CK and Shona Culture Night

Thursday, 5th March

Today's lecture was centred around geology and how it is the basis of what wildlife we see around us. To see it in real life, we climbed Castle Kopjie, a granite outcrop that has been weathered to produce enormous boulders. The view from the top was incredible as we sat and watched the African sun bid farewell to another day; it felt like you could see the whole of Zimbabwe. There were no sounds apart from the gentle wind and birdsong from the canopy below, giving the moment a breathtaking tranquillity. From our vantage point spied some eagles and rhinos, which ended up in us making a rather hasty retreat back down so they didn't cut us off from the landrover!

After our sundowners we went to nearby Numwa House, the main volunteer house, for our Shona culture night. Some of the local children from the families who lived and worked on Imire came and showed us traditional dancing. The noise from the singular drum (made from a plastic barrel), maracas and singing was tremendous and very uplifting!

After maybe 25 minutes of their performance, they got us up to join in with them; perhaps a dozen children and 20 students and volunteers. Each of them were fantastic dancers and we were all mesmerised by the lead singer, who only looked to be about 13 but would give Beyonce a run for her money with how energetically she could dance and sing so powerfully and in tune at the same time. One dance involved hopping round on one leg whilst holding hands in a circle - obviously I was caught on film as the idiot who fell over and destroyed the circle. Hugs, handshakes and High-5s were exchanged all round at the end and we were certainly ready for our supper.

We then were served a Shona meal which a lovely lady called Maymatzika had been preparing all afternoon and evening. She helps run the local women's support group which gives schoolgirls reusable sanitary packs so they can stay in school; most girls skip a week of school every month when they have their period which leads to a very high drop out rate. Imagine if the whole female population of students in the UK aged 13 and upwards skipped 25% of their education.

Maymatzika had prepared about ten different dishes (my favourites were the spinach with ground nut (peanut) butter and chicken and ground nut stew - of course with a huge helping of sadza!) I chatted to her in the kitchen before the dancing and she was exceptionally friendly and proud to explain to me what she was cooking, all in immaculate English.

Because it was Shona culture night, though, we had to do things the traditional way: men had to sit in higher places than women, so we all sat on the floor whilst the men sat on sofas. The oldest man is served first, down to the youngest man, and then the same happens with the women - meaning I was last to be served! But Maymatzika explained they always save the best cuts of meat for the youngest so it wasn't all bad... I tried to get her to serve herself before me but she was so gracious she wouldn't have any of it. We also had to say grace (palmasaroi) and clap as that is the Shona way of showing appreciation.

The food was incredible and whilst we ate Maymatzika told us some more about traditional life in Zimbabwe. For example, each family has a totem animal and it is taboo to marry into the same totem.

We went to bed with full stomachs and even fuller hearts. She is a truly inspirational lady.

Giraffe Day

Wednesday, 4th March

First thing this morning before our lecture started, we walked 10 minutes into the bush on Chiwawe side (the half of the reserve where our camp is) to witness the family of four black rhino feed, including baby Khanya! It was such a special experience to see all four rhino so close together, as usually they are solitary animals. Never before have I sat in silence for 40 minutes simply watching and being so mesmerised and unaware of the passing of time. Eventually they finished feeding and we headed back to camp to begin our lecture on biomes of Southern Africa.

In the afternoon we had an introductory tracking test, which included a monitor lizard's spoor and a 'track' that was in fact made by a blade of grass blowing in the wind, fooling us all. It seemed mind boggling how tiny details in spoors can make all the difference in distinguishing one animal from another, however Sam (one of our instructors) reassured us that it comes naturally with practice and experience.

We also had a close up encounter with a herd of giraffe by some miombo woodland (the dominant type of woodland in Zimbabwe, a mixture of msasa and mnondo trees). If not the most intelligent, they are certainly one of the most inquisitive of the African animals. They came right up to our vehicle and surrounded us, giving us a blissful half an hour or so surrounded by these awkwardly elegant but beautiful creatures.

They have dark blue-grey tongues in order to prevent sunburn, as they spend so much time with them out of their mouths, picking off leaves and twigs. The Shona word for giraffe is furira mudenga, fittingly meaning 'eating from the sky'. The social structure of giraffe is known as temporary association, in which there is no patriarch or matriarch but instead a group that regularly fluctuates in number. Though not territorial, bulls periodically move from association to association in search of mates and often end up fighting to win a female in heat. Mature males can be distinguished from females by their exposed ossicones (horns), balded by such fights which can also determine hierarchy among juveniles in a group.

Another fascinating fact about giraffe is that, despite standing up to 6 metres tall, they have the same number of vertebrae in their neck as we do: 7. They are the tallest land mammals and are the largest of the ruminants; just like cows, they spend much of their time chewing cud and metres-long strands of saliva can be seen blowing in the wind from their lips. Lovely.

