Zimbabwe

This December I traveled from my village in the far north of South Africa through Zimbabwe, Zambia and Tanzania. From Victoria Falls on, I traveled with my good friends, Tom and Omar. Before meeting them, I spent 5 days in Zimbabwe with my college assistant soccer coach's family. Unfortunately I didn’t get to see Methembe, my coach who goes by Mo.  He was in South Africa coaching the Zimbabwean U20 national team.

I was apprehensive to travel to Zim. But I had heard so much, both good and bad,  about the country that I wanted to see it for myself. I checked the US State Department’s website and, surprised not to find any travel warnings, I decided to go.

While I was there I took prodigious notes, which lead my new best friend, Shep, to exclaim, “Eric! Always writing.” I tried to condense the notes, but in the end failed. I rationalize it as follows: anyone who is really interested in the state of Zimbabwe, this is for you.

Being in Zimbabwe was my favorite part of the trip (though the white sand beaches and aqua surf of Zanzibar is a respectable second). My visit left me with one overarching question, though. Prim, a friend I met there, told me: “Zimbabweans are the most patient people in the world.” After my brief time there I would agree. However, I am left to wonder: when does very patient become too patient?  Things in Zim are bad and getting worse.  It's a beautiful country with wonderful people where very bad things are happening.

Happy reading.

Eric
January 5th, 2008

Sunday, December 2, 2007
Greyhound picked me up at 3:40pm in Makhado, a town nestled at the base of the Soutspansberg Mountains an hour from my village. An hour later, after a pretty drive through the mountains and past towering baobab trees, we arrived in Messina; South Africa’s last outpost before Zimbabwe. At the petrol station before the border I bought a fruit bar and a small bottle of milk in the Quikimart. The lady in front of me bought eight loaves of bread, the lady next to me fifteen and the man behind me, twenty-four. I look at my milk and wonder what, exactly, I am getting myself into.

Getting out of South Africa proved to be a challenge. Because of a passport issue, the curmudgeonly Home Affairs officer issued me a 3,000 Rand fine (about 450$), which he said I could pay upon re-entry. (Thankfully, I didn’t have to.) The upshot was that the bus left to Zim without me, and I was left chasing it across the border. Good times.

The Zimbabwean border crossing was old and dilapidated compared with South Africa’s and it took a long time to get through customs. When we finally did, night had fallen.

On the drive to Bulawayo I didn’t see many lights, though I did see a number of campfires burning.

We pulled into Bulawayo close to midnight, three hours late. The city looked nice enough - the parts that were lit were clean with wide streets and some attractive buildings - but I was anxious to meet Portia, Mthembe’s wife. When Portia and her friend Ngobi found me I gave them each a big hug. We returned to Mo’s nice ranch-style home, talked, watched English soccer on their flat-screen TV and then called it a night.

Monday, December 3, 2007
Shep, a friend of Mo’s and former teammate, came to collect me at 11am. He’s short and athletic with a broad smile and luminous eyes. He speaks sparingly. “OK Eric?” he asked while motioning to his old red Mazda pickup. “OK,” I said with a smile, and off we went.

We drove past tree-lined streets in Bulawayo’s outer suburbs. Many houses sat elegantly behind tall walls with deep flowerbeds, while others showed signs of neglect. Upon entering Bulawayo I saw my first line - the first of many - curling around a street corner in front of a bank. “No money,” Shep said shaking his head and smiling. “You have to choose: money or food.” “I’d take food,” I reply. Shep was silent for a while, and then, “It’s tough.”

We go to Grassroots Soccer’s (GS) office, which occupies two rooms in a six story apartment building. GS is a US based NGO that promotes HIV awareness. I met the staff; everyone was very welcoming. Then it was on to Highlanders’ office. Highlanders is Bulawayo’s football club where Shep played and now coaches the junior team. He only gets paid when the team wins. Shep picked up a stack of money, which we took across town and deposited with a personal accountant - not a public bank.

Throughout the day stacks of money appeared from everywhere: from Shep’s pocket, under the car seat, the glove compartment, in plastic bags. The money usually wasn't concealed well. Walking around with ridiculous amounts of cash - if you’re lucky enough to have it - is a part of life in Bulawayo.

