Far and Wide

As a ten-year anniversary present to Cheri, I sent myself off for a five-day excursion into the wilds of the country, leaving Cheri and Jonas behind to fend with increasingly long power cuts, a faulty home security system, and a short supply of groceries, half a roll of toilet paper, and cash that had to last us three more weeks until payday.  (You’re welcome, Honey!)  But since you’re more likely to want to hear about my week out and about than Cheri and Jonas’ week in (although they did have plenty of fun, too), here’s a rundown of what I got to experience.

Five high school teachers and 40 tenth-grade students boarded up onto three tour buses Monday morning at 8:30.  We were told to expect a four hour trip to our destination, with a bathroom break halfway through.  Thinking that this short trip wouldn’t be too much trouble, and having my iTunes and headphones to drown out much of the noise, I unwisely chose to board the bus that had ten girls and no boys on board.  Seven hours later (including two drained laptop batteries, twelve Justin Bieber albums sung by my fellow bus-mates at the top of their lungs, two fights about which girl was being the most annoying by screaming too loudly, four police stops to verify the legality of our tour bus, and three very costly wrong turns on deserted logging roads), we finally got off the bus at our destination and I kissed the first adult I saw.  (His name is John, and this action is illegal in my host country.)  Our trip wasn’t so bad until the last few hours (three hours to travel the final 19 kilometers on dirt roads).  In fact, the first few hours were quite lovely.   Here are some pictures of the landscape, including some of the misnomered Halfway House where we stopped two hours into our journey.

 

one of the few stores we encountered outside of the cities

 what my now vast experience tells me is a typical family farm

 

some of the freely roaming cattle—these were nice and weren’t blocking the road

 technology!

 

 Halfway House—an old farmstead now turned into a quaint shopping center

  one of a number of antique tractors on display at Halfway House

Aside from overly excited, screaming teenage girls, the trip was quite lovely.  It was fascinating to see the countryside that lay beyond the city limits that had confined my experiences up until that point.  Take my word that these pictures do not do justice to the views.  You’ll have to come and visit to see for yourself!

Once we arrived to our destination—Far and Wide Adventures, the students were shown to their cabins, and the teachers were shown to ours.  While the students had to rough it in sleeping bags on bunks, the teachers split two chalets.  I shared with two other guys.  We had a two-story chalet with a kitchen, living space, two full bathrooms, a sauna, a fireplace, and a second-story balcony that overlooked the forested valley below.  We each had our own bed with plenty of comfy pillows and heavy down comforters, and the staff would clean up after us and light a fire each afternoon while we were away with the kids.  We didn’t want to leave our lodging, but when we did, we spent the hiking through the forest, camping overnight on a cliff’s edge (~760 meters fall down to the valley floor), and watching the kids negotiate a high ropes course (emphasis on “high”—some parts were over 50 meters high in the eucalyptus trees!).  On the last day, the three male teachers teamed up to compete against seven other teams of students in an orienteering competition.  Lionel (40) entered with a torn meniscus, John (36) was an overweight Scott, and I’m still carrying my sympathy weight from Cheri’s pregnancy three years ago.  We had originally convinced our two female teachers to join in, but the 14 kilometer course convinced them that the sauna sounded better.  (To their credit, we had just hiked 12 kilometers that morning to see the water falls, so the sauna did sound rather nice.)  We kept running into one student group that we thought we were in stiff competition with, and we more than once nearly killed ourselves running up a steep, rocky incline to stay ahead of them.  But when we finished the course and found out that we were first, we were surprised that our time of two hours and twenty minutes was the best.  We waited for other teams, but eventually gave up and showered.  We got out of the shower and went back to the finish line to see the second place team finish 40 minutes after we had.  Not bad for three badly out of shape men!

