Harare, 23 September 2014
There was no fanfare, no triumphant return; just a feeling of relief to be there at last, and tiredness in my legs from being cramped in a coach seat all day long. But there was Sam’s big, cheeky smile, his simple, easy hug. He’d been a stranger when I set off, just someone whose number I’d been given and told to call by a colleague; I did call and he’d been so kind as to take me out to the Lion and Cheetah park on my first weekend in Zimbabwe. I’m not sure what he made of me then, but I don’t think it’d be far from the truth to say he didn’t think I’d even make it as far as Marondera. In the time I’ve been on the road he’s become a friend. His text messages have made me smile, made me feel I wasn’t alone, made me feel I had someone I could turn to if anything went wrong. When I told him I was getting back to Harare at 9pm that night, he insisted on coming to pick me up, and I could tell at once that his opinion of me had changed, just as mine had of him, in the time I’d been away. He admitted, laughing, that he’d never been to Great Zimbabwe, or the Matopos, all these places he’d recommended I see, supposedly national institutions for all black Zimbabweans. He slapped me on the back and said he’d never dream of spending a night in a cave in the Chimanimani mountains.
It felt as if my journey had been his in a way too. Not just because he’d followed it, and helped me through it: it felt as if it had actually meant something to him too. I remember something he said, at the beginning, about our mutual friend in London, who like me has represented many Zimbabweans seeking asylum in the UK. Sam was awed by the level of detail in which she knew the election results in the country’s various constituencies, the places where voters’ allegiance had switched to the MDC, where intimidation and repression of the party’s activists had been the worst. He was impressed and I think genuinely moved by the tenacity and passion with which she fought for the protection of his countrymen and women. I remember him saying how much he’d love to show her Zimbabwe, but how he feared that she would never be able to see anything in it but suffering, danger and cruelty; all its many problems and none of its beauty. All things he knows all too well, and which still didn’t stop him coming home after almost ten years in the UK. I was struck by his sadness when he said that. Perhaps because he knew he would probably never get the chance to welcome his dear friend to his country, and sadness for her too, because even if he did, she might not see anything in it other than the worst that she already knew. Perhaps with my journey he’d seen that wasn’t necessarily true.
Although I had two full days in Harare before leaving, I didn’t have time to do half of the things I’d been looking forward to doing. I’d wanted to go to the Botanical Gardens again, where on my first day I had spent an afternoon wondering what on earth I was doing there, and whether I hadn’t been a little bit too hasty and bold to think I could just get on a plane in London, get off in Harare, and cycle around Zimbabwe. I’d wanted to go back to the Book Cafe’, that oasis in the middle of the city, where I’d spent another afternoon listening to a live jazz band in the garden, chatting, and enjoying the feeling of being somewhere where people feel free to be a bit more different and a bit more themselves. I’ll just have to come back to see these places again.
What I did instead couldn’t have been better. I’d been thrilled to hear that Edone and Aubrey were still in Harare after coming up from Juliasdale the week before. I met Edone at the flea market behind Avondale shopping centre and she helped me choose local handicrafts to take back to family and friends.
Then she drove into town, excitedly pointing out places and telling stories of the city, all while negotiating junctions with near-invisible traffic lights and utterly chaotic traffic. “That’s the school where our grandchildren go…. There’s the house where Ian Smith lived… quite unassuming… And there’s the new Zanu PF headquarters, that’s their symbol, the cockerel… There’s Kopje… You can’t really tell but it is on a bit of a hill, it’s where the first pioneers settled, where the city was founded… It used to be a place were lovers went for a walk, in the ’60s, but now I don’t think it’s anything special… There’s the library… Oh look! Aren’t the jacarandas just so beautiful?”
I sat next to Edone and breathed it all in. The city felt more familiar than when I’d left, as if seeing the rest of the country, which is actually so completely different to it, had brought us closer. It felt good to be seeing Harare through her eyes, with all the memories the city has for her, rather than revisiting mine already. There’ll be enough time for that after I get home. We visited the natural history museum, then drove to her daughter’s for lunch with Aubrey, and a couple of their grandchildren. It was all completely unexpected, unplanned, and felt perfect. I was touched again by how generous and welcoming they all were. After lunch I jumped back into the car with Edone and Aubrey and went with them on the few errands they had to run, driving around the low density suburbs, getting some photos printed, some shopping done, stopping for an ice cream, until the sun started to fall, and the time came to say goodbye.
I’m ready to go home.
After living every