Zimbabwe journal: 2005 part 3

This is from the journal of my trip to Zimbabwe in 2005, where I stayed with my friend Louis in Harare.

---------------------------------------------------

I spoke with a remarkably well-informed doctor here the other day. He gave me the best history of the estrogen debate that I have ever heard. He had just been to Cape Town for a refresher course for GP’s. He also goes annually to the U.S. for training. The medical situation in Harare and especially in South Africa, is impressive, given the abysmal state of affairs all around them. They don’t have a lot of the facilities we have in the U.S., but make up for some of it by being very well informed, like this doctor. Given the constant drumbeat of “We are the best, we are the best” in the U.S., it is a salubrious reminder to realize that other people are thinking too. I know that Louis, with his diabetes, would have a lot of treatment options that he doesn’t have here, but he has already lived from 18 to 59 with Diabetes I, so his treatment has been at least adequate. Occasionally the insulin he needs is not available but he’s always found a way to get what he needs. Just one day without insulin would be an acute problem for him.

I told the doctor that I felt at home in Harare, except for dealing with servants, which I was not used to. He laughed and answered, “I always have difficulty knowing how to treat waiters in restaurants in the U.S. I know what kind of humor to use here, how to approach them, but in the U.S. I don’t know.”

“True. It would be my daughter who was waiting on your table in the U.S.”

He looked a little puzzled. What a concept.

I guess I should speak as frankly as I can about the racial situation here. It has so many similarities to the situation either as it is or has been in the U.S. This was also noted by some white Zimbabwean students who are studying in the U.S. who visited Harlem and said it reminded them so much of some aspects of home.

To my eyes, there are two separate cultures functioning here. The people in the black culture have little appetite for entering into the mannerisms and assumptions of the white culture, and vice versa. As I walk along the street I note a banter and camaraderie taking place among the Africans which looks very much like the “Yo” of black Americans. I know that few Africans with Zimbabwean (that is, Shona or Mdbele) heritage were brought to the U.S., which makes it all the more interesting that their cultlure feels familiar to me. The joking and teasing, loquaciousness, and mainly superficial nature of their exchanges looks familiar to me. It is my impression that they are constantly building nets with rather fragile strings, but so many strings that they feel supported. Their curious or slightly hostile glances are familiar to me, and are usually, but not always, easily overcome by a greeting.

Yesterday I was walking home with some bags in my hands, along with the always moving trickle of Africans walking up and down the road. I was stopped at a cross street and a young white man abruptly stopped next to me asking, “You want a ride?” “No thanks, I’m just down the road,” I answered. One white woman walking gets picked up, and dozens of hitchhiking Africans don’t – well, I guess sometimes they do, but usually not. My presence was so unusual in the walking stream that I easily understand why this happened.

I see things about the African culture here which feel quite similar to my reactions to Africans on the subway in New York. Their family structures seem fluid and uncertain. There are children around which are unspecified as to father. The maid here, Susan, has a child but is apparently not married, though I am told she has a boyfriend. She also, I am told, has an older son living somewhere else. I notice that white people define their marital status during even a short conversation. The words “wife” and “husband” crop up quite soon in conversations. With the Africans I have met so far, they have not mentioned wives or husbands, at least among people who are or perceive themselves to be in lesser social status than I.

Today I created a true masterpiece – chocolate chip cookies. Louis gave me $600,000 to go shopping, and with my $300,000 that meant almost a million dollars, so I decided to buy some extra things – a baking pan and a knife.

Last night I made meat sauce for spaghetti which was all right, and tonight I’m making chicken pie, with biscuit on top.

But the chocolate chip cookies are my pride and joy. I took a mug and made it my “one cup” and calibrated everything against that. The egg and the chocolate had to be estimated, and I apparently estimated correctly. There was a tiny bit too much flour in the cookies, but they turned out fine. Instead of vanilla, I used a teaspoon of the single malt whiskey which I brought as a present to Louis.

I walk to the gym in the morning, work out for about an hour, then stop at the shopping center on the way home, pick up dinner, put it in the frig and write for a few hours. In the beginning I could not get my mind wrapped around my writing in any way, but I am focused now on my thesis.

Yesterday Givemore came to pick me up and take me to pick up three professors from the U. of Zimbabwe whom I had invited to lunch. We went to the Fish Monger, the one Louis took me to on my first night here. His friend, Butch, a French man, recognized me and was affectionate and welcoming, especially appreciating, I am sure, the three extra people I was introducing to his restaurant.

U Zim, where I picked them up, is a shabby place, Louis used to teach agricultural economics there, and he remembers it when it was a lovely place. The architecture and setting are lovely, but it is missing paint and tiles and paving stones and has the look of a place where half off the light bulbs are missing.