Here are some photos of our time and the landscape at Far and Wide:

 

main dining hall

looking from the dining hall onto the student cabins (left) and teacher cabins (right), with a fire lit in ours if you look carefully

 part of the high-ropes course

 the aforementioned 760 meter cliff face

 Mutarazi Falls—either the first or second tallest falls in Zimbabwe

 a monkey—I swear

getting ready to swim at the top of the falls

Finding the Rules

As of noon on Friday, Kurt was leaving for a 4:30 flight to South Africa.  We arrived in this country on the second of August with a temporary, 30 day approval to be in the country.  Kurt's visa (applied for in April) is apparently still sitting on someone's desk. The school has been working these past thirty days since our arrival to get us extensions.  In fact, they've had weekly, unfruitful meetings with immigration for months. Jonas and I were granted thirty more days on Thursday, which we found quite humorous considering we were not the two that have employment.  Surely if any of us had to go, it would be Jonas and I booted back across the border for a few days.  At 12:30, after the plane tickets were bought and the hotels booked, Kurt got the news.  The department employee was too busy to deal with Kurt and five other teachers' passports; so they recommended (this from the Dept of Immigration themselves!) that Kurt stay in the country with his illegal unstamped passport, and they would try to get to things the following Monday.  It is Thursday and we are still waiting.  On Monday my illegal husband left on a week long trip with a group of students to the border of Mozambique, paper copy of his passport in hand.

It has become quite clear.  Most of the country's departments are being run with a pair of die.

We were told to expect power cuts upon arriving in the city.  But in America, that means that something has gone wrong, weather or transformer issues, etc, and someone is out there hanging from a power line trying to fix the problem.  In this country, power cuts are a daily way of life.  These cuts occur because the country supposedly has a limited amount of power and different neighborhoods are cut off at different times so electricity can be used elsewhere.  (Of course, certain important homes never lose power.)  Power cuts last anywhere from six to ten hours, and can range anytime from 5 am to 11 pm. In the month we've been here, we have had one day without a power cut.  Generators, inverters and spoiling food are a way of life.  (Funny that we just cram in using more power when we actually do have it!) Citizens are constantly told there is a schedule to outages.  But in the thirty days we have written down the timing of our cuts, not a pattern can be found.  There is a vervet monkey sitting somewhere behind a switchboard waiting for me to put something in the oven so it can erratically flip a switch that cuts our power.

We know of two people here who started the adoption process for their two children five years ago.  For five years while papers have been processing they have bonded with their kids, caring for them and seeing to all of their needs.  But five years later, they are still jumping through hoops trying to clarify what more they must do to officially be the parents of the children they've been raising so they can return to their home country.  Among other things, they have been told that each child will cost them $50,000.  Now desperate, the father has had to return to the home country, visa denied, while the mother has managed a small extension to stay with her two a little longer.  They don't know if this is their last year together before she is deported.  (Apparently we will not be adopting any babies here after all!)

For police officers, who make the equivalent of some housekeepers and gardeners, it is understood: most of their livelihood will come from demanding bribes.  It is not uncommon for people to be pulled over for imaginary traffic violations before being threatened with going to jail if they don't pay.  Police stops are more than common, and usually result in a large pay-off.  On Kurt's trip with his students, his bus was stopped three times within the first three hours of the trip alone.  Just don't let them ask for your passport, Kurt.

I could write another fifty paragraphs of examples.

Power here, is not just in the hands of the person who has money.  It is in the hands of any public official, company, or organization that spins a wheel.  Arbitrary rules are dependent upon the official trying to make them up and enforce them, whether it is the police, airport security, immigration, garbage men, or even the bus driver.  It is hard to learn to navigate in a world of changing rules.  We keep our fingers crossed. And carry extra cash.

Pieces of Learning

-Everything from socks and underwear to towels and sheets are ironed here.  It seemed insanely meticulous until we learned that flies lay eggs in wet clothes drying on clothes lines.  The ironing is not to straighten things; it is to kill the fly larvae.  It must be done to everything, much to the horror of my two year old and his newly-washed stuffed puppy.

