Eat Out Zimbabwe has posted an inspiring write up by Theresa Wilson, who has been helping prisoners at Harare Central for the past year and a half. Wilson shares some of the challenging and humbling observations of her work:

St George’s College has now been involved in helping at Harare Central Prison for almost eighteen months. The school has formed a prison committee, made up of six members of staff. On a weekly basis Father Freyer, the resident priest at the school and Mrs Theresa Wilson, a teacher at the school, visit the prison with all important goods for the plus or minus 1300 inmates imprisoned there.

There is no section which we have not visited now and the conditions, although not as desperate as early last year, are still concerning. The prisoners are tightly packed into the cells and they are still all sleeping on the hard concrete floor. The prison was initially built to house about 700 prisoners, full capacity. On our last visit there, there were 1400 prisoners and I measured a cell by pacing – about three and a half metres by three and a half metres, in which seven prisoners were to sleep, they could hardly even fit sitting up. The corridors, with cell blocks on either side, have even been made into makeshift cells, with very little air streaming through. A ‘single’ cell, of about a metre and a half wide, housed three men.

Oddly enough, those with the so called biggest individual space are those in death row who have a cell to themselves, however, this is no consolation for them as one cannot even open ones arms out to full extent when measuring the width of the cell. The condemned prisoners stay in this tiny tomb for 23 hours a day, with one hour to shower, exercise and receive their food. The only reading material they are allowed are bibles, of which Father Freyer has sourced for the 54 prisoners there. There has not been a hanging, the method of execution in Zimbabwe, for three years now, but on each door is the prisoner’s name, his weight and height, measured to be strung up when the time comes. Many of them have lived like this for over ten years. It is a privilege to even be allowed within this area, and we go into the heavily secured “B Hall”, the doors are individually and laboriously unlocked and we have a few seconds interaction with these men. They are often the most grateful for our attention, as the non-judgmental shake of a hand and enquiry as to their well-being is usually more appreciated than the goods we bring them.

The International Red Cross continues to provide soap, oil and beans for the prisoners and Prison Services provides mealie meal, their staple diet. We have been supplementing this with fruit, whatever is in season, usually apples, oranges or bananas. Boiled eggs are a popular alternative, given in the holidays when the College kitchen can boil the 1300 required to give to all of them. Toilet paper is also a necessity and we try to bring them at least a roll a month, hardly sufficient, but provides a scrap, literally, sometimes, of dignity. The St George’s students have collected old ice-cream containers and old 2 litre juice containers for the prisoners. These serve as their plates and cups for the sadza and water, which they take into their cells to consume. We are presently encouraging a ‘shoe drive’ at the school, whereby students bring old trackshoes or slops for the prisoners to wear.

When we provide the food for the prison, we make sure that we take it to each and every inmate, a process that usually takes about two and a half hours. This is to ensure that all the prisoners get their fair share and goods are not stolen in the process.

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Some sobering research coming out of Uganda directly links experiences of homophobia with the spread of HIV.

According to AIDSmap, a recent study drew from 303 men living in Kampala, Uganda, who had had anal sex with a man in the previous three months. Some interesting statistics from the study include:

The vast majority (78%) had had sex with a woman at some time; 29% had fathered children; and 16% were currently living with a female partner.

There was often a mismatch between the sexual orientation terms that men most identified with and their reported attraction to men and women:

• Whereas 56% identified with ‘gay’ or ‘homosexual’, 70% said they were attracted mostly or only to men.
• 37% identified as ‘bisexual’, but 12% were attracted to both men and women.
• 7% identified as ‘straight’ or ‘heterosexual’, while 19% were attracted mostly or only to women.

Commercial or transactional sex was common: 42% had ever sold sex to a man, and 25% to a woman.

But most worryingly,

The researchers wished to identify the demographic or behavioural characteristics that were most strongly associated with HIV infection. In multivariate analysis, factors such as condom use or numbers of partners were not significantly associated with having HIV. In fact, only two factors were: age and homophobic abuse.

