just listening to the Aussie accents gave me a brief pang of homesickness. We were treated to morning tea and both of them expressed a desire to meet us out in our assignment areas of Mutare and Marange at some future date, but in the meantime, they were pleased to help Catherine with her project, and for the next hour, they discussed the projected outcomes. All this was new to me—finding the necessary funding to kick-start humanitarian projects was not on my immediate agenda, but nevertheless I was alert to the process should I need help in the future.

Catherine was thrilled with the result, and we proceeded to the VSA office in high spirits. Miriam-one was there and after Catherine had reported her success, I had my interview briefing with her. She quickly brought me up to date with the situation in Mutare. She said it was not yet wise for me to be at my assignment because of recent unrest, but I would be taken to Mutare once my network had been established and I was familiar with the way of life. She warned that this might take a month or two. In the meantime, I was to attend a Shona language course at the university, a student place having been already booked for me. Miriam-one was a buxom woman, brimming with confidence in her management ability. Her caring attitude toward the volunteers was evident, and she showed obvious enjoyment in helping her Shona people to become self-sufficient and independent of charity handouts. She not only ran the New Zealand volunteer operation, but also the Canadian equivalent, WUSC.

‘We need to impart skills that will allow people the dignity of earning a living that feeds their families,’ she said, rising to take me to Phyllis. ‘Your assignment will be a key to helping further the work in Mutare. You are a welcome addition, but have patience with the time it takes to do things. This is Africa,’ she grinned.

My initiation time with Phyllis was spent covering a brief historical overview of Zimbabwe, then the recent events leading to both the political and economic situation that presently prevailed. She knew her stuff, but I found concentrating on understanding her accent very tiring and after a couple of hours was glad when she announced the conclusion of the session. I took a break, going out the back door to sit in the sun and read the book I had begun on the plane, Lessing’s Don’t Go Down to the Dogs Tonight. Being set in the Eastern Highlands, it was very relevant for me.

Miriam-two called me into her office to explain the per diem system to me, for our VSA living allowance. The procedure for obtaining this in Zimbabwean currency necessitated an intermediary who was willing to exchange Zimbabwean dollars for USA dollars, the currency in which our per diem was banked into our New Zealand accounts. It was up to me to find such a person. This was something I knew Richard could help me with as most white Zimbabweans had offshore accounts, a safeguard against rising inflation. Meanwhile, Miriam exchanged the forex (foreign exchange) I’d brought with me, for the equivalent of Zimbabwean dollars, enough to tide me over till a permanent arrangement had been found. My little bag bulged—there were 100 Zimbabwean dollars to one New Zealand dollar.

Catherine was due to pick me up around 4 p.m., so with half an hour’s free time, I walked to Unity Square, where several taxi drivers were determined to get me to take a cab. Ignoring them, I wandered through the green oasis, admiring the use of bright multicoloured foliage plants that were planted in geometric patterns to border the central walkway that led to a magnificent fountain occupying central position within the park.

Several small children played at a drinking fountain nearby, their mamas and nannies keeping watchful eyes on their charges while resting on the park benches. I assumed that they were better off than most. I walked through to the outer edge on Second Street. Rickety makeshift stalls occupied every available space beneath the spreading trees bordering the square, the owners calling out their wares hopefully as I passed by. I put on my uninterested face and escaped back along the way I’d come, followed for a short distance by a middle-aged man determined to make a sale of his tiny model motorbike made from aluminium beer cans.

I slowed my pace as I passed some fast-food outlets, taking an interest in the prices displayed. Bread was $65, muffins $55, meat pies $170, and a takeaway meal of two pieces of chicken with chips and a roll $650.

Venetia and Richard were seated beside the pool when Catherine and I returned. They called us over to share their afternoon tea.

‘Come, join us for tea and tell us about your day,’ Venetia invited, indicating two spare chairs arranged round the table on which a tray held a silver teapot and china cups. Slices of freshly made sultana cake looked delicious.

‘We’ve been invited out for dinner tonight,’ Catherine announced as she sat down. ‘Sue and Tom leave tomorrow, so it’s a farewell dinner at the Italian Bakery.’

‘Oh, how lovely and good timing because we also are invited out for supper.’ Venetia poured the tea and Richard passed the cake, saying as he did, ‘Our invitation is also to say goodbye. Our friends leave for Australia, and a completely new life, at last able to put their plan B into action.’

As we parked at the Italian Bakery, a guard took note of our vehicle and made sure we had locked it securely. The restaurant was full and our colleagues were already seated at two tables they had pulled together. Catherine made the introductions. Lyn Walker I had already met in Wellington when she’d been on her New Zealand holiday. She was with her Harare flatmate Andrew, who presently lectured at Harare University, but I knew she commuted to Mutare each weekend where she and her husband Ken had their permanent home. It was good to see her again and she pulled out a chair for me.