-Speaking of eggs, eggs here are never refrigerated. Not at the grocery store, and not in people’s homes.     People keep their eggs in cabinets here, despite the fact that there are egg spaces in refrigerators here, too. 

-Birds of Paradise flowers are everywhere.  I can’t control myself; I walk down the street and keep estimating how much they would cost if I were buying them in a US flower shop.  We have had at least one cutting of them in the house since the day we moved here.

-Shopping bags are a luxury. Many stores do not provide them; those that do charge for them. 

-It is very consistent.  No matter what time of year, there are approximately 12.5-13.5 hours of sunlight. Parties often start around 4:00 in the afternoon so hosts can have some hours of daylight outside before people need to go home. Likewise, things start/open very early here to make use of the sunlight. Schools most often start between 7-7:30 am, and shops most often open between 7:00 and 9:00 am.

-Drunk driving is a huge problem in our city.  It is advised that people never go out after dark. But that’s okay; 6:30 pm here feels like the10:00 pm we just left in the US.  Things are pitch black at 6:30 and hardly anyone is out.

-“Teatime” is sometime between 9:30 am and 10:30 am here.  For most low income locals, it is like a snack time consisting of tea with bread and butter.  For higher income individuals, it is a snack time with tea and treats like muffins, bars, and specialty breads. Lunch then usually happens sometime between twelve and two.  It is followed from 3:00-4:00 by another tea time.  Does anyone work around here?!

- The country has amazing fresh fruits and vegetables.  However, we can’t find a green or yellow banana to save our lives.  Every American we've talked to is desperate for a banana.  Oh, there are bananas here for sure. In fact, there are carts people push around the city selling only bananas. But they are all sold brown.

Score!  The yellowest banana we've ever seen in this country.  We took a picture for some friends.  Who would believe us?!

Hiking Domboshawa

I was realistic. I swear. 

But when it came to flying into Africa I had nothing but romantic visions of what it would be like.  As I strained to see around Jonas’ large head while we descended into Johannesburg, the frolicking zebras and giraffes I dreamed of seeing next to my window were instead replaced with suburban swimming pools and dusty three lane highways.  The brimming, teary eyed feeling of finally arriving on the continent was replaced by spinning jetlag and a desperate urge to find a real bathroom. When we flew from South Africa up to our country, my seat dead center in the middle of the plane between a high schooler and a sleeping baby sealed the deal: my arrival was anything but romantic.

Quite to my surprise, I found myself immediately challenged to feel connected to the land in Africa.  So much is manicured where we are.  Even when I have been up to my elbows gardening in the red dusty soil or tracking in piles of dirt on sandals that will never recover, I have felt like I’ve barely touched the land for which I expected to feel nothing but awe.

Three days into the country, we went hiking about 30 km north of the city in a place called Domboshawa, and finally it happened.   I found the Africa I knew was hidden somewhere. 

Domboshawa is considered a "kopje," an isolated hill that stands among a surrounding plain.  It stands as an important mystical and religious site to many local cultures, as well an international site of importance for its botany (rare varieties of lichen grow on its granite outcrops) and geology (wind-eroded rock formations called bubble rocks sit atop the hill).  Though its scenic views from the top are spectacular, Domboshawa is most famous for its cave paintings. 

These animals have guarded the walls of this cove for thousands of years, a stark contrast to our two year old. 

Still clearly recognizable, even after the six thousand years many say the paintings have existed, are animals that can still be found in the area: kudu, rhino, buffalo, and warthog.

Jonas (pictured with my husband Kurt) has learned a lot about barbed wire since moving to Africa.

Kurt and Jonas explore a crevice near the paintings.

We are told we have to return to Domboshawa during the rainy season, when all is suddenly green and waterfalls litter the landscape.  We are told our view from the top was about as clear as it gets.  The haze from the heat or the mists/fog from the rain can make it a challenge to see far distances on many days, so our winter visit was perfectly timed. 