Men aged 25 or over were four times more likely to have HIV (odds ratio 4.3, 95% confidence interval 1.5 to 12.8). Amongst men over 25, HIV prevalence was 22.4%.

Men who had ever experienced violence or abuse because of their sexuality were five times more likely to have HIV (odds ratio 4.8, 95% confidence interval 1.8 to 13.1). Of the whole sample, 37% had been physically abused at some point, 37% had been blackmailed and 26% had been forced to have sex.

It seems from this study that one of the most valuable things one could do to stop the spread of HIV among men who have sex with men is to fight homophobia and intolerance. Promoting human rights means preventing HIV.

I love reading Sarah Carter’s writings from the Bally Vaughan animal sanctuary.

Here is a small excerpt from her latest newsletter:

When Bart the Jackal arrived, having been found on the university campus, he was a tiny fluffy scrap, almost catatonic with fear. For several months he haunted the marshy thickets at the bottom of his enclosure, constantly on the move once the sun went down, nowhere to be seen during daylight hours. I sat with him each evening as he chased flying ants and grasshoppers and the quicksilver little fish in the stream and he kept a cautious eye on me, circling within a metre or so on his endless, effortless laps, but no closer. I noticed that he was intensely interested in the caracals, serval and dogs living in my garden adjacent to his enclosure and showed no fear of them. At this stage, Rover the Wriggly Red Dog was a puppy and each day he would be carried up to the jackal enclosure for a play date with Bart. Bart adored this but Rover, ever the curmudgeon, loathed it and would sit with his back pointedly to the prancing little jackal, hogging the toys and hoovering  up Bart’s food even though he had usually just eaten his own breakfast. Eventually I gave up trying to rehabilitate the playground bully and Bart went back to relying on rather unsatisfactory interaction through the fence with my animals for company. Exchanging nose kisses with Smeegal the serval cat was part of his routine, and to my surprise Smeegal seemed to seek out the little jackal, lying along the fence line and watching his antics intently.

Smeegal came to us as a refugee from an invaded farm. A pampered and adored pet, he spent three happy years on the Chirundu sugar estates with Jon and Chooks Langerman, sleeping on their bed under the air conditioner and enjoying gourmet meals prepared for him by Jon. Life in my home was somewhat different. Detested by the xenophobic caracals and chased from the house by them at every opportunity (as they do to all visitors including members of my family), he took up residence in a little thatched structure in the garden, sneaking in to the house to unroll the toilet paper and chase the shampoo bottles round the bathtub when the caracals weren’t looking. Each evening he cut a solitary figure as he made his lonely way down the garden, and I felt that he was rather sad.

One evening I returned to my house to find Bart lolling triumphantly on my front lawn. He had tunneled under the fence and made himself totally at home. Unfazed by my dogs, deliriously defiant of the caracals and enamored of the huge serval cat, he set about organizing a life to his satisfaction. He pointedly ignored his own dinner of chopped chicken and offal in favour of the dog food and soon was getting his own portion in a green plastic dish on the lawn each evening. He adopted a teddy that he carried about until Harry the caracal ripped its head off and pulled out the insides, and he learnt that peanut butter toast is an excellent and delicious source of protein for an omnivore. Each morning as I sit down on my veranda with toast and coffee, Bart appears, trotting busily on his tiny feet, fabulously bouffant tail bouncing behind him like an outrageous fashion accessory, and snatches up pieces of toast I throw to him. The caracals firmly believe only they should receive hand-outs and stalk him relentlessly, but he relishes this. A jackal’s psyche is all about scavenging from scary predators, and he is so swift and so cunning that my portly, couch-lolling caracals have no hope of catching him.  (Harry the caracal’s reputation as a Fearless Super-Predator was  irrevocably damaged recently when he was discovered actually sitting on an enraged puff adder. Harry was oblivious to the potentially lethal threat under his capacious bottom and fortunately the puff adder seemed equally dense, striking furiously at the fence post in front of it as it struggled  to free itself from this inglorious situation).

