On that fateful night a little over a year ago, I only half-jokingly claimed that I would be the first American to be a political refugee TO Zimbabwe. I said I'd rather live in a country ruled over by Robert Mugabe (or as Scott and I refer to him, ZimBob) than He Who Shall Not Be Named.
When I expressed this thought to my friend Judy Travers, one of the owners of Imire, she replied: "Ann, you'll always have a home here at Imire." I can't tell you how moved I was.
And indeed it did feel like a homecoming arriving at Imire. The current batch of volunteers were out and about, and the volunteer house was peopled by the staff I've come to know and love over the years. They were bustling around caring for the house, but found the time to share hellos and hugs. There was one new staff person, Sipi, who was temporarily filling in for Tafadzwa, who was on maternity leave and staying in Harare. Sipi is the wife of Stocks, the chef, and she was friendly and pleasant.
I wandered around, re-acquainting myself. There have been changes. The kitchen is light and airy, with new appliances and more work space. Stocks was VERY pleased. "My" garden that I've enjoyed working in has been allowed to go to seed, and now there is a much smaller garden, but it is situated in a greenhouse, primarily, Newton told me, to keep the monkeys out. He was tired of growing his vegetables to near perfection only to have the monkeys descend and cut a destructive swath. The greenhouse was all planted, and I saw there wasn't much for me to do in the vegetable department.
On the other hand, it was obvious that MBG had been hard at work during her recent visit. The flower gardens looked spectacular, and the staff was still marvelling at how hard she had worked and how generous she had been in bringing in plants!
I was assigned a bed in the "dorm," where I would have two roommates. Here are some photos of what I encountered at Imire:
MBG's flower garden at the volunteer house at Imire
The "dorm" at the volunteer house at Imire
The exterior of the volunteer house at Imire.
So I had time to settle in, and then the volunteers returned!!
Harare--the capital of Zimbabwe--is a city so strange it is almost spooky. It simultaneously has a vibrant population and also an air of abandonment about it. There are thousands of people walking everywhere, and some traffic, but so little infrastructure the overall impression is of chaos. It is fantastically poor, and people from all over the country are hawking vegetables and cheap plastic stuff on the streets, trying to scratch out a living somehow. It is said that the unemployment rate is over 90%.
Despite the shocking signs of incredible poverty, though, there are strikingly beautiful parts of Harare. There are skyscrapers downtown; there are lovely parks and lovely houses; there is Robert Mugabe's palatial home, surrounded by armed guards.
"My" little corner of Harare was one I found through AirBnb. I was a little worried before I got there, because the streets were in such poor condition I couldn't imagine what I was getting into. Not only were the streets unpaved, but they were rutted and potholed beyond belief. But once I got to my lodgings, a little island refuge opened up. While the house itself was rather ordinary, the grounds were nothing less than spectacular. Manicured, irrigated, and tended to within an inch of its life.
There was a lot of turmoil and excitement going on in this place. I learned the explanation when I encountered, of all people, the President of the Harare Climbing Club, and he announced there was to be a huge party convened there in two days time. He seemed to be confident that I would be in awe of the importance of this upcoming occasion. You know, it really ISN'T every day that one meets the President of the Harare Climbing Club.
Soon, Dairai came to pick me up, and we were off to Imire!
Arriving in Harare felt strangely like a homecoming. It was the third time I'd arrived there, and the airport there really isn't much bigger than ours in Rhinelander. I knew where to go, what to expect, and, knowing Zimbabwe even the little I do, I expected a friendly, non-threatening welcome. It was even easier this time because my new friend Moses had advised me to get an "East African Tourist Visa" on line, because that would cover Zimbabwe and also Rwanda AND Uganda. I had followed Moses's advice, and my visa was waiting for me, paid in full.
Entry into the country went smoothly as always. All three of my bags arrived safe and sound, and for the first time, a guy at Immigration showed some interest in my bags, probably because of their size. His interest was no more than friendly curiosity, though--he spotted some of the solar-powered fans I'd brought over as gifts and was genuinely interested in them. We chatted pleasantly about solar power and he waved me through.
I suppose everybody has encountered some truly memorable smiles in their lifetimes. In my lifetime, one of the most notable smiles belongs to my friend Dairai Manyati, who provides transportation for volunteers arriving in Harare for transfer to Imire (about 50 miles). The
first time I arrived in Harare two years ago, Dairai's smile was a beacon of reassurance when entering a country that certainly SEEMED dangerous. And, though Zimbabwe doesn't feel particularly dangerous anymore, Dairai's smile is still a welcoming sight!