Shep wants to show me the soccer stadium where Highlanders play. On the way we pass Shop Rite, a large supermarket chain. I peer inside the store; about half the shelves are bare. The soccer stadium is nice, especially the pitch which is being watered. On the other side of the pitch away from the sprinklers, a man is cutting the grass with a small electric mower. Shep and I walk over and say hello. “How long will it take you to cut all this?” I ask. “Maybe 5 days,” the man replies. He seems unperturbed. “It’s like painting the Golden Gate Bridge,” I think to myself.

On the way back to GS Shep pulls into a market and greets a man selling fruits. He also, it turns out, sells petrol. Shep is displeased. The price has risen from Z$13,000,000 to Z$15,000,000 for 5 liters, which is about $7/gallon. Shep pulls out a wad of money from under his seat, surreptitiously counts the money and passes it to the man. The man returns with a backpack, looks around and takes out a five-liter container of petrol. “Why not go to the petrol station?” I ask Shep. “No petrol,” he says with a smile. We look at each other and laugh.

Driving back to GS’s office, a public taxi (a minivan) pulls up alongside our pickup and shouts at Shep. “What was that about?” I ask. “He’s angry. Says I drive slow,” Shep replies. “But everyone here drives slow,” I reply. I pause and consider this. “Why does everyone drive so slow?” “Save petrol,” Shep replies.

I note that there are very few public taxis going through town unlike South Africa where you can’t cross the road without risking being hit by one. The ones that are present have few people in them.

Later in the day Prim, the Administrative Officer at GS, arranges for me to trade 100 Rand (or ~ $14) for Z$27,000,000 (pictured) with a friend of hers. If I withdrew money using a credit card at the official rate and not the black market (which is exactly what her friend and the fruit / petrol salesman are) I would get Z$441,000 or one 60th of that.

That evening I exchange money a second time with a white family whose son I met in South Africa. They’re welcoming and very laid back. They advise me, “If you want to do something in Zim, you make a plan.” I heard this adage many times again before leaving.

At the end of my first full day in Bulawayo, I reflected: “My impression of Zimbabwe is like that of a terminally ill patient, one who is conserving energy to stave off collapse, moving slowly, carefully choosing its words. But despite its deliberate actions its mental faculties are totally in tact.”

Tuesday, December 4, 2007
After reading for a few hours, I rolled out of bed at 8:30 and greet the family. “No electricity,” said Ngobi. “Maybe for another four of five hours.” When I asked why she simply responded, “Aaah, we are used to their game!” and broke our laughing.

Tambe, the domestic worker, said, “I will cook with firewood!” (This would be normal in a village, but feels bizarre in the suburbs, which looks similar to any community in the western world.) “The traditional way,” I reply. “Yes!” she said and broke out laughing. “Ah, we have no plan.” Sounded like a plan to me.

I sit down and talk with Portia. She says there is no electricity in the rural areas, which would explain why I saw no lights on the drive from the border to Bulawayo. She also says students sometimes have to walk as far as 10 kilometers to school. I wonder if this is true and I lament that, having lived in rural South Africa for two years, I won’t be able to spend a few days in rural Zimbabwe.

Not all the conversation is about Zim’s woes. Ngobi gives Portia a hard time for being a “salad” or “broiler chicken”, terms for city people who have a relatively easy life. (Broiler chickens sit in cages and get fed while village chickens have to scrounge about for their food.) They agree that no matter where I am from in the States, I am definitely a broiler chicken.

Shep comes at a little past 11am whilst I’m in the bathtub bathing. He walks into the bathroom and hands me a bottle of soap with a broad smile on his face. He leaves and I start laughing. “After knowing someone for one day, I don’t think you can get away with that in America,” I think to myself.

Today we go into town with Shep’s wife, Cynthia. I use the Internet at the GS office and then take Shep and his wife out to lunch. The first restaurant we go to is too expensive - I brought Z$20,000,000 and a single dish is Z$10,000,000. With the largest bill in print being Z$200,000 I wonder how people carry enough money to eat here. God forbid you should take the kids out to dinner.

We return to the restaurant we ate at yesterday, which is bustling. My plate of chicken and chips (French fries) are twice as much as Sheps and his wife’s plate of chicken and rice. When I ask why, Cynthia replies, “Potatoes are expensive.” The bill comes to Z$13,500,000. I place a stack of money on the table about three inches high. Shep takes it to the front, counts it out and we go on our way.

As we leave the restaurant we bump in Cynthia’s sister, Sheila. Shep and Cynthia apparently haven’t had a proper wedding, so we go with Sheila to some bridal shops. On the way I notice there are lines at the banks again today, but at least now they’re diminishing.