  

There are all sorts of places to climb at Domboshawa for special views of the surrounding plains.

The steepest ascent is the last.  My husband makes it look easy (carrying Jonas no less)... I didn't. 

Domboshawa looks crowded, but everyone pictured is from our group of twenty, all co-workers at Kurt's school.  We didn't see a single other hiker during our time there.

  

One of the bubble rocks sitting atop Domboshawa, below sits one of Jonas' new playmates Amara

  

Down below, displays found in the thatched coves explain the history of Domboshawa.

The Africa I knew was hidden somewhere...

Money, Money, Money

We anticipated that getting used to a new monetary system was to be a small transition for us… Zim uses the US Dollar as its currency. This is because in 2008 and 2009, a period of time many locals refer to as “The Imbalance,” inflation reached 100,000%.  The country’s own money became virtually worthless, as the crashing economy left people scraping for food and supplies with no way to pay for things.  As one of my friends here says, “I had just had [my baby] in mid 2008, and his entire first year of life, I would drop his sis at school, put him into the car and spend the entire day driving around looking for food until it was time to pick her up. Stores were empty.  Not a thing on the shelves.” The USD was adopted to restore some sense of stability, though nervous rumors still abound about currency changes.  Our transition from USD to USD was surprising in some ways. Upon arrival we quickly learned a few unexpected things about our money here:

1) Coins do not exist here. …Well, sort of.  Nothing less than a dollar is used to pay for anything.  However, prices are most often not an even dollar amount.  SO, when checking out at the grocery store, if the bill is $19.20, you must pay $20.00, then receive a store credit for 80 cents.  If it is a chain store, however, the store credit will rarely transfer to a store of the same name but in a different location.  Some stores also do a swipe card to let you keep a log of your extra credit, tickets in place of printed receipts, or will randomly give you South African money if they have it on hand.  Our wallets are full of papers instead of coins now, all credit receipts to be cashed in (if you remember) the next time you go to purchase an item.  This national policy has to almost always work out for the benefit of the company.  

The one exception to this seems to be the “bus”- a whole other blog of its own. The bus costs 50 cents to ride here, but if you pay with a dollar, “change” is given in the form of South African tokens called rands, apparently mostly only good for another bus ride. These brass colored rands have “50 cents” written on them, but it actually takes two of them to equal fifty cents for a bus ride, and four of them to equal a dollar.  Why?  No idea.

2) The one bill that is pristine here?  Two dollar bills.  Remember those things?  I thought the US stopped making them years ago, until I just did my research this week and found out that the bill is still actually made and in circulation in the US.  The scarcity of $2 bills in circulation in the US, along with a lack of public awareness that the bill is still in circulation, has inspired urban legends and, on a few occasions, created problems for people trying to use the bill to make purchases in the States.  Which I guess is why you can find them everywhere here.  They are the only barely used piece of money to be found.

3) New dollar bills are more than rare here.  Shop keepers love tourists and foreigners, because they come with new bills. In the US, the Treasury takes old bills out of circulation and replaces them; apparently there is no one here doing that.  Here are two dollars from our African country--so dirty and frail it’s hard to touch them-- compared to one we brought with us from the US.

Two Car Accidents

I have two blogs, and usually they will never match.  But today they will…

If ever I complain in your presence, remind me of today.  Because today my baby Jonas is nothing but pure miracle. 

I thought Thursday was a bad day for us.  Jonas and I spent three hours in the car, four hours on a black tarmac waiting on customs at a storage place, and one hour dealing with the aftermath of being in a small car accident.  (It wasn’t too bad- to quote Jonas immediately after being hit, “Oh!  That was a loud sound!  Did you bring any snacks?”) It was a long day, and to boot, we were told we had to do the same thing over again the next day, as customs only finished about a third of their inspection. (Story to come.)