And I'm here to tell you that Dairai's character matches his
smile. He is as kind, generous, and perceptive a friend as anybody could hope for. We've stayed in touch over the years, and I really wanted to meet his wife and kids. So Dairai had his wonderful wife--who is now on maternity leave, but is a teacher by profession-- and three of his kids with him when he picked me up.
They drove me to the little guesthouse I had reserved through AirBnb, and we sat and drank ice water and chatted together for a nice long visit before they had to leave to pick up their other children.
I was particularly interested to meet McDonald, Dairai's oldest, who is nervously awaiting his examination results to see if they are good enough for him to study law.
We made arrangements for Dairai to pick me up the next day so we could drive out to Imire, and I looked forward to the opportunity to do some further catching up.
It was quite late by the time we reached Nairobi. Originally I had planned to stay at a guesthouse near the airport, but when I calculated how short a time I'd really be there--less than 9 hours--I decided it would not be worthwhile to get a visa, and airport transfer, and no doubt a nervous night worrying about whether I'd get back to the airport on time for my 7 am flight.
Some of the more modern airports have in-airport hotels, which I've visited successfully before (in Qatar and the Emirates) but there was nothing like that in Nairobi. So I'd made arrangements to stay in an airport lounge, something I'd never done before. This one was run by Turkish Alliance Airlines, and it was REALLY nice. There were showers, a buffet, a bar, very comfortable lounge chairs, soft lights, and soft music. I was tired without being sleepy, having slept quite a bit during the flight, but it felt unimaginably good to relax the night away in this lounge. This was a fine idea, and I will certainly do it again if the opportunity arises.
The staff at the lounge keeps track of departing flights, and they let you know when it's time to go, so there was no anxiety about making the early morning flight to Harare, which was right on time.
On the flight to Harare, I was seated next to a well-dressed African man who was reading a ridiculously complex book dealing with political science (I couldn't help but notice.) When he took a break, we started chatting. It turned out that he was a Zimbabwean gastro-enterologist (which are very unusual words to go together in my experience!) returning from a conference in Kigali. I must have seemed like a TOTAL idiot to him when I told him: "Oh! A gastro-enterologist! I've met several of them! My husband has Crohn's disease!" He told me he did his advanced study in gastro-enterology in Capetown, South Africa, and was fascinated to find that while South Africa's "colored" (mixed race) population frequently suffered from Crohn's, black populations do not, leaving the conclusion that Crohn's must somehow be linked to being at least part white.
This led to a very interesting discussion of genetics and disease, and this gentleman was as learned, articulate, and insightful as anyone I've ever had the opportunity to talk with regarding this subject. His name was Leo, and I considered myself very lucky to have made his acquaintance and learned so much. The several-hour flight to Harare went by very quickly.
Marc, you've suggested I should have taken photos of my seatmates. I just didn't feel it was polite to do so, interesting as they were. Even so, I WOULD like to have in my possession a keepsake of their appearances!
By far the longest leg of my journey was from Amsterdam to Nairobi. Days before I left, I had been contemplating seat selection for my flights. As you know, nowadays one has to pay for a selected seat, ANY selected seat, and I decided there was only one leg of the whole trip I was serious enough about to fork out the requisite $25--Amsterdam to Nairobi.
Why? Well, one time I flew from Amsterdam to Johannesburg and had the most remarkable flight ever. Flying over, first, the Alps, then the Mediterranean, and then the Sahara was fantastically scenic and interesting, and I hoped for more of the same.
Imagine my dismay, then, when I arrived at my seat and found some one sitting in it! Under normal circumstances, I would have simply deferred, but when I remembered I had actually PAID for that seat, I decided to stick to my guns. The lady in my seat was astonishingly over-dressed. She was clad in what surely looked like a mink coat, and over the top of that she wore a substantial down vest. These were over what appeared to be "traditional" African dress and heavy boots. I surmised that she was trying to wear everything she couldn't cram into her luggage.
Her English was rather rudimentary, but she finally realized what I was saying about the seat and, rather ill-naturedly, moved. We were the only two in the three-seat row, but she elected to sit right next to me, and man! With all those clothes, she took up a LOT of space and exuded a LOT of heat. Plus, she had a very nasty cold and coughed long, hard, and often--and without the benefit of covering her mouth. I sat there, feeling trapped, and fuming about how sick I was going to get.
It turned out to be totally cloudy anyway, and I couldn't see a damn thing, so, generous soul that I am, I eventually got up to visit the toilet and then offered her the window seat and then sat myself in the aisle seat and was quite comfortable.