In the back room of a bridal shop Cynthia and Sheila hover over wedding rings. After peering over their shoulder, Shep retreats to play with his phone. With his head down, he whispers to me, “Too expensive.” Then he looks up at me, eyes wide, and says, “Thirty million for one ring!” “Why don’t you buy her her ring, and she’ll buy you yours?” I suggest with a smile. Shep smiles and wags a finger at me: “Hey Eric!”

Sheila goes back to work and we drop Cynthia off at her and Shep’s small apartment. Their apartment reminded me of my grandparents’ place in Brooklyn; as kids, we would have to crawl out from under the kitchen table so as not to disturb other people at the table after dinner. Shep’s apartment is probably about half the size, but homely nevertheless.

When we leave the apartment Shep tells me that Cynthia has returned just two days ago from South Africa. “How long was she gone for?” I ask. “Mm… maybe two years,”. Shep hadn’t seen Cynthia in all that time. They talked almost every day. Cynthia was working in a hair salon in Hilborough, a dangerous part of Johannesburg. She was one of an estimated 3 million illegal Zimbabwean immigrants in South Africa. She was found and deported.

We return to the GS office where Shep, Prim and the whole GS crew and I squeeze into a minibus taxi. Music in taxis is usually loud; in this one, it’s absurd. I wonder how no one asks the driver to decrease the volume. For some reason I don’t either. We arrive at a community center where the GS team is going to conduct HIV training for about 40 orphans. Most lost their parents to HIV, Prim tells me.

The workshop GS puts on is 5 days long. From what I saw, and having conducting my own HIV programs, I thought GS’s training was excellent. It’s great that Zimbabweans are doing the training themselves and that a number of the trainers are local soccer stars. The workshops were engaging, fun and direct.

I talked with Prim about GS’s finances. Trainers make Z$30,000,000 per month (~$20). Most do not have to work full time and have other jobs. Prim thought the pay was fair and said most of the trainers agree. She noted that her mother is a teacher and only makes Z$13,000,000. (Lunch for three this afternoon cost Z$13,500,000.) I thought about my teachers in South Africa who are always complaining about their salaries. They make about $1,500 - 2,500 per month; maybe not great by American standards, but not bad in southern Africa. Poverty, at least to a point, is relative.

I played soccer with the kids, which was tremendous fun, and also discovered that Prim could speak Venda - what a lady. Then Shep drove me home. I watched two soccer games on Mo’s DSTV, ate a delicious meal of beef, spinach and sadza, a thick porridge made from corn meal, and went to bed.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007
This morning the electricity is working: the Gerry Springer Show, which is blaring in the next room, wakes me up at 6am. The whole family is watching. What the hell - I lie down and watch with them. Gerry Springer is a spectacle, but nothing has captured so many Africans attention as wrestling. People do not ask me if I know George Bush or Michael Jackson; they ask if I know John Cena or Baptista.

I bath (uninterrupted) and shave. Tambe prepares me another English breakfast. Shep shows up at 9:30am today. We head to town where I use the Internet at GS’s office. Then we depart for the train station where I need to purchase a ticket on tonight’s train to Victoria Falls, where I’m supposed to meet Tom tomorrow.

We snake through Bulawayo in Shep’s old red Mazda and to the cities outskirts where the infrastructure becomes increasingly dilapidated. The buildings surrounding the train station are stately but run down. The station itself, however, is quite nice, though teeming with people. A line hundreds of people long spills out of the reservation area. Some stand and talk. Many sit. The line, it seems, is not moving.

Shep never stops the pickup. “Ah!” he exclaims in a high falsetto. “Too long. No, no.” We leave the station. “Where to?” I ask. “I have a friend.”

We drive past factories and large warehouses - some look like they’re being used, most do not - to a milling depot. “Wait,” says Shep as he exits the car. In the car I read “Mandela” by Anthony Sampson and write this. After 20 minutes Shep returns. “My friend’s at lunch… Ah! Eric, always writing.” He smiles. “I’ll be back. Two minutes, OK?”

20 minutes later Shep returns, friend in hand. His friend works for the railroad. The three of us return to the station where the line is significantly shorter. Shep gives his friend Z$5,800,000 to buy me a first class ticket, which is a remarkably cheap price. The bus would be ten times as expensive, which explains the high demand. (Through foreign aid the government subsidizes all state-run travel; not only are trains remarkably cheap, so are flights on Air Zimbabwe, if you are a Zimbabwean citizen. Portia flies to Johannesburg once a month for maybe $30.)

