Bulawayo Connections

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It’s amazing how the familiar returns as if it never departed. The original 60s mould for the concrete road signs is either still being used or the originals were exceptionally hardy. Either way they are part of our childhood memories along with buses loaded to the hilt, travelling at an odd sideways slant. Firewood costs ZAR 20 per stack and takes on a haphazard shape rather than the cylindrical, measured, mechanically split and chopped version of South Africa.

Of all the familiar it’s the craft stalls that snag my attention. Without a companion to consider I have the luxury of stopping as I please. Hwange, for the unfamiliar, is a coal mining town and gateway to the largest National Park in Zimbabwe. It is hot as hell, dry and dusty. A wooden tiger fish exhibited on a totem pole caught my eye so I did a U turn and went back to the craft market. ( I’ll have to relearn how to drive in traffic). The Zimbabweans are ingenious artists and often develop a theme that is either trendy or significant to their location. How surprising to find a definite mermaid theme going on in Hwange. Perhaps a client had requested one, who knows, but you have to wonder at their reference to the ocean based fantasy girls. I couldn’t resist, so this charming Hwange mermaid has come home with me. Perhaps I identified with the gravity affected boobs? One thing for sure Hwange mermaid is a far cry from beautiful Ariel.

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Continuing with the familiar I headed for Matobo (Matopas) to the National Parks Chalets. The place of balancing rocks and the resting place of CJR at world’s view. Much like the road-signs, not much has changed in 50 years . The Chalets are slowly, very slowly, being renovated. For the interim they are familiar. This includes white frogs in the bathrooms. The little ones I can do but these big ones are just a NO. How do you like the health and safety? The gas hob inside the thatch rondaval has curtains resting on top of it. Perhaps that’s one way of speeding up the renovation process.

Artistic design is not exclusive to carvings and handicrafts. The villages surrounding Matobo Park were a visual delight. I asked an old man if I could take some photos and he proudly showed me around. His wife had been the artists and since she passed away a few years ago he’s not changed a thing. The Sydney opera style roof belongs to the Matobo Rock Hotel. It’s been a work in progress for a while, years apparently. Not sure how weather proof it will be but hey it’s marketing isn’t it?

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For two days I drove around, stopping to sit under a tree at a dam and read my book, conjure up images within rock formations, spot a few birds and generally just cruise. How will I return to the demands of real life?………….worry about that when the time comes. Apart from the magnificent granite koppies, Matobo is littered with rock art. A rich history of cultures. Some that belong to an era we have lost connection to and others that were imposed. But as Mike Burns pronounced; agree with him or not no one can argue Cecil John Rhodes was a clever man when he chose his final resting place. Sunsets at worlds view have to rank as one of the best in the world.

On my way out of the park I passed a station wagon (only familiar to Zimbabweans) parked on the side of the road. A young woman, dressed for town was sitting on a milestone, head in hand, looking car sick kind of miserable. While I stopped to look at the white rhino they must have passed me. When i next encountered them the young lady was pushing the station wagon uphill to get it safely off the road. This time I had to stop. I stuck my head out the window and asked, “Do you need help? ” Before I could say Jack Robinson the driver had emerged Chugub (Jerry Can) in hand and announced that a lift to Bulawayo would be in order. Ok climb in but i still need to stop at the MOTH Shrine.

Most Zimbabweans are very respectful if you explain that you are on a mission to pay respect to ancestors. This shaped the conversation. Mr Ndlovu, 79 years old was a war vet and had been the official driver for Joshua Nkomo for 27 years. His Grandfather had worked for Cecil John Rhodes. Life as a high profile war vet had gifted Mr Ndolvu a handsome pension fund in the form of 20 houses, a lodge in Matopas, some shops and some land near Esigodini. When I said shew, you must be a very rich man he laughed and replied, “To be honest I WAS a very rich man, very rich. But now look at the skorokoro I’m driving. I have lost most of it.” It seems the perils of “inheritance” weighs heavy regardless who you are. His companion turned out to be his wife 50 years his junior. More on that later.

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Time to catch up with more old friends. Fort Vic High School served a vast catchment area with the result it was driven by the boarders. Some from mining towns like Mashava (center of the universe) and Zvishavane, the others a combination of farmers and engineers from the sugar capital of Zimbabwe. Laura and Mike were from the mining crew. The ease of a friendship based on fun meant we slipped seamlessly into catch up mode and remembered when life was carefree. Mike did phone a friend (Linda) to check that I hadn’t turned into a crazy psychopath before sharing his petrol cashe.

Laura and I spent many holidays playing tennis by day and longed to test out the aptly named club, night shift, by night. Short of the magical 16 we were too young and had to settle for inviting friends to Laura’s house for a game of killer and a swim to the sounds of Tainted Love.

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And so the trip down memory lane kicked into high gear. I’d asked yet another school friend Pierre to try and locate the farm that my Dad grew up on. Manzana, in Esigodini. In true Zim style Pierre and his wife Barbara phoned a friend, a few actually, and got directions . All set. On the way out of Bulawayo I noticed a sign, Hotel Rio. Mom and Dad spent many a Saturday night at the Hotel Rio in their courting days. Clubbing, 50s style I suppose. The Hotel has been transformed into a home for abused children. Some had been rescued from child marriages, an abominable practice seemingly rife in the countries north of the Limpopo. The sprung dance floor provides opportunity for the kids to boogie away their troubles. Smiling faces and photos of achievements evidence that the system is working. Can’t think of a better use for the Hotel Rio.

I have always wondered why my second name was spelled with two Ls. Allison. Bingo. Question answered 52 years later. On the way to Hotel Rio there is a road, same spelling. Mmmmm Bryan and Shirl. Was that the inspiration?

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Pierre is an avid, perhaps a bit more than avid, Falconer. I was hoping to watch him work his birds and dogs but the timing was bad. The birds are on vacay, molting and getting themselves ready for the new season. Guess that means I’ll just have to go back?

My Esigondini mission was to find the graves of my Grandparents on the Mitchell side. I never knew them, life’s timing was out. With the help of Pierre and Barbs directions I found the old homestead on Manaza farm. Buggered, but still a spot of family history. Wonder why the chimney was spared the wrecking ball. Ancestors however, are revered and the grave of little cousin Richard had been preserved.

Meanwhile at the town cemetry Granny and Grampa Mitch were in the company of a herd of cattle. As farmers I doubt they’d have complained about the grass cutting service. As a bonus I found Great Grandfather Murdoch and Buppa (grandfather Richards) step mother.

The game has shifted from birds to memories. Next stop Masvingo.