Incredibly, Smeegal and Bart have become inseparable. These two unlikely companions, who would be sworn enemies in the wild as they compete for the same food, can be seen in my garden playing wild games of chase, grooming each other tenderly and sleeping curled up in their shared bedroom. Each morning they slumber in the sunshine together, nestled in picturesque harmony in the wild flowers bordering the stream. They love to hunt insects together, pouncing and leaping in the late afternoon light through the grass in search of grasshoppers, and one memorable moonlit night I saw the two of them hunting a bushbaby. They were so absorbed in their task, stalking silently through the silvery shadows, gazing intently up into the trees where the bushbaby was feeding, that they walked straight into each other, like two slapstick comedians, and gave each other a terrible fright. After a bit of muffled yelping and hissing, they sat down with their backs to each other and groomed themselves ferociously to regain their composure, watched with disgust from the window by the two irritable caracals who had been roused from my bed by the commotion.

At last, two creatures whose lives had been irrevocably altered by circumstances totally beyond their control have found a new and happy life, together. With two caracals, a serval cat, a jackal and two dogs living in my home, life is a little chaotic. Breakfast time degenerates into a melee every morning.  The caracals like to sit on their own chairs at the table. Quite often they jump on the table, knock over the coffee or lick the topping off the toast. They leap off their chairs when Bart appears and chase him with their lolloping, rabbity gait around the garden before returning to their seats to glower and hiss at the dogs who are relegated to the floor. Sometimes Harry, a true feline eminence, will casually extend an immense, savagely-clawed, furry foot and rest it on my wrist so he can wash it, licking my hand at the same time and purring intermittently, just a few breathy rumbles to indicate that he is content, before resuming his reign of terror amongst the other family members.

To find out more visit www.ballyvaughan.co.zw or email sarah [at] ballyvaughan [dot] co [dot] zw

Rejoice Ngwenya takes on both the Diaspora, suggesting that they return hom to help fight fascsim, as well as the xenophobia perpetrated by South Africans who should concede that they are a “brood of insecure, spineless cowards.” Read Rejoice’s latest article below:

Considering the new wave of xenophobic attacks against black Zimbabweans, some black South Africans now have to concede that they are a brood of insecure, spineless cowards.  I have literally grown up with these cowards, lived with them in exile, conferenced, drank and shopped with them in their fancy boulevards and arcades. Under that veneer of happy-go-lucky hypocrisy, their limited intellect seethes with nothing but venomous contempt for other Africans, especially us Zimbabweans, Mozambicans, Zambians and Malawians.  You encounter sales assistants in South African shops and all you see is contemptuous hatred in their eyes, spite for your money as they peer suspiciously at it as if it has been puked by a dragon. Even when I check into five-star hotels at Rosebank, I have to grope around for ideal seating while the receptionists scurry around for attention of Japanese guests in anticipation of a miserly tip. I guess we need to appreciate that their Ubuntu deserted them as a result of three hundred years of plunder and mental abuse by the Boers.  To them, anything white is God-sent. But I have good news for the enlightened few:  it is only an insecure, good-for-nothing pea brain that would kill someone solely on the basis of ethnicity. Just like Hitler, Amin, Stalin, Bokassa and Sadam Hussein, Paul Kagame, ZANU-PF hooligans in June 2008 et al – xenophobic South Africans are a pathetic excuse for humans.