Like all prey animals - though it is very rare for a fully grown giraffe to be victimised due to their size and ability to dole out vicious kicks - they do not sleep for long, around 4 hours at a time and never fully lying down. If they were to lie down, all the blood would rush to their head and cause them to pass out and eventually die. To overcome this problem when they drink, giraffe have evolved three special adaptations. Firstly, giraffe spread their legs when they drink, therefore lowering the level of the heart so the height difference between head and heart is diminished, reducing excess pressure on the brain. Secondly, there are many valves in the jugular veins leading away from the brain to prevent the backflow of blood. Lastly, a spongey tissue known as a 'wonder net' is located at the base of the brain through which arterial blood flows and is thought to control the entry of blood into the brain when the giraffe bends down, reducing an otherwise fatal pressure. In addition, the lymphatic fluid surrounding capillaries is thought to have an effect much like a G suit worn by fighter pilots; it acts as a counter-pressure to prevent rupture of capillaries. This, as well as the fact that giraffe have the thickest artery walls of any mammal, ensures that they don't bleed to death while their bodies transport blood such long distances.

To top it all off, on the way back home we saw a mating pair of Verreux Eagle Owls, the largest of the African owls and, as the name suggests, about the size of an eagle. What is hilarious about these otherwise fairly scary creatures is that their eyelids are bright pink, giving them the effect of eye shadow!

Back to Harare

Saturday, 29th February

We had agreed to leave at 7.30 in the morning, but this being Africa, we left an hour later. The unrest in town had quietened down enough for the borders to be reopened so Tom drove me back to the River Zambezi, over which I had entered Zambia. Although they had been officially shut the past two days, when I signed in my information in the obligatory 'guest book' I noticed that people had been crossing over, probably with a few extra kwacha exchanged into the pockets of the border guards.

As we drove over the customs area which spanned the length of the dam, we stopped and I got a quick photo opportunity, not least to honour the photo of my grandparents' honeymoon in the same spot several decades before.

However it was after a fond farewell to Tom that it became clear the rest of my journey would not be plain sailing. After managing to slip past a border guard who offered to drive me personally all the way to Harare with a wink at the end of his shift, I went in search of someone who could take me to Kariba town to catch the bus. The jolly Zimbabwean lady who was sitting by the gate called over one of the mostly redundant taxi driver, a portly, smiling man whose name slips my memory.
          "Where would you like to go, Kariba?" he asked, beaming.
          "Yes please, I'm trying to catch a bus to Harare," I replied in earnest.
          "Oh no, no, no," he laughed at me. "All the buses have left already!" (It's worth mentioning that it was still before 9am, well before any meaningful western work gets off the ground on most days.) "But don't worry," he continued at seeing my panicked face, for having paid no small fee for my visas I couldn't skip merrily back across, "I can take you to a place where you can catch a lift from."
Right.

Clearly trying to ease my nerves, we bumbled along the road through the emerald bush - much denser than the Zambian side - listening to a local radio station and him asking me about my time in Zambia. Not seeming to grasp the concept that I was actually from a different continent altogether, I gave in and pretended that it had been family I had been staying with and now I was going back to an aunt in Zim. Well, not too far off the truth anyway.

Said promised place to catch a lift from turned out to be a T junction in apparently the middle of nowhere called Nyamhunga bus stop. It comprised of two dirt roads meeting at a centre with around 50 Zimbabweans sitting on the grass verge all waiting for lifts. I asked my taxi driver to help me actually catch a lift, not fancying my chances as a small white mzungu girl holding out her thumb in the middle of the road. After about an hour of waiting and discussing with locals - during which time I was trying to form some sort of Plan B which could work without having to use my phone, which wasn't working thus leaving me with no way of contacting either our friends in Harare nor the family in Siavonga - a kombi bus appeared like a mirage of a camel out of the desert. The driver said it was going to Karoi, a large town halfway between Kariba and Harare, so I found myself sat on the cup holder, squidged between the driver and another passenger and fending off memories of reading on an African travel blog back home that warned to avoid kombis whenever possible on account of their safety. 

The best way to describe a kombi is a small, outdated campervan type car in which the driver and passengers play human tetras. The aim of the game is to cram as many people inside and strap as many bags and trading goods to the roof as is possible without the van either failing to move forward, keeling over or downright exploding. Across the front and back windows are emblazoned the buses' reassuring names, usually reassuringly related to asking religious intervention for a safe journey. When asking some locals later, I found that the drivers got their fuel by lining up in the fuel queues at night and driving back and forth throughout the day to make a living. (Zimbabwe has a huge fuel shortage, meaning for the average car owner refuelling involves waiting hours in a queue that stretches back for several miles.) Whether or not these drivers ever got any sleep was questionable, however there no illicit substances popped into view this time so that was a bonus at least.

