I returned to Harare last week from doing a course in the US, and I sat on the seemingly endless flight marveling at how trusting we can be in this world, believing that this massive hulk of metal, operated by someone I have never met, could safely ferry me and hundreds of random strangers safely across the ocean and the equator. But when I looked up from my novel several hours into the journey, and the first thing I saw was the southern cross beaming at me from across the night black sky, I breathed with a deep sense of homecoming.

Not 24 hours into my stay, a friend asked me what were my impressions of the place. And I felt defensively less than. Because a lot of my impression was how much the same it is – and largely because of a long host of experiences very similar to those Natasha writes about.

On my first day into town, I met Richard, a young man in a white t-shirt and jeans who insisted on walking with me from the Kensington shops all the way to Samora Machel, despite my insistence that I didn’t feel like a chat with him. He had a clever manoeuvre of pretending to stop to fix his shoes – but really just stalling to see which direction I was going so he could then jog to catch up. That same afternoon it was Tawa, who spotted me at that very Takawira and Samora Machel intersection that Natasha mentioned, and walked me half way to Newlands. And that very evening, it was Robert, a suited man who looked to be in his 50s, who sat staring at me and asking the occasional question whilst I tried to read a book as I sipped my lemonade, waiting for some friends.

But in addition to the psssts and the hello sweeties, I have of course had a wealth of those gorgeously poignant and human moments that make this place so beautiful.

When I landed, to tide me over for a while, a colleague handed me a pile of $1,000 notes with a smile: “We’re back to bricks.” The benefits of the three zero project new money seem already to be wearing off.

Standing in the shops my first morning, trying to get my head around current prices, a man in a security guard uniform approached me.

“Excuse me, madam,” he asked shyly, pointing towards the deodorant shelves. “Please can you help me? When choosing a perfume, how do I select for best efficiency in smelling.”

And I looked at these tins of $20 000 and higher deodorants and wondered how much he earned, if he could afford one, and how long it would last. So we had a bit of a discussion about the merits and challenges of different deodorant brands. Spray vs roll on. If you’re looking for underarm coverage or a full body spray – clothes and all. How long different stay last on you. How much smell per tin. And so forth. In the end, not being the most experienced deodorant buyer myself, I feel I let him down a bit, so I gave him an encouraging smile and suggested he ask some mates for their suggestions as well.

Then as I was walking down Nyerere this morning, I spotted a man making his slow but determined way up the street towards me in his pajama top, shorts and patapatas. He didn’t look up at anyone as he went past, he just plodded on, cane in one hand, small black sports bag in the other. As he got closer, I realised there was plastic tubing coming out of the bag, and up the man’s shorts. Catheter? Feeding tube? Blood transfusion gone awry? I have to confess I didn’t stop to ask. But I did have a small chuckle to myself imagining this guy deciding he’s had enough of hospital, by golly he’s going home – just try and stop him.

What is also familiar is the regime’s intolerance, as are its callous policies and casual disregard for the welfare of its people. But, of course, most strikingly not the same is the brutality we’ve seen over the past few weeks. Not, perhaps, that it should be entirely surprising. If, as a government, you’re able to preside over 1700% inflation, life expectancy dropping by 30 years, and the exodus of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of energetic capable workers seeking better living and working conditions overseas, maybe it’s not really so much of a stretch to shoot a protester, arrest top opposition leadership, klap them upside the head, jump on their legs and stomach, nab them, bludgeon them, and leave them half dead.

But certainly, the violence of the past week or so has had a very different air about it than the more familiar demonstrate-arrest-demonstrate-arrest cycle. What I’m hoping is also different is our (individual and collective) willingness and determination to do something different, to strategise and regroup and get innovative, clever, strong and proactive in our resistance to the status quo – and our insistence in creating something new.

This entry was posted on March 19th, 2007 at 12:15 pm by Amanda Atwood and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.