The Road to Zimbabwe

If you can find it in the US, Baygon is great at killing all things creepy crawly. Take it from me and the white guy from the 929 Bar who was kicked out of Zimbabwe and now runs an exterminating business in Beira (read: front for something illegal).   Well, on second thought, I'm not sure you want to wholeheartedly trust a man that says "Rhodesia was the greatest country that ever existed in the 60s and 70s", likening it to apparent utopia of the Southern US pre-Civil War. 

I know people like Mr. Exterminator exist, but to meet one in the flesh shocked me.  Back in the States, most people I know generally try to mask any racial prejudice by either avoiding the topic, using their upbringing as an excuse, or relying on the tried and true American dream, melting pot modus operandi ("we all have equal opportunity to succeed - it's just a matter of how hard you try").  So I wonder which is worse - being upfront about your appalling ideology or passively approving with your avoidance of the issue?   

Now, I'm not an expert on Rhodesian-Zimbabwean history or current events but it doesn't take the enlightenment of a spiritual leader to know that white minority rule over a black majority population (who, mind you, didn't have suffrage until 1979) was immoral.   Yet, what scares me more is that Mr. Exterminator was actually right about one thing.  The consequences of Mugabe's rule over Zimbabwe in the past 10+ years have amounted to a base, humanitarian tragedy of excruciating proportions.  It doesn't take much piety to feel pain in your heart when you realize people are dying from contaminated water, lack of food, or for opposing Mugabe's rule.

So, all of this is to say that I, with my princessa tendencies, was less than ecstatic when, halfway on our journey to sort our Visas at the Mozambican embassy in Malawi, we were diverted to Zimbabwe.

To go from speaking of oppression or death by cholera to telling you that the drive from Chimoio, Mozambique to Mutare, Zimbabwe was 

gorgeous may seem insanely insensitive.  But, I want to believe it's important for people to get a glimpse (because that's about all I had) into the truly stunning western Manica province and Zimbabwean landscape.    

The agricultural fields of corn and leafy vegetables in Manica province are sprinkled with clusters of round, thatched roofed huts.  Women sell mangos on the sidewalk, men sell flip flops and shoes.  I will keep saying this - but the grasslands are otherworldly and perfect in their kaleidoscope of greens.  Streams and knobby hills turn into rivers and granite monoliths.  I was reminded of the rainforest mountains of Hawaii and Nicaragua on the one hand and Half Dome on the other (unfortunately these pictures did not come out because we were traveling at about 120km/hr).

As we approached the border crossing pavement turned into dirt roads lined with dozens of Mac trucks.  Zimbabwe imports much of its food - and depends on food aid - despite its agricultural past and potential.  Though the move from their agrarian roots to industrialization certainly would impact food availability, the cause of shortages seems more tightly linked to political control.  Our "long live Rhodesia" exterminator was once a farmer in Mutare, kicked off his land by Mugabe supporters.  A sadly ironic and tyrannical response to past oppression by whites.

The experience of crossing was a bit disconcerting.  Our evil eyed border guard demanded a $60 USD bribe (inflation is so rampant that the US Dollar is the preferred currency.  According to yesterday's Business Standard, "Zimbabwe's Central Bank is releasing a new 50 billion dollar note -- enough to buy three newspapers") .  Self proclaimed Road Runners lobbied to help you bypass the chaotic customs line for a fee and even demanded payment for giving Joe advice on picture taking (aka: don't do it unless you want people to suspect you of working for a foreign news agency).  Wealthy whites returned from vacation with their boats in tow as others headed home on foot, carrying heavy sacks of rice on their heads.  

When we arrived at the embassy the rain was fierce.  The Zimbabwean guard, a sweet faced young man, was melancholic.  He immediately made reference to the strife that is his reality - factory closures due to people fleeing the country, disease, food shortages.  Joe wondered aloud why more people - the one's who can afford to - are not leaving the country immediately.    

After an hour of paperwork, graciously handled by Joe's colleagues, our visas were renewed and we headed home.  Upon recrossing we had to wash our hands with a bleach solution and step on a carpet soaked in the same - minor measures to prevent cholera from spreading into Mozambique.  

We've left behind the barbed wire of borders and returned to Beira, but Zimbabwe still lingers. I'm wondering what role the UN will continue to play (or not play) in restoring balance and decency to the lives, health, and economy of Zimbabwe.  I'm trying to make sense of this against the broad spectrum of catastrophes and crises plaguing other parts of the world.  And I'm wondering where my own boundaries are - between action, education, sympathy, and the ugly guilt I feel at wanting to return for my own tourism purposes when the risks abate.