Friday turned out to be the more challenging day, though.  It started well; Kurt wonderfully took school off to take on the customs adventure instead of the two of us again, leaving me to give Jonas his choice of breakfast for a reward for such patient, good behavior the day before.  Our stomachs were still full of pancakes when we set off to meet back up with Kurt later in the afternoon. On our way there, though, Jonas and I were in another car accident, this time on foot. 

We were walking on the side of the road (there are no sidewalks here, despite thousands of pedestrians) with our housekeeper, who was about to split up with us to carry our groceries home.  I had Jonas on my shoulders, when I tripped on the edge of the street into oncoming traffic.  Had there been no cars, I would have regained my balance on my knees.  But instead I fell at the exact moment I was hit by a car. I don’t remember many of the details.

Jonas was on the pavement, immediately hysterical. I felt as though someone had just cracked me in the head with their hardest baseball swing.  I remember scooping Jonas up and scanning him.  He had blood on him, but it wasn’t his. I realized my arm was not working and put him into our housekeeper’s arms.  She had dropped the groceries and was immediately bawling.  I was confused and sat down on the pavement.  I remember wondering if I was still alive. The driver was out of the car speaking to me as I tried to put my shoulder back where it belonged.  Someone called Kurt.  I’m told it was me, though I can’t believe it was.  The driver picked up the big pieces of her car that had come off, presumably from my head.  She drove us around the corner to Kurt’s school, where we met a frantic Kurt in front.  He ran inside the office to get a car for the hospital. I lost half of my eyesight, still seeing stars as we got out of the car.  The school nurse (Carol) and administrators took it from there, photographing the car and scrambling with insurance papers while we made our way inside for small triage before getting in a car for the hospital. Carol stuck with us for the hours in the ER after that.

If you know Jonas, you know his terror at even the word doctor.  He spent much of the afternoon bawling. (Enough that when Kurt put him to bed at night, he collapsed asleep mid-clothing change!) He seemed to be okay at moments, but as soon as anyone asked for any details about the accident he would cry all over again, clearly shaken, and very unhappy not to be on my lap. Three people held a hysterical Jonas down for x-rays, after which Kurt took him outside to calm him. After twenty minutes of wailing outside, a little boy who had been watching with his family from their car, ran across the parking lot, and handed Jonas a banana. Jonas has not cried since. 

The kindness of strangers in Africa is a blog unto its own. 

So the outcome for me: one severe concussion, one swollen bruised leg that gives out every few steps, one dislocated/relocated shoulder, plenty of missing skin, a very sore body, and absolute gratitude for Carol and the kindness of strangers.

The outcome for Jonas, who fell from shoulder height into oncoming traffic: not one scratch. Jonas is pure miracle.

Thank you, God.

Where Defunct Objects Come to Die

At 5 am this morning our alarm system went off, grabbing us suddenly out of our sleep.  In twenty minutes of strangeness our sirens blared and the security company telephoned to see what was happening before arriving moments later with a team to search the property. (If you’re wondering, baby Jonas slept through all of the ear blasting, and awoke later when a security guard quietly tapped on the window to give us an all clear.) The cause was most likely a malfunctioning sensor.

Everything in Zim aaaalmost works… At least, that is what we have come to find out over our first full week here.  This realization comes after a week with six power outages (all 5-7 hours long), 1 day without hot water, 1 day without cold water, 3 days without internet, 1 broken pipe, 1 broken gate, 1 broken door, and a washing machine that not only broke twice, but literally exploded in our kitchen (flying socks included) and sent gallons of standing water throughout two large rooms. Those challenges given, this blog is a miracle.

 “Make plan” is a saying the locals here have.  It’s used often, because much of the time Plan A (and Plan B, and Plan C…) has failed and other arrangements must be figured out.  The people here are seemingly pros at patience and second options.  I am still getting used to it. 