So there I was, sitting preciously on this cup holder, bombing it as the speedo climbed to over 120kmph down the bush roads with the upbeat music of wooden xylophones and djembe drums coming through the speakers. I had even made friends with the passenger next to me named Sylvester (it seemed rude not to introduce myself seeing as I was practically sitting in his lap) who happened to also be going to Harare and said he would help guide me through Karoi to find a connecting kombi. I was starting to relax and enjoy the experience, soaking up the music and sites of the bush with troops of baboons frequently scampering across the road.

Until I noticed the fuel guage. Whereas I had been impressed with the speedo at the power of the engine given its cargo, the fuel guage alarmed me. Having taken a note of where it was at the start of our journey (less than a quarter) I watched as it dropped with increasing speed towards empty. I calculated that we definitely did not have enough fuel to make the 2 hour journey down to Karoi, and this being Zimbabwe we couldn't simply stop at a petrol station; we would be stranded for potentially the whole day. Even more alarmingly, the driver also started glancing ever more frequently down at the guage; this wasn't the norm then. I started crossing fingers and toes, watching the pin fall as everyone else in the bus carried on their conversations in blissful ignorance. Then the orange light came on. Down, down the pin fell until empty. We had just passed a sign that said "KAROI: 156KM". I won't be getting to Harare tonight, I thought, more than a little panicked. And then the pin kept on falling, way down past zero. In fact we spent the remaining 90 minutes of the journey apparently with negative fuel, still zipping along at the same, if not higher, speed. We crawled into the kombi ranks in Karoi, to the driver's evident relief, after a journey that certainly defied any highway code.

The main street of Karoi which housed the huge kombi ranks was heaving with people. Kombis and larger coaches rolled up and down, trying to attract customers while drivers ran alongside, hustling me and asking where I was headed. Hawkers lined the pavement waving bunches of bananas and crisp packets and all number of people simply sat at the side, passively regarding the hubbub. My new friend Sylvester led me through the melee where a few kombis sat at the side of the road leading out of town. We chatted as we walked and it turned out he was currently on leave from being a reserve in the army - so probably not a bad friend to make.

We found a kombi heading to Harare and sat for about half an hour whilst passengers and the driver attempted to arrange bags on top tied down with ropes through the windows in a gravity-defying feat. Once again we made off through the countryside; this time I was squashed in behind several crates of Chibuku, a potent local brew. It always amused me whenever we came to a rail crossing, as despite the fact Zim has no working trains, the driver cautiously stopped and diligently looked both ways, only to then continue bombing it along the road. After another couple of hours we pulled into another town called Chinoyhi, where most of the other passengers disembarked. It became apparent however that the driver too wanted to join them and was going no further. This left me, Sylvester and three other passengers confused and rather irritated. As a compromise, one man jogged down the road a few hundred metres to where a large lorry was parked and asked if the driver was headed for Harare. He was indeed, so a portion of our bus fares were handed over by the kombi driver and the five of us crammed into his cabin, with four of us sat bent over double on his bunk bed behind his seat. This is how we spent the next two hours, with the others chatting in Shona and occassionally in English to be polite and include me, as Shona culture dictates exquisite manners. There were a couple of hiccups with the engine, which proved to be not in finest fettle as every time the driver wanted to change gear it sounded like a family of hyenas were crunching down on bones made of brittle metal; there was only one moment where the engine stopped completely and we were left coasting down the highway for a few minutes, wondering for the second time if Harare was actually on the agenda for tonight.

 

view from the lorry cab

The lorry driver was not going into Harare centre, so we jumped off on the outskirts of the city, wished each other the best and split off into different directions. By luck, Sylvester was heading to a similar area to where I needed to go so he offered to guide me there. Onto another kombi we jumped, this one belittling the others in how many people it contained as it was rushhour, with the driver's assistant hanging out of the open door shouting Harareeeee as we bombed along the streets, weaving in and out of other vehicles, bicycles, pedestrians and the odd chicken.

The centre of Harare looks very modern, much like Bridgetown, with a collection of shiny, high-rise buildings interspersed with bustling malls and markets. I marvelled at the modernity of it, a stark change from rural Zambia, my mouth watering at the assortment of fried chicken shops (I realised I hadn't eaten anything except for a slice of bread at 6.30 that morning). I ended up meeting some relatives of Sylvester in a shop in one mall, before thanking him for his genoristy and then heading off through the central park to find a taxi rank to take me to the guest house I was staying in for the night. The central park was much like Parker's Piece in Cambridge on a midsummer's day; the grass was covered with people sitting and sleeping on it, however these were not care free sun-worshippers, I realised, these were some of Harare's many homeless and it was a sober reminder of the poverty of where I was. Given the rest of this day, the taxi ride of course was not uneventful either; it turned out the driver had misheard the name of the road I had given and drove 10km in the wrong direction. I then had to borrow his phone and direct him via Google Maps, at last ending up at the guest house just after dark, safe and sound.