After a while Shep’s friend returns - all tickets are sold out. The remaining people in the line are sent home. We leave the money with Shep’s friend who says he’ll see what he can do and head to Highlander’s clubhouse for lunch.

We eat chicken and sadza and watch Manchester United play Fulham. Clint Dempsey, the only American on the pitch, is the first to be substituted.

Then we leave for the stadium where Highlanders will practice. On the way I see the longest line yet: about 300 people waiting outside a grocery store. “No sugar,” Shep says. He shakes his head and smiles.

As we drive it occurs to me that Shep knows a lot people. In a city of (what was) a million people, Shep beeps the horn, shouts someone’s name or gets shouted at every few minutes. “Ee, Two Boy!” he shouts to a friend. As he crosses an intersection a Highlanders player flags him down to get a ride to practice. As he waits for the player another man recognizes Shep and they start talking. A few minutes later, Shep pulls up alongside another car at an intersection and says, “Kunjani, Papa.” The elder man in the car replies, “Shep!” as his wife smiles in the passenger seat. Shep and the couple exchange pleasantries. “You know a lot of people,” I say. “Yes,” he responds. “They know me.”

We sit in the stands and watch the practice. Without Mo, their head coach, the players are being lazy, says Shep. A group of boys play soccer outside the field while another group looks on from above - they call to me and I take their picture. Some amble down and speak English to me through fits of laughter. Two men enter the stadium to watch the practice. They greet us and offer me something. “What do they want to give me?” I ask Shep. “African beer.” I am curious to taste it but decline. Shep leaves and returns a few minutes later with two sodas. We drink them and don’t say too much. “Ready?” I say to Shep. “Lets go,” he replies.

Back at Mo’s house I toss a tennis ball with Valentine who is 11, Ngobi’s oldest, and play with Mdu, Mo’s son, and Mimi, Ngobi’s youngest; Mdu and Mimi are 1 and 2 respectively. Ntambe washes my clothes and Portia and Ngobi come back from town with their hair done.

We watch some western TV (I’m amazed at how sexist an old English version of Beauty and the Beast is), eat beef stew, sadza and tsunga, a vegetable that tastes like Swiss chard. It’s late and there’s someone in the bathroom. My efforts to stay awake and brush my teeth are for naught; I leave the family room, stammer into my bedroom and fall asleep.

Thursday, December 6, 2007
My watch was buried under my pillow this morning so I didn’t hear its alarm and Mr. Springer took the morning off. I wake up 7:30am, which is late in Africa. I read and finish writing my notes from yesterday. I eat another English breakfast and talk with Portia, who’s still wrapped in a blanket, and the kids.

I have an especially fun time with Mimi, who I think is adorable. It matters not that we can’t actually speak a single un-made-up word to each other; we work around that. Her mom, Ngobi, who is very pleasant towards me, seems to resent Mimi; without a father around I think she views Mimi as a burden. Ngobi tells me that Mimi’s father died around the time of her birth. Ngobi makes it clear that she favors her older daughter who, at 11, is preternaturally tall and pretty; she’s also smart - 8th in her class of 44. “Which one is prettier?” Ngobi asks me. “They’re both very beautiful young girls,” I reply. Ngobi shakes her head. “No, she is prettier,” pointing to Valentine. I demur and continue to play with Mimi.

This aside, I’m having a wonderful time with Mo’s family. People are always coming and going, Portia has a great sense of humor, and the kids keep the house lively. It’s been nice returning to a home each day.

Shep comes with a friend, Clifford, at 10:30am. We had planned to buy petrol and take a trip to see some animals, but the petrol arrangement fell through. “No petrol,” he says.

We stop off to see Prim at GS. She has $100 she needs to exchange for Zim dollars.

Then it’s on to the train station. Again, there is a line pouring out of the reservation counters but it’s not as long as it was yesterday. Shep leaves to find his friend from yesterday but before long returns alone. “Train to Harare, sold out until Sunday,” he tells me as an aside (I’m going to Vic Falls). He points to the line: “Since 4am. They are angry!” he exclaims with a smile. “I have called that boy,” Shep tells me. “He will come.”

