My final road trip in Zimbabwe ironically served as the
perfect summation of my two years in the country. We had just come from riding elephants with
my four year old, as an unforgettable, perfectly perfect last hurrah he is
still talking about. The sun was heating in the morning sky, the ground was
sweating off its dew, and we were sailing over a smooth highway full of cars
and combis on their way to the city. Then
BOOM.
A giant crash and a pulling steering wheel yelled for us
suddenly to veer to the side of the road.
We pulled to a stop as Kurt and I looked at one another. Definitely a
tire. We walked to the back of the car as
a worried Jonas pressed his face inside the window. The tire we had just bought the previous week
had blown away from the rim, which now sat on the pavement. Our last 100 meters of highway was littered
with what looked like black grated cheese tauntingly waving at us in the
breeze.
We both knew this was not good and a feeling of déjà vu came
over me as I thought about our lovely afternoon months before spent watching the same car sink into the quicksand.
It was one of four last days in Zim.
Most of our fellow co-workers and friends have left the country for
winter break just days before us. We had
no jack. And of course, we had only a
few minutes left on our phone. The only friend who answered us was stuck in
brunch with her in-laws.
A combi pulled up in front of our car and a man jumped out
as it slowed to a stop. Kurt went to
speak with the man and as I watched I had a terrible feeling from the body
language that the two were negotiating.
I had a bad feeling as Kurt returned to the car. Before he even said anything I butted in, “That
guy seems like bad news. I don’t have a good feeling about him.”
“He wants twenty-five
dollars for a jack. They say they’ll drive
away as we use it and then have me give the jack back to them in Harare… but
they won’t actually show me the jack. I
told them I needed to go back to the car to check if I had that much money, but
really there’s no way—” He was cut off by the screeching of tires as the combi
sped away. It was clear the men had no
jack and had just wanted to see if a desperate guy on the side of the road
would hand them cash before they made their getaway.
Next I called the place we had just been riding elephants
and spoke to the owner. I explained our
situation, simply asking if it was safe to be on the roadside, and what they
recommended we do. Really I was hoping
that perhaps he or one of his men could drive the 10 kilometers from their
location to help us as a nice gesture to a customer. The owner hemmed for a
moment, then said, “What color are you?”
This was not the first time I’d been asked the question,
though it had taken me back. “White,” I’d
said plainly. Wonderings of discomfort crept into my brain as I thought about
just how it would feel if I were so clearly helped or not helped simply because
of my color.
The man continued, “Okay… If you’re white, someone will
eventually feel safe enough to pull over. If you’re black it’ll be harder. Call
us back in an hour if no one stops to help you.”
We spent the next twenty minutes watching drivers of all
colors and economic brackets zip past us until eventually, a man named Abed slowed
his barely-sputtering pickup across from our car and motioned Kurt across the
highway. Abed became our saving grace,
having not only the rusty old jack to do the job, but getting down on his hands
and knees to do the dirty work as traffic whizzed dangerously past. Abed was a quiet man, but carried himself as
though he were grateful to have the opportunity to help someone else. It was an incredible gift that seemed to be a
direct answer to our frustrated prayers. And suddenly, our problem was gone.
Abed never asked for money or gave us the slightest
indication of anything other than being a good neighbor. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if a piece
of him had hoped for a little something to come out of his good deeds. Certainly
if this was the case, I absolutely preferred his loving entrepreneurial spirit
to the mean entrepreneurial spirit of the men in the combi.
Kurt slipped Abed a little cash, and as we waved our
goodbyes and gushed thank you’s to Abed one last time I couldn’t help but think
that our experience that afternoon was the perfect definition of Zimbabwe. As Abed’s rusty truck pulled away, I was
reminded of the different kinds of people we found over and over in our time in
the country of Zim. There were those who
wanted to take advantage of the misfortunes of others to get ahead. Those were the people who made me skeptical and
untrusting, and worse, made me feel entirely alone and helpless. There were
those who waited, like the owner I called, ready to add in his opinions, but
not quite ready to be prompted into action.
Then there were those friendly souls like Abed who were willing to go
out of their way to help a fellow human in need.
Zimbabwe was once considered the gem of Africa. For sure it was no utopia, but it was ahead
of its neighbors economically, feeding its people as the “breadbasket of Africa”
with successful farms, making its own brand of cars, supporting the continent’s
textiles with its homegrown cotton, and enjoying the highest literacy rate in
the world. The mighty has fallen for a number of reasons that can be talked
about outside the context of this quick little post. But what is more important now is how to get
it back on its feet. I don’t have easy
answers, or a well thought-out plan, but one thing is clear. We made a lot more progress with the man
willing to work alongside his fellow human beings in need, no matter what their
color, than from the people trying to get ahead themselves. Thanks, Abed.