The whole episode was a testament to the kindness, hospitality and willingness of the Shona people to go out of their way to help you, so for that I thank all the people I met on this journey.

Final Day

Friday, 28th February

I as jogged along the dirt road for my final morning run here, I tried to soak in the smells, sights and sounds one final time, etching them deep into my memory. I knew I wouldn't have another run quite like it for a long time; baking under the hot sun, cajoled by local kids and with the distant threat of rampant baboons.

After a morning of work on the wall and a quick lunch, we were surprised with an offer of going out on the Eagles house boat for the afternoon. My second boat trip in a week! It was just me, Sammy and a few of the guests staying so a much smaller group and we were able to stop in the middle of the lake and spend around an hour jumping off the top. A diving board was constructed, or rather a sketchy looking bit of metal was draped over the edge at the top (about 3 metres up) to make a platform off which we could jump. Apparently there are no crocodiles in the middle of the lake! As the sun went down and we pottered back, I reflected on what a tranquil way it was to end my time in Zambia.

I will be eternally grateful for the kindness and hospitality that my host family gave me; I couldn't have asked for a better first stay in Zambia and I truly hope to return one day.

Market Time

Thursday, 27th February

Although the borders were still closed and I was meant to be in Kariba by now, town had reopened so we made our trip in. We went into the market which was a maze of dust, dirt, straw, smells, heat and darkness with people crouching here and sleeping on piles of clothes there. It was constructed of wooden poles holding up sheets of plastic and, despite looking rather small from the outside, it turned out to be a huge Aladdin's cave, selling everything you could think of from clothes to phone chargers to those bright red African tomatoes whose sweetness I had come to love. There was a greater variety of clothes laid out than I have seen in any department store I had been to in the UK. Most of the people there were women, but instead of hustling us for being mzungus as I thought they might, they simply watched us pass through and gave a friendly smile if I caught their eye. Tom had promised me it was exactly what I would imagine an African market to be, and it didn't disappoint. I bought 3 beautiful shitengas (long cotton cloths that women fashion around their bodies, but equally can double up as a table cloth, picnic blanket or almost anything you can think of).

I also bought two pineapples for the family, costing 5 kwacha each (about 20p). Apparently the way to tell if they are really sweet is to pick the ones without spikes - which I unwittingly did and unashamedly took the praise for once home. They were the sweetest fruit I have ever tasted, absolutely delicious! After nearly 3 weeks of no fruit it could have been ice cream to my tastebuds. The sugar rush certainly sent the boys crazy and we had a tough time getting them to settle down for the night...

trad African shitengas (not my photo)

An Alarming Intruder

Thursday, 26th February

We had leftover pancakes for breakfast from yesterday's giant crumpet bonanza that Jo, the mum, had kindly made. We feasted like kings! However the trip into Siavonga we had been planning had to wait as news came through about unrest in town. A group of people had been running round at night and throwing gas cannisters into people's homes to knock them unconscious, only to then rob them blind. How anyone could do this to people who barely had anything in the first place was beyond me, but it showed me the unrest caused by a lack of money and food.

Different political parties were being blamed for this so riots broke out in the streets and the army and police had to be called in with tear gas and riot shields. The whole town went into lockdown. I hadn't been expecting this; Jo said that this had never happened anywhere she had lived, and was especially unusual for such as peaceful country as Zambia. Apparently this was happening all over Zambia and people had even been dragged out of hospital beds in larger cities. From the lodge, we heard gunfire at regular intervals throughout the day but for some reason it felt like we were untouchable.

Later though whilst I was on reception duty, at the entrance to the whole lodge, as I sat there outside in the warm evening breeze chatting to Sammy, we saw a man sauntering up the driveway towards us. We called out good evening to him, but thought it weird he didn't reply so tried again. Silence. He continued sauntering up, and as he got closer I saw that he was keeping one hand firmly in his pocket. He walked straight up to us and demanded to see Sammy's father. I asked for his name and who he was, but he wouldn't answer. His hand remained in his pocket and it dawned on me that he could be harbouring a knife. "Sammy, I have a good reason to slap you you know," he threatened. I knew pretty much anything I said at this point would probably just make the situation worse, so I stayed quiet and kept my eyes on his hands. I was worried he was one of the rioters and had come to teach a white family a lesson.

But just as unassumingly as he had come, he turned tail and sauntered back off down the drive again, leaving us confused and slightly shaken. I guess we weren't in such an untouchable bubble after all.