Our country has a unique relationship with China.  And by unique I mean, we apparently take a lot of the defective crap that does not pass inspection for other countries. There are flaws in everything… tiny enough to usually still make something usable for a time, but big enough that the American in me wants to march back to the store immediately to return it before it self-combusts. Translation: invest in Africa's tape and glue industry.

That’s what I was thinking about this morning (at 5:30, since Jonas did not return to sleep) as I boiled the container of syrup I’d brought home yesterday as a rare sweet treat for Jonas.  When we got it home, it was like four other things we’d bought from the market this week: the seal was broken inside the bottle. 

I find myself challenged to use things I would have thrown away a few weeks ago, but now feel grateful for having, broken or not, because I am part of the “haves.”  I didn’t really want the syrup in its current state, but throwing it away or giving it to someone less fortunate when I did not deem it safe to pass my lips tugged at my guilt levels, too.  SO, if this is my last blog entry, you’ll know we died from food poisoning.

Or a faulty washing machine.

How many of our electrical cords look here.  

This one has three different colors and ages of tape.

I'll leave out my picture of our toddler playing with one...

The Bubble

We knew it would be a big thought on our minds before we even got here.  We hemmed and hawed about how we would fit into it.  But we never realized it would be on our minds more than finding safe water, or avoiding malaria, or learning that we have to de-worm our child like a dog every six months.

"The Bubble."

That's what my husband Kurt and I call it.  This surreal African juxtaposition of walls and shanty towns, manicured lawns and dirt roads...  And actually, that description fails to describe the jolt that is our new life in an African city of haves and have-nots.  We definitely have been dropped into a bubble.  It's an immediate challenge-- recognizing with gratitude the surreal lifestyle of expansive square footage and amenities anyone would love, while battling the sickening guilt that not everyone is sharing in the blessing.

Though it's not at all our intention to stay isolated among the walls of our new home, which many easily do, please be patient with us. This blog will start in The Bubble. Here are some pictures of our new home, on loan from the school Kurt works for :

 

Our living room, with fire place and a bar behind it. We are calling the bar area our "coffee house" room.  There is no heating or cooling in any of the homes here; just vents on the tops of the walls.  These vents help the house to breath and house large black spiders that come out every night to rest at the top of the walls.  Harmless but eerie.

 

Our back patio, where we occasionally eat.  We will use this space with our two year old a lot during the rainy season.

 

Looking through our living room to our dining room.  Sliding glass door on the left, kitchen doorway up on the right.

Kitchen, full of windows and very large. The back door opens in two pieces, so most of the day with the windows and at least half the door open, the kitchen feels like it's outside. Washing machine, fridge, and pantry on left.

 

Kitchen from other side. Breakfast bar in the middle, oven and warming drawer in back, stove on back right.

 

Master bedroom leads into a dressing room as big as our last kitchen. Two more bedrooms, unpictured, are slightly smaller.  Also unpictured is tons of closet space in every room.

 

Two newly redone bathrooms, both the size of bedrooms.

 

Pool with fountain (out of picture) looking at one of our patios.

Trampoline on the side of the house.  Our Jonas is in love.  I call it a death trap, but he's already used it for about three hours, so my hesitations have not meant much.  There are probably more dangerous things in Africa...

 

Looking to our back yard from one of our three patios.  A children's playhouse (again, death trap) sits in front with a large area of gardens, fruit trees, and stone benches behind.  Also unseen are the staff quarters... a separate cottage, shed, and burning area.  The yard is approximately two acres.

 

Kurt and I laugh that we had to move to Africa to live on our first cul-de-sac.  The black gate is ours.  We have yet to meet the neighbors, whose ferocious dogs have kept me at length.  Dogs here are for protection, not cuddling. We all live behind gates and walls, with barbed wire and electric fences unseen above them all.

 

Coming into the gate.  Every piece of green space is manicured... It hasn't rained since February, but you can't tell. Can't wait to see the water bill!