My Zimbabwean Odyssey
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About this ebook
Sheila V Hartwell
Although I now live in the UK, I was born in Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, in 1952. At the age of eight I was taken into care and spent the next nine years in what was then The Rhodesia Children’s Home. A rebel at heart, the Home never gave up on me, turning my world around with their kindness and support. Recognising my flair for art I was encouraged to pursue my talent, taking weekly lessons at the Salisbury School of Art. Seeing potential, too, in my typewriting skills, when I left school at the age of 17 the Home paid for me to attend the Salisbury Polytechnic where I gained a diploma in secretarial skills, ensuring I was well equipped for my journey into what I then considered ‘the big, scary outside world’.
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My Zimbabwean Odyssey - Sheila V Hartwell
My
ZIMBABWEAN
ODYSSEY
SHEILA V HARTWELL
32289.pngAuthorHouse™ UK
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403 USA
www.authorhouse.co.uk
Phone: 0800.197.4150
Copyright © 2018 Sheila V Hartwell. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Published by AuthorHouse 09/25/2018
ISBN: 978-1-5462-9857-1 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-5462-9856-4 (e)
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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
CONTENTS
Preface
Homeward Bound
Chengeta and Pamuzinda Lodges
Lake Kariba and Operation Noah
Forty-four Years On
The Rhodesia Children’s Home
Muriel House
The Witch
Concussion
Runaways
South African Adventure
Marandellas
Admiral Tait Junior School
Roosevelt Girls High School
Unilateral Declaration of Independence (UDI)
Jimmy
Cathedral of St Mary and All Saints, Salisbury, Rhodesia.
Etiquette and Culture
Fort Victoria
Zimbabwe Ruins and Hot Springs Resort
Cover.Title%20Page.pngPREFACE
L ove and gratitude were the driving forces behind writing this book. Love for Zimbabwe, the country of my birth, and gratitude for The Rhodesia Children’s Home where I grew up. In writing this book I was daily transported back to my childhood in Africa where my forefather, Reverend William Boardman, after having sailed from Britain on the ship ‘La Belle Alliance’ in 1820 arrived in Port Elizabeth’s Algoa Bay on the eastern coast of South Africa. My grandmother, his great great grand daughter, Violet Rosina Boardman, left South Africa as a little girl with her parents, crossing the Limpopo River on the ox wagons and settling in Fort Salisbury in the then Rhodesia.
Born in 1952 and third generation Rhodesian I never lost the deep love for the land of my birth. I vividly remember that day on 12 September 1986 when, after six years under Robert Mugabe’s rule my English husband, Mike, and I left Zimbabwe to settle in the UK. It was a difficult decision, as I never thought I would ever leave Africa. Making our way to Harare Airport we passed a veld fire burning fiercely, its oranges and reds competing with the setting sun and illuminating the darkening sky. Despite the promises of returning we had just made to Easther our domestic worker I knew in my heart that we were leaving Zimbabwe, my beloved homeland, for good. How fitting, I thought, the raging uncontrollable flames mirroring the burning turmoil I felt within. I consoled myself that one day I would return for good, if not in the flesh then by way of my ashes which, as requested in my Will, are to be scattered in Gonarezhou, ‘the place of the elephant’, a parched and unforgiving area in the lowveld of Zimbabwe where elephants still follow migration trails centuries old.
1.pngAnyone who knows me well will know of my great love for these majestic beasts which even prompted my dearest friend, Cynthia, who still lives in Zimbabwe, to say ‘whenever I see elephants I think of you’ and although some would not be too sure on how to take that remark I knew exactly what she meant, having shared a special moment the last time we were in the Zambezi Valley when one afternoon, knowing my passion for elephants, she suggested the two of us jump in the pick-up and go looking for them. And find them we did. Transfixed by their majesty we sat quietly drinking in the spectacle of these beautiful giants. Not even the growing aggression of a lone bull elephant, having taken exception to the close proximity of the pickup, deterred us from lingering just that bit longer.
Now, forty-four years after leaving The Rhodesia Children’s Home and fifteen years since last visiting Zimbabwe I was returning again and this time I was determined to visit the Home. Only open to white children right up until the early 1980’s Harare Children’s Home, although welcoming all creeds and colours, at present houses over 100 black children. From newborn babies right through to teenagers - with the exception of the boys who, when reaching the age of 10, move onto other children’s homes, such as St Joseph’s House for Boys - the children come from a wide range of backgrounds. Most are victims of abuse, violence and severe malnourishment. Some are orphaned through Aids and some, sadly, being HIV positive, abandoned by parents free of the disease. With very little Government support and relying heavily on public donations and fund-raising the Home is now implementing income generating projects, such as vegetable growing and poultry, which will assist in the care of the children’s nutritional needs and any surplus being sold, thus generating much needed income.
Following a promise made to my brother Bruce before I left the UK, I also visited St Joseph’s House for Boys where my brothers were brought up. Their needs, too, were numerous but none more so than the desperately needed ‘safe house’ for the boys considered too old to remain at the Home. I was privy to this first hand when Jenny Jordaan, a very good friend of mine, who attends the House weekly to give the boys art lessons, recalled how distraught she was when, in the middle of one of her lessons, a handful of boys were approached by the authorities and given carrier bags containing what little clothes they had and told to leave forthwith. With winter approaching and a life of hunger and crime on the streets awaiting them, Jenny