The 1-7 August 2010 week, I hear, is national science week in that country, but sad to say, xenophobia is not rocket science, otherwise there would have been a genius from some village high school in Tlokoyandou, Limpopo Province,  with a perfect wonder cure. Unfortunately, it is neither a medical condition nor physical deformity, but plain stupidity.  I guess I am asking for too much to expect an average primary school dropout from Soweto to notice how the world has moved ahead riding the wave of human diversity. Sadly, there are millions of such second grade humans in that country, from the dry lands of Limpopo to the shores of The Cape. These idle minds are too busy worrying about where to get their next glass of home-brewed bear; pondering which Shabeen will be first to play the next big Kwaito [local house music]song, instead of creating own jobs. Their obsession is what Zimbabwean stud lays which South African woman, and what sort of punishment matches the ‘transgression’.   If they had a morsel of intellect, I would remind them that the world’s best civilisation – United States of America – is a potpourri of ethnic diversity.  If Americans had continued agonising on how to perfect Adolph Hitler’s poisonous doctrine of Aryan purity, they would still be living in tin shacks and using bucket toilets in Harlem like South Africans do in Khayelitsha!  Good gracious me, which planet has these clowns tumbled from?

Considering that in the 1990s, scores of Zimbabweans lost their lives and property harbouring parents of these social rejects, the blame lies purely on the African National Congress’s [ANC] political ideology of false promises. But unlike our own Marxist-Leninist dunderheads in Harare, true ANC cadres no longer beat up those who do not agree with them. The remnant legion of Zimbabwean-haters thrives on a mentality of cowardice and fear, and then convinces equally gullible neighbours that poverty is caused by African aliens. The net result?  Xenophobia.

Fear and cowardice are the twin evils of African politics. Here in Zimbabwe, after thirty years of violent repression, a typical Zimbabwean will not say much against political order or any system for that matter without glancing over their shoulder. The consequences are devastating. We have become so accustomed to service delivery abuse that mediocrity and compliance are now in the DNA our social behaviour. Zimbabweans wait for someone to say something, and they join with a ‘we knew it all along’ chorus. Fear and coward mentality!

This reminds me of a Mr Dzikamai Mavhaire, a close ally of Robert Mugabe who, at the height of ZANU-PF’s one party state euphoria in the 1990s, bravely defied all political odds and said something to the effect: “Mr Mugabe must go; he should give way to new party leadership.” There was hue and cry from his delusionary party, but he became an instant cult hero in the ‘democratic movement’.  As you read this rebellious treatise, twelve million Zimbabweans of progressive political ideology would want to show Mr Mugabe the flashing political exit, but we have had absolutely no clue on how to go about this noble democratic exercise since 1985. Villagers have been pummelled into prostrate submission while urbanites are routinely reduced to dysfunctional robots that worry too much about day to day survival at the expense of long-term political wisdom.

At petrol service stations, councils, churches, schools, public buses – Zimbabwean citizens are abused, but the most they can do is to wait and see, hoping that the next day will bring better tidings. Grocery supermarkets compel us to buy merchandise we do not need because they stock no loose change, and we take this punishment without so much as twitching an eyebrow. Are we cabbages or what! No wonder South Africans and Tswanas trample on us – we have learnt – or rather more accurately, ZANU-PF has taught us to take a beating with a smile. In the crowded lounges of London, Washington and Sidney, Zimbabwean Diaspora cower behind superficial self-reassurance that it is impossible to return home and rid ourselves of the myopic scourge of ZANU-PF politics: “ Hee bakithi, sizophindela njani ekhaya uMgabe esabusa?.”  [“How on earth can we return to Zimbabwe during Mugabe’s reign? ].

My advice to the ANC government is that xenophobic attacks on my countrymen are not an illusion, but direct result of false promises of jobs and housing. But those assaulting Zimbabweans will have to wait another hundred years before a government can deliver jobs. Governments do not deliver, they devour. For my fellow citizens in Alexander, Kya Sands, Soweto and Westham  – I say swallow your pride, rid yourselves of fear and return home to fight against fascism. The battle is about to be won.

Whereas it is common among people who work for the same organizations to share lunch hours together, a group of men working around Newlands shopping center have crafted it differently. Men from different organisations, including some vendors, gather under a tree close to the Caltex Service Station, eating and chatting.