Sue and Tom, obviously relaxed, were telling some funny stories about their Plumtree experiences. It was a light-hearted farewell, and having finished our Greek salads and pancakes, matched with a South African red wine, we wished them well. Catherine tipped the guard and we made for home. Darkness revealed the lack of street lights away from the main roads, but at eleven o’clock, there were still many people walking along the edges of roads, some very difficult to see because of their dark clothing. The house was in darkness when we returned, but we knew Venetia and Richard were home because their vehicle was already in the garage lean-to. It wasn’t long before we too were in a sound sleep in the cottage.

CHAPTER 3

Mutare. Marange. Apostolic Passover

W ith my two days of briefing concluded and the language course not yet begun, Catherine obtained permission from Miriam-one for me to accompany her to her own assignment area in Marange. This was very pleasing for me because we would be passing through the city of my future home in order to get to Marange. Richard and Venetia, bound on a different mission to Chimoio, were also passing through Mutare but they had left at 5.30 that morning, leaving Bobina in charge of the house and feeding the dogs. Our three passengers—women involved with Catherine’s paprika-growing business classes—arrived promptly at 7.30 a.m. They helped to load up the VSA truck with gifts from Venetia’s church and the Chapman Golf Club to take back to the orphanage—blankets, books, clothing, and also a chicken pen. We then needed to fill the two diesel drums Catherine carried against emergencies. We found what we needed at the fourth service station—the previous three were dry. Happy that it hadn’t taken too long to obtain this necessary item, we took the road to Mutare; our passengers quite happily settled among the blankets in the back of the ute, sharing stories from staying with their urban relat ives.

The countryside intrigued me. I marvelled at the huge granite boulders, balancing one on top of the other. One in particular carried a fully grown fig tree on its bare top, the roots enveloping the whole rock and cascading down the sides until they reached moisture and sustenance in the ground below. Through trees I glimpsed a group of

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rondavels with thatched roofs. As we neared Marondera, known as a grape-growing area and capital of Mashonaland East province, vast plains opened up with winter wheat crops nearing harvest. Sheep grazed and there were many pear and apple orchards. Roadside stalls became more frequent and we passed men pulling carts, some filled with wood, while others were piled high with market produce—maize, apples, and oranges.

We pulled into Malwatte, a place that employed the physically impaired in their cotton and silk production from silkworm and cotton boll to the ready-to-use product. Each building housed a different branch of their industry and there was also a restaurant. A group of white people were seated in the café when we arrived. From here a wide, covered walkway extended toward another building. It had the potential to be used as an outdoor shady space for larger gatherings and perhaps as a wedding venue. Around the grounds were immense garden plots of flowers and vegetables tended by workers wielding badza hoes. Among them, brightly coloured skinny-necked chickens roamed freely. We entered the building at the far end of the walkway where the cotton goods were displayed. Its unique architecture reminded me of someone squatting on the ground or of a partially thrown pot on a potter’s wheel. The thick walls were gently rounded at every corner and rendered in generous layers of white that provided a cool interior. The change in temperature was noticeable as we stepped inside. Above us the vaulted ceiling echoed our voices. I was amazed by the quality of the garments on display. A young black woman with a withered arm politely asked what we were interested in viewing and patiently showed us a wide variety of beautifully handcrafted clothing, furnishings, pottery, and craft items. I chose a lacy handwoven cotton top to wear with my sarongs, and Catherine bought Christmas presents for friends. I knew I would be coming here again.

Back on the road and not far from Marondera township was a private boys’ school that I had read about. Called Peterhouse, it was set in several hundred acres of land behind an imposing set of gates. I had heard of this school from some of the books I’d been reading. Strictly Anglican, it had been set up in the 1920s by English expatriates as a boys’ boarding school but later, through large private donations, both a girls’ school and a junior school were added. During rough times in the 1970/1980s, it had closed for a period but reopened a few years

later to continue its traditions of Anglican teachings, high academic achievement, sport, drama, and music. Old pupils fervently retained their school camaraderie and called themselves Petrians.

We followed behind large Tenda buses, crabbing their way forward while belching foul-smelling fumes and labouring under full passenger loads. On their roofs, they carried piles of baggage including lounge suites and wooden furniture. Their exhaust smoke obscured our vision, and it wasn’t always easy to pass them. We laughed when we saw one overladen bus with a goat perched on top—she seemed quite happy to travel in this manner. Along the way, there were small groups of roadside workers who were busily scything the long grass verges with hand instruments that looked very similar to golf clubs and were used in a similar manner to chipping a golf ball.

Toward Rusape, there were tobacco-drying sheds, huge tracts of irrigated land supporting green crops and paddocks of black-and-white beef cattle. I saw a herd of Indian Brahma cattle—well suited to this dry climate. As we rounded one corner, a baboon triumphantly held a piece of sugar cane as he scuttled across the busy road from one grove of trees to another. It was my first glimpse of animal wildlife.

Everywhere there were people, even in what I was sure were remote areas—women carrying bundles on their heads and babies on their backs, men squatting in groups by the roadside smoking or standing at roughly made stalls under tarpaulins or pushing their laden carts. We passed by a man who was thatching his rondavel, standing on a homemade ladder and attaching the bundles of dried grass stems to crosspieces of bamboo that were laid in circular fashion over rafters. He was stretched