My three companions were all Shona. It took a while to get the conversation started but, once started it was very interesting. We discussed the buffer zone Kalala community in Zim where the two very different Zim languages, Ndebele and Shona, have mixed.

We then discussed Shona funerals, “You should go to a Shona funeral,” laughed Patricia.

“Do you know anybody who is conveniently about to die?” I asked, smiling.

“No, but if we find out we’ll take you,” they said. “People threaten to jump into the grave after the dead person, and they cry and wail and pull out their hair. The men watch and the women wail. They make lots of noise, and it goes on for days.”

I told them about being raised a Christian Scientist, accenting the word “raised” that is, not any more, and having no funerals. They shook their heads in fascination.

They have asked me to present a paper to their linguistics society, which I will gladly do. Some time before I leave.

Givemore and I had an interesting conversation in the truck. His name came from the nursemaid who attended his mother at his birth, and Givemore’s son is named Givemore, Junior. I asked him outright, and he says he is married and has a son, wants only one child because he would have difficulty providing for more. He says to his wife that he is very sorry, but he loves their son more than he loves her, which makes her angry.

“You better be careful, Givemore,” I opined. “Before you can turn around your son will be grown and out of the house, and you’ll be left with your wife, so you had better be good to her.”

“A very good point, Medem,” he said.

I asked him to buy a meat pie to take to Louis, explaining that the last time Givemore had taken me someplace, Louis had not had lunch, and his diabetes requires that he eat lunch. Louis gets so involved in his work that he forgets to eat.

“Oh yes, I will get him,” said Givemore.

I asked Louis later if Givemore had given him a pie, and Louis said, “Yes. I was wondering whether it was you or Givemore who asked him to get the pie.”

“It was me,” I explained.

Louis laughed. “I asked Givemore, ‘Why did you bring me this?’ and he said, ‘I was just passing through Kensington.’”

I laughed too. Africans seem a bit predictable. I suppose we, with our “good manners” and our formality, are predictable to them, too. I asked Susan to wash the curtains to the bathroom, and she said, “Oh yes, Madam, I was going to do that today.” Really?

And Givemore was just about to get the meat pie. I hope that Givemore will make it his business to get a meat pie to him every day. I’ll talk to him about it before I leave.

Today, Saturday, we drove to a larger supermarket to buy more stuff. The zucchini are called “marrow” and are tiny little things. I got squash, pork, beef chops, potatoes, leeks, tomatoes, plums and mushrooms. Louis wanted to buy me things so that I would have a more comfortable time cooking, but I know that stuff will just languish in his kitchen unused after I’m gone, and I can do without.

He entertained me with his attempt to sell Nyanga last year. An African man had offered $350,000,000, which is I don’t know, maybe the equivalent of $80,000 US. He said he had wire transferred the money. Louis waited and waited. The buyer pressured the real estate agent to give him the papers transferring the house, and paid the estate agent her 5%. “Why would I pay you your 5% if I hadn’t already transferred the money?” He pressed. The ownership papers were in the hands of Louis’s accountant, who was not about to release them.

When the money didn’t arrive and didn’t arrive Louis called the prospective purchaser’s accountant and said he needed proof that the money had been sent, that it didn’t matter if it came in 3 days or 2 weeks, but he needed to know that it had been sent.

The man’s accountant said his client had “taken some liberties with the truth” and had not actually sent the money.

The man, an African named Matonga or something, apparently wanted to bribe the real estate agent with the 5% to give him the deed without actually paying for the property. Neat trick, but what was he thinking? In a little twist, when the deal had obviously fallen through, the real estate agent kept her 5%.

You have to assume such shenanigans and constantly protect yourself against them.

Yesterday somebody rang the bell at the iron gate which I can buzz open from inside. When I asked “Who’s there” nobody answered. It happened again and I thought maybe I didn’t know how to work the intercom, so I buzzed open the gate and a friend of the maid came in asking for her. Susan had left some time before. Louis warned me never to do that because criminals go from house to house trying to get let in, and then they can either hide inside or case the place for future robbery. You have to be careful in Africa. The place means business, but if you keep your wits about you, it’s a great place to be.

I’m just throwing out anecdotes, and wonder if they are boring. You’ve all heard this all before, right?

Tomorrow we’re driving out to a game park so I can get some pictures of elephant and rhino. I guess I should do that while I’m here. I tried to get some photos of butterflies today at a set of bushes which usually has hundreds of them around. But the sun was under a cloud and the butterflies were waiting for its rays to wake them up again. Instead I took pictures of plants which I didn’t recognize so they can be examined by eyes much more experienced than mine.