Stories that make people laugh range from political jokes, social issues and the general teasing of each other.

Surprisingly, very few people know each other by name but the regular gatherings have developed enough trust to share information and lend each other a dollar or two. Sometimes strangers appear and their presence influences the type, and depth of stories and jokes of the day.

It is difficult to know how such a group came to be. No one really controls it. Sometimes two men just stand around and some start joining in sharing stories to while away the lunch hour. Usually people stay as long as possible not wanting to be robbed of any fun. In the end we all have to rush to our duties.

It is in these informal groups that one hears the deeper analytical thoughts of those who are usually not heard – those who are usually looked down upon in society, for example airtime vendors, and others who informally sell foot balls and fruits. Last week’s burning issue was polygamy. There was a polygamous man in the group defending his position in the face of criticism.

To understand poverty it is necessary to be among the poor and share with them thoughts and different ways of life, because in turn they open the pages of their lives to you. I am pleased to have joined this group because my perception of how people live has widened.

Pam and Bren, day 3

For what seems like ages, my sister Pam and I have talked about cycling from Harare to my parents’ cottage near Juliasdale in the Eastern Highlands.  Early this year we picked a date, but it came and went and we were no closer to being ready to make the trip.  Since the distance from Harare to the cottage is roughly 250km, we realized that we would need to do a bit of training before setting out on the journey.

We cycle together regularly, meeting early in the morning on a Saturday or Sunday to do a hilly loop that takes about 2hrs.  But riding together once a week hardly seemed adequate for the endeavour – hence more procrastination.  The sad truth is that I’ve been the one holding up the show.

For the last couple of years Pammy has been struggling with a bad back.  The doctor says it’s not going to get better, and in fact it’s amazing how active she is given the shape it’s in.  She does uncountable prostrations as part of her daily Buddhist practice, swims, goes to yoga and Pilates, plays the piano and has recently taken up the violin – never mind looking after a house full of kids.

Anyway, Pam recently decided that with the increasing pain load associated with her back, she’d opt for surgery in early September.  Suddenly our options for cycling together to Juliasdale telescoped down to one or two weekends in July.  Yikes.  Travel and flu had combined to limit my exercise in July and I was suddenly faced with doing this ride less fit than I’d been in awhile.  There was nothing for it but to trust in Muscle Memory!  Hopefully my legs and chest would remember that I’d been quite fit this year.

We were easily convinced that cycling the leg from Harare to Rusape, along the Mutare Road, was for the birds. Instead, to make up a similar distance to our original route, our ride would go as follows:  Day 1: Rusape to the cottage (+- 72km), Day 2: Cottage to Troutbeck and back (+- 80km), Day 3: Cottage to the bottom of Christmas Pass – about 11km out from Mutare (+- 80km).

Garigayi, the bike mechanic

We set out by car from Harare on Thursday July 29th with bicycles and mini support team at the ready – Mum, Dad and Pammy’s husband, Dave.  With the clock ticking down, we made the obligatory stop in Marondera to check in with my aunt Lorraine. Mum and Dad were recently back from a trip to the UK, so there was lots of catching up to be done – in Marondera and during the car trip.

When we finally pulled in at Rusape, it was well after 11am, making it a fairly late start when the two of us got underway at 11.30am.

With bottles of Game juice and pockets full of jelly babies and energy bars, we headed side by side up the long road towards Nyanga.  Day one was blessed with a wintery blue sky and a cool, gentle breeze.  Happily there was very little traffic on the road and we made good progress for a couple of hours.  Our support team met us roughly half way with tea, sandwiches and fruit and Dave joined us to cycle the last couple of hours to the cottage.  We put him to use sooner rather than later when we discovered somewhere along the way that my back tyre was flat.