I’m getting worried. I have heard conflicting reports about the tickets: Prim called the station when I first arrived in Bulawayo and they said I couldn’t buy the tickets in advance; Portia, however, said her friend told her all the train tickets are sold out until next week. I trust Shep, my self-appointed guardian, to get the tickets but I am unsure of his friend. Furthermore, if I don’t get to Vic Falls in the next two days my friends may leave to Lusaka and then catch the 48-hour train to Dar Es Salaam without me.

As we wait Shep tells me how he sends friends to get his groceries in Botswana or South Africa. He gives them money for the items and petrol. He doesn’t pay them on top of that but gives them a tip when he can. Not surprisingly, he buys in bulk: “Fish oil - maybe 10 liters.”

Shep also tells me Cynthia won’t return to South Africa. “I must go,” he says. “And do what?” I ask. “Work. I just need income. My daughter will turn eleven next year. She needs a big party.” In the face of such hardship I’m amazed at Shep’s generosity. He bought me lunch my first day in Bulawayo and wants to pay for my train ticket. I have no sense that he is hoping he will get something in return for his generosity; I genuinely trust him.

Shep leaves to look for his friend and returns alone. A large woman walks by the pickup. “Big momma!” says Shep. “Mama Africa!” I reply. We both start laughing.

Finally Shep’s friend appears. He says he bought the ticket but it’s with a friend. He tells us to return at 4pm (the train leaves at 8pm) to collect it, and that it’s sold out for the next two days - apparently you can buy tickets ahead of time. Shep looks perturbed. He assures me that if things don’t work out he’ll organize money and buy me a plane ticket tomorrow. His friend assures us things will work out. “It will be there,” he says. TIA, baby.

I return to Highlanders’ clubhouse for lunch, same as yesterday. I really like sadza and chicken, boring as it may be.

As I eat, I peruse the state run newspaper. “Nude Tourist Makes Splash at Vic Falls” reads the headline. Inside there’s an interview with Mugabu: “His Excellency R.G. Mugabe Celebrates Birthday”. It reads: “Sir, you are highly educated, liberated the country, and have a large family. How do you do it?” Mugabe responds: “Well, it’s really just a matter of focus, isn’t it?” The only article that acknowledges the economic meltdown (inflation was recently listed at 5,000%) is titled “Imbibers to Suffer” as the price of alcohol quadruples in the span of two weeks. Take that, imbibers.

As we leave the clubhouse Shep receives a text message. The train saga has come to a fateful end; his friend does not have the ticket.

Shep considers our options. He says he can arrange money at GS and put me on a plane tomorrow. I ask, “What about a bus?” “Is it OK?” he responds as if the bus is beneath me. Clearly he doesn’t know that I’ve been traveling in minibus taxis the past two years in the Peace Corps. (Based on our taxi rides a volunteer came up with the idea of creating a new video game that he would call “Road Rage 3: Third World”). “The bus would be fine.”

We drive to the bus station and find a minibus to Vic Falls. It seats 27 people; only 6 seats are empty. Shep asks the driver if he’ll wait 30 minutes while we go collect my bags and return. The driver says he will, but I have my suspicions; the way Shep drives, I think it will take more than 30 minutes to get to Mo’s house and back, and I’ve never met a taxi driver who’s sentimentality trumped his capitalism.

On the way back to Mo’s we drive by a gas station. There’s a line of abandoned cars a half mile long. “When petrol comes, they will return. Then sell petrol on the black market,” says Shep.

At Mo’s house I throw my things together and give the family a hurried goodbye and thank them for everything. When we return to the bus station, the minibus has gone. Another one, almost empty, is in its place. Now that it’s getting late, Clifford estimates the taxi will take 3-4 hours to fill. “Maybe more,” he says. And I thought South African taxis were slow to fill. It will be dark by the time the taxi leaves. I suggest to my committee - Clifford and Shep - that I take a taxi tomorrow so I won’t have to travel at night. They agree.

As we’re about to leave, Shep receives a text; his friend from the train station found a ticket after all! It’s for tonight’s train, 2nd class. “The same as 1st class,” Shep says.

We drive to the train station, Shep greeting friends the whole way. “Ah, don’t worry. You journey nice. No problems,” Shep tells me. I’m not particularly worried, but I still find his words comforting. “I’m a good driver. Look, short cut!” Shep says laughing. He tells me his nickname is “President”. “Ah, this is my country.”

At the train station we track down Shep’s friend. Finally I have my ticket, which cost only Z$2,800,000, or about a dollar fifty.

