By the time I was travelling through Zimbabwe, these tactics had transformed themselves into 'land reform'. In real terms, this translated to Mugabe arming gangs to intimidate white farmers, in some cases murdering them, until they agreed to leave their farms, or sell them at a fraction of their worth. (The politics are more complicated than that, but I'm simplifying it as the politics aren't germane to this story). The point is, there were active communities of gangs acting in anarchic ways all over the county.
Living in London, I'd seen articles in newspapers about Mugabe, and the unrest in Zimbabwe. I knew there was turmoil. I'd scanned across photos, full of civic mayhem. But I hadn't read the articles - I was on my way to the sports page.
So when I decided to hike about 5 miles into Harare, the capital of Zimbabwe, from the Backpackers Lodge on Kilwinning Road, I was relatively ignorant, or näive. I assumed it all happened elsewhere.
At that point, I'd been travelling through Africa for about two months, and travelling with Anniken, who I would later marry and have three children, for about a month. African towns were often heart-wrenching visits, full of children begging for anything. Mostly, these kids were full of life and humour, and nothing like the pathetic images the charities use to raise money. The kids were fun! But behind the curtains, one could find the horror stories. I didn't blame Anniken for not wanting to go into town, and was glad she hadn't later that day. So I went alone.
The route into Harare along Airport Road is pretty flat - it's a divided highway, fairly straight, with some neighbourhoods on one side and large fields on the other. It was a typical day in Africa, sunny and a bit humid. I set off early, maybe 9am.
I don't remember much about the journey into Harare. I did a little shopping. And as I departed, I held a plastic bag. I remember it dangling by my side. I know it was before lunch, as I was hoping to get back to the Lodge before the heat of the day. I wore cargo shorts, a t-shirt, and pair of flip-flops, for which I would soon be grateful.
I was probably about half-way back when I noticed, across the divided highway, a group of about 30 young African men who all looked pretty fit, like in their late teens or early 20s, turn from a neighbourhood side street onto the opposite side of the highway I was walking. The divide on this highway was pretty wide, and they were ahead of me, maybe 100 yards away.
A tingle chilled my spine. Like some sort of primal warning system, something about this group of young men felt menacing. I'd been travelling around Africa for weeks, through Kenya, Tanzania and Zambia. Even hitchhiking occasionally. I'd seen plenty of groups of young men. I'd never felt anything like this. I made an effort to neither quicken nor slow my pace. I was walking my direction, opposite side of the highway, and they were...
Just like that, running directly toward me. Surely not, I thought, and looked behind me to hopefully find something else. Nothing but fields. They were definitely sprinting towards me. I don't remember hearing them shout or holler anything; it's all very silent in my memory.
Time slowed. They crossed the opposite side of the highway, and were racing across the grass median. Right at me. I dropped my bag. I looked along the highway for hope of rescue. No cars coming. They were closer now... what was happening? Getting nearer. I looked down at my feet, and realised that a) I've never been a sprinter, in the best of conditions I wasn't going to outrun these guys, and b) running makes you look like prey, and predators love a chase; even still, I needed the third fact, c), that I was wearing flip-flops, and running through the thicket would hurt like hell, to realise running was futile.
In that moment, my heart seemed to stop racing, a calm came over me, and I made the decision that I believe saved me from... something.
I walked toward them. Smiling. With my hand extended, to shake theirs.
By this time, they were nearly on me, and as I walked toward them, closing the distance, we met in the middle of my side of the divided highway, where about 30 men encircled me. I'd been right - they were all pretty young and fit. One guy, about 6'4" and 250 lbs, with an Aaron Neville birthmark, looked and screamed at me in Shona, the local language. I couldn't understand what he said, but I tried to shake his hand. He wouldn't take mine, but the guy to his right would. I smiled. He didn't smile, but he took my hand. I then turned to the next guy, who also had an angry expression, but I flashed my gormless grin... and he accepted my hand, and even shook it, too. I smiled even bigger. I kept finding a hand to shake, avoiding the big guy, and smiling, as if I were a politician on some sort of tour, welcoming them to this side of the highway. You'll love it here boys, it's sunny!!
As I was looking for another hand to shake, a little guy broke through my extended arm, and pushed the big guy with the Aaron Neville birthmark - hard! Started really yelling at him, and getting in his face like the piercing approach of a small dog you can't ignore - it has teeth, after all.
Even now, I don't know who was more shocked, me or the big guy, but I remember looking in his eyes and feeling a bit of relief. For whatever their reasoning, his aggression was more in keeping with the situation than the little guy's protection, who was was clearly berating the big guy. Even if he spoke in Shona, so I will never know for sure, I believe he said, "Can't you tell this guy's retarded! Look at his stupid smile! He's not a farmer, and he's too stupid to know when to run. Now, come on you big oaf, let's go smoke a cigarette."
Then, as quickly as it began, they dispersed. Melted away. I stood there for a moment, somehow vacantly calm. I'm glad Anniken wasn't there - who knows how I would have reacted if I'd felt the need to protect someone (although they may not have bum-rushed me had she been there). And I'm glad I wore flip-flops.
Mostly, though, what I learned on the side of that highway in Zimbabwe in November 1999 was this: even when there are genuine reasons to be afraid, acting through fear is the wrong thing to do; and if, when you are afraid, you can look down, gather your nerve, and then raise your hand with a smile to greet the world, you'll be surprised by the sort of situations that will actually work.
Thank you, crazy gang in Harare.
Wow, you never told me that one before! Please can you at least read the lonely planet before you next go travelling. T
ReplyDelete