By the time we reached the turn off to the Pine Tree Inn, the temperature had dropped considerably and we were very happy to be Almost There.  Then a small disaster struck.  Going up a steep bit of dirt road about 1km from the cottage, my chain broke.  We hadn’t planned for that eventuality at all.  I was miserable as we trudged up the long hill to the cottage.  It seemed that nobody had the tools or the know how to fix my chain.  There were still a couple of options, so all was not lost.  Pam is taller than me, and Dave is taller

than Pam, so although we could swap bikes it wasn’t going to be all that comfortable the next day.  The road to Juliasdale had been a fairly hilly 70km+ Up.  The road to Troutbeck would be lots more Up.  Actually, it seems that all the roads in the eastern highlands are a mixture of ups and downs, so relief is usually at the top of the next rise.

According to my partner Bev, cyclists in Le Tour de France are advised to have an ice bath after a long day in the saddle.  My parents have a small pool at their cottage and it was Icy.  Soon after we arrived, Pam and I jumped in and very quickly straight out.

A hot bath and a square meal quickly set us right, and after an early night, we were set to go the next morning.

It's a long way to...

On Friday morning, the blue skies were gone, and in its stead a cloudy grey day with a brisk wind. Not what the doctor ordered for a long hilly ride to Troutbeck and back. The grey weather was completely countered by the wonderful news that a casual labourer working on a project at the cottage knew how to join a broken chain.  With a long nail, a pair of pliers and a hammer, he soon had me and my chain back on my own bike.  Dave had also been busy in the background and had replaced my bald back tyre with a new knobbly one!  You’ve got to love the amazingly practical folk that live around you.

We set off at 9.45am and arrived, thighs burning, at Troutbeck Hotel at 12.45am. We pulled on thermal tops and tracksuit trousers and ducked into the hotel for a cup of tea and a bit of food.  Service was a little slow and whilst we waited, Pammy and I pondered the option of being ferried back to the cottage by car by Dave. Nope! We wanted to do the mileage, And we wanted to cycle Down the long Up we’d cycled earlier.  The ride home was no picnic and by the time we arrived back at the cottage, just after 4.30pm, we were very tired. We had our obligatory freezing plunge and followed the same routine as the night before.

The next morning I was beginning to feel a bit worse for wear.  My little sister’s superior fitness was definitely starting to show.  Never mind her crocked back.  The weather had deteriorated and the mist hung rather low around us.  We hadn’t thought to bring raincoats.  Silly really, because although winters in Zimbabwe are mainly dry, the eastern highlands can be a lot more wet all the year round.  Once again, as luck would have it, someone else saved the day.  My parents had brought their raincoats.  Rather surprising for our forgetful family.  For example, my mum had brought her paints and brushes but left her art paper at home!

Pammy en route to Troutbeck

Pam and I were happy to have Dave join us for the start of Day 3 and we rode off in the cold drizzle together at 9am on Saturday morning.  There were a lot more downs that ups, but be sure that every down had an up at the other end of it!  As you can tell, I wasn’t feeling as perky on Day 3.

Thankfully the drizzle stopped after a couple of hours and the cold day warmed as we dropped height along the road to Mutare.  Acres of pine trees gave way to glorious views of bush and granite kopjes and small scale farms.  Cattle and goats on the side of the roads looked in good condition and commuters plied the road between busy rural business centres.

Dave hopped off his bike and into the support car after about two and a half hours, leaving Pammy and I to finish the journey off together.  About 12km away from our designated end, we started to discuss the possibility of doing the extra Big Up and Down into Mutare.  Christmas Pass is 11km Up and Down into Mutare.  Just then the support car pulled up to check on our progress.  We mentioned our recent thoughts.  Their response was … “It’s enough already!”  They had put their collective feet down after hours of hanging about for us over 3 days of cycling.  And, coincidentally, saved Pammy and me from our Burrell-ness  – enough is never enough if there’s another hill to be climbed.  I suspect they also saved me from a bust gut.  I was done for, even if Pammy still had miles left in her legs.