Until, that is, they handed out the customs declaration forms. I didn't need to fill one out since I wasn't disembarking in Nairobi, but she did. It became clear that she couldn't read the forms, and she asked for my assistance and advice. She seemed to be nervous about some "medicine" she was carrying, but her nerves subsided after she made a judicious trip to the toilet (and presumably its wastebasket.) Then we became quite chatty.
It turned out that she had been working as a housekeeper in Canada for the past couple of years, and now she was going home. She was able to tell me how phenomenally cold it had been in Canada and how excited she was to be returning to Kenya. I imagined that she had been given somebody's old mink coat and down jacket and that she was prepared to really wow her family and friends back home.
So we parted on good terms after spending a "mere" 14 hours together, and now I will never see her again. I find myself wondering how she is and what her friends DID think of that fur coat.
There's nothing like a day and a half in the air crammed into a space as small as the average modern airline's economy seat to get one thinking about how the hell one got into this position in the first place.
For years, I have been longing to see gorillas. Scott, on the other hand, was longing for me NOT to see gorillas. In fact, one time he extracted a promise from me that elephants, OK; rhinos, well, OK; lions, ok; but gorillas, not OK, emphatically. That's where the matter stood until two separate events. First, Judy and John Travers, the owners of Imire, went on vacation to Rwanda to visit gorillas and gave a spectacular account. Scott was still not impressed.
But then, one day in the parking lot of our favorite local grocery emporium, Golden Harvest, we met our friend DB, who was our veterinarian for years and is now having splendid adventures in retirement. He told me about HIS seeing gorillas in, I think, Uganda, and when I told him about Scott's decree, he talked to Scott and assured him of the relative safety of gorilla visits. His reasonable assurances caused Scott to release me from my promise! Thanks, DB!
I hoped to be able to volunteer somewhere with gorillas, but could find no such opportunity . I think mountain gorillas are SO rare and require SUCH professional care that their care would not be entrusted to an amateur like me. So, I decided to see them as a tourist and started an internet search for a tour company that would arrange my visit. I found Nature Adventure Africa Safaris Ltd. and started a correspondence with Moses, and that correspondence turned into a friendship. In addition to arranging an itinerary for me, Moses also found me a place to volunteer: a school for "street boys" in Kigali, Rwanda. He gave me an email for Charles, the executive director of the school Les Enfants de Dieu, and WE developed an internet friendship.
So here I was, hurtling through the air in the rather profound hope that my instincts were correct in trusting these two gentlemen Moses and Charles on the basis of many email exchanges and nothing else. Scott was more nervous about this than I was, but still, put a person 36,000 feet or so in the air for 36 hours, and doubts seem to follow.
Doubts notwithstanding, O'Hare was soon WAY behind me and I found myself in Amsterdam on a dark early morning. I had a layover of a couple of hours to contemplate the amazing efficiency of the airport there. As day dawned, I found myself calling the place "a miracle of concrete and logistics."
Yes, it HAS been a long time. Somehow it took me much longer to decide on this upcoming trip. Where to go. Alone or with somebody (ies). Volunteer or tourist. What animal to concentrate on. When. Etc., etc., etc.
Somehow, some decisions got made. Where? Rwanda! Alone! Both volunteer AND tourist! And, yes, GORILLAS!! In November!
At first I wasn't going to go back to Zimbabwe, thinking it was time to "move on." But then I realized I just couldn't be right in the neighborhood (the "neighborhood" being the behemoth African continent) and NOT go to visit my friends in Zimbabwe. So I decided to jam three different trips into my three weeks--one in Zimbabwe, one in Rwanda volunteering at a school for former street boys, and one in Rwanda and Uganda being a tourist. Easier to do all three than to make a choice!
So. Here I am, all packed--with meticulous care, I might add--and off to O'Hare prepared to be whisked away to Harare via Chicago, Amsterdam, Nairobi, and Lusaka (Zambia) in a "mere" day and a half of air travel and airport layovers. LOADS of luggage, because of course I can't go without taking lots of stuff for lots of people.
Scott and Aramis are prepared to drive me to Chicago and drop me off at O'Hare, and thus will begin my 5th trip to Africa and my 6th volunteer trip. I have more reservations about this trip than my previous ones though. I don't particularly feel like leaving home. I am nervous about my itinerary. I am unsure as to whether I am up for travelling alone anymore. I am unsure of my reception at my destination.
And, as usual, I question my own motivation. It sometimes seems to me that if I really wanted to help people there, I would not spend all this money on getting my butt to Africa, but rather just send the money it takes over to them.
I never really have resolved that matter, except to understand that yes, I really do want to go there and see for myself, selfish as it might be. Therefore, I'm leaving on the proverbial jet plane.
