the hum of possibility: Zimbabwe -- He Said, She Said

One week from now, I'm home sweet home. But first, I’m a tourist again.

Don’t get me wrong; I wouldn’t consider myself a “local” in Cape Town. I’m a temporary resident with a pretty good understanding of at least my corner of the city, but I’m a familiar face by now. I’m rarely asked who I am, where I’m from, or where I’ve been anymore.

I’m on the tail end of my biggest adventure outside Cape Town all year. Game drives in Kruger National Park in the Gauteng Province of South Africa, sightseeing on the Panorama Route in the Mpumalanga Province of South Africa, and a day trip to the small and mountainous Kingdom of Swaziland are behind me, and I’m writing this from a backpacker (hostel) in Zimbabwe.

Throughout the adventure, I’ve been reminded over and over that I am, indeed, a tourist in a new land, even if I’ve been living in southern Africa for nine months. These moments, which have reminded me again and again why I love to travel, have been some of the most poignant memories of my journey yet.

Zimbabwe, y'all.

“Elephants!” he said, just after we’d come right after a sharp turn. We looked ahead through the windshield and saw them ourselves. Inside the residential neighborhood that our backpacker is nestled into were about ten elephants, whose silhouettes grazed in front of a large building before our eyes.

“Safe travels,” I said as I shook two hands that had traveled the world. As we drove away from the desolate road, I snapped a picture: two German guys with backpacks as big as them, on to their next adventure. Over the past 24 hours, I had devoured their stories from their seven months of backpacking on a $30 per day budget. Victoria Falls was just a stop on their round-the-world journey, and the Botswana border was calling for them. We left them to hitchhike.

“Do you know what he says? He says you’re white people,” said the taxi driver, nodding to his two-year-old son, who hovered between the driver and passenger seats, one hand on each headrest. I wondered the sorts of people the taxi driver’s son had encountered in his short lifetime. And that’s not to mention the things that were carried in the back of the car. Today? A few chickens.

“You sit at a desk. I sit on an elephant,” he said, before commanding our elephant to stand steady. He’d started work as a farmhand working with cattle, and his boss had asked him to find a replacement for himself. He’d decided to go with God, not questioning the fate of his employment. In time, he found out that his boss had found him work at another company, where he worked with wilder animals. He advanced from cleaning elephant stalls to guiding tourists on their elephant-back safaris.

"My car is fine!" he said, while he banged on the dash. Our driver had just dropped a group off near the Zimbabwe/Zambia border, and an officer had stopped him for inspection. When we pulled away from the obviously heated exchange, the driver translated the argument for us. According to the driver, it's common for such officers to ask to see one's driver's license, only to hold it ransom for a payoff. The driver, a clever man, had refused to hand over his license, only to wave it before us after we were back on the road.

"I've got a small problem: mosquitos," he said. It took me a minute. Most people approach us for "small change" or "bread and milk for the children" from a nearby convenience store. All this guy wanted, though, was insect repellent. With uncountable bites on my own legs, I had more empathy than usual for this guard who would spend the night outside.

"Ooooooh," she said, and turned back to where we stood in the walk-up window. We had just ordered two Bar-One ice creams, and just as our $10 bill was being exchanged for change, the electricity hummed to a halt. In Africa, power failures are fairly common, sometimes as rolling blackouts and other times, like when one has just ordered ice cream, as unexpected hurdles. As we'd already spent a good portion of our day attempting (and failing) to withdraw cash from at least 5 different ATMs, we couldn't help but shrug and smile.

I’ve fallen for a few Zimbabweans in Cape Town. Their smiles glow and their spirits reflect the African sun. Tawanda, a taxi driver, grins while he tells me stories from his country as he transports me from Point A to Point B. Brightman, who cares for the plants at a coffee shop I frequent, speaks carefully crafted sentences while he asks about my experiences in South Africa and the USA. Oslean smiles while we talk about “Twelfth Night” by Shakespeare, which we share as a favorite. Terrance, a barista at a cafe on Long Street, stretches his arms wide for a hug when I duck in between stops.

From the beginning, I’ve pondered what it is about Zimbabweans that makes that makes them so magnetic. Now that I’ve seen just a slice of their country, I understand a bit better. It comes from the dust under my feet, the colorful sky up above, the elephants in the yard, the red sunset on the horizon, the chickens in the back of the car, and even the mosquitos buzzing in my ears. Zimbabwe, you’re a gem.