Clifford goes off to see a friend while Shep and I sit in a restaurant. Shep treats me to a juice. I give him 100 Rand (about Z$27,000,000) and tell him thank you for everything. “You like Zim,” states Shep. “I do,” I reply. “Eric, I will miss you.” I’ll miss Shep too. We walk into the train station and have a seat. Shep leaves to find a friend.

Just as I write this, Shep returns. “Still writing! Come Eric, lets go.” Shep takes my bag and we board the train that has just pulled in. It’s just passed 4pm and the economy cars, about 10 of them, are already packed with people hoping to get a seat. The train leaves at 8pm.

The 2nd class car is still empty. Clifford returns and Shep leaves to do an errand, which gives us a chance to talk. Clifford is 33. He isn’t married buy he has a girlfriend. He looks older than he should and thin and I can’t help but wonder if he’s HIV positive. Prim told me that in order to get anti retroviral (ARV) treatment you have to know somebody in the government. In South Africa treatment is widely available (though South African leaders have done a poor job addressing the epidemic). Here HIV is still a death sentence.

Clifford strikes me as an honest man and a good friend. When Shep broke his leg playing soccer, an injury that ended his career, Clifford went to visit him 2-3 times a day, everyday. His English is quite good, but he’s unemployed. He’s been to Botswana a number of time; “Piece jobs,” he explains. He warns me that totsis (thieves) ride the train and tells me not to leave my bag. “Even when you go piss, you piss with your bag.” Noted. At around 5pm I give him some money and he goes off to buy us dinner.

The train itself was once nice, even regal, but now it’s falling apart. The smell of urine from either end of the car fills the cabin; anything that goes in the toilet gets deposited directly onto the tracks. (People are not supposed to use the facilities while the train is stationary, but they do. I did. …Well at least I admit it.) On the windows and upholstery is written RR in a delicate cursive; the Rhodesian Railroad, still at my service. Like the shops and streets and much of Zimbabwe, the train is a shadow of its former self.

Shep and Clifford return. I eat the sadza and chicken that Clifford returned with. Then Shep gets a call. It’s the manager of Highlanders. He needs to see Shep now now. “Eric, I go.” I shake Clifford’s hand and give Shep a hug, and then they’re gone.

Before the train to leaves, a woman on the platform approaches me through the cabin window and asks if her and her two children can stow away in the cabin’s small luggage space. I tell her she’ll have to talk with my cabin-mates. An hour or so later the police come with their dogs to chase those people who don’t have tickets away; the people go running whilst laughing. The lady never returns, but as we pull away from the station (only 40 minutes late), I think I see her; some policemen further down the tracks are detaining a lady and her two kids. They were probably hoping to jump on the train before it gathered speed.

The light in my cabin and in the bathroom doesn’t work, which I am not happy about. As the train rolls along, myself and other passengers pull down the windows and stare off into the African night.

All the people I speak with a very nice. One man explains to me the different minerals that are mined in Zimbabwe; that “cake” is made by baking coal. He also tells me about the different trains. “This one is diesel powered. No diesel, no travel!” he says, and starts laughing.

Another traveler tells me that he was a driver for a tourist operation. But one year ago a vein collapsed and he had to have his left leg amputated. I said that sounds very difficult. He agreed, though he added, “…but I’m lucky I found a very good doctor.”

I share the cabin with two other gentlemen. (Most 2nd class cabins house 6 people - 1st class, only 4 -, but our cabin is cut in half.) Three beds fold out from the wall. The other men give me first pick, but I choose poorly - the bottom bunk, which has a nasty curve in it. I don’t get much sleep. Live and learn.

Friday, December 6, 2007
In the morning I stand in the corridor and peer out the window with some other passengers. We see a train car that has fallen into a gorge. “This happened last year,” said the young lady I was talking with. “A lot of people died.”

At the stop before Vic Falls some girls walk through the car selling mangoes. I buy one (Z$ 100,000). They teach me some Ndebele and I teach them some Venda. One of the girls tells me she wants to be a nurse. They are brimming with energy.

At 11am we pull into Vic Falls station. It’s been a long ride, but I’m glad I was able to travel by train and not on a taxi. As I disembark from, my friend and fellow Peace Corps SA Volunteer, Tom, is waiting for me. He greets me with a hug. I’m happy to see him. The next day we battle a wet, unruly mob at the border office and catch a private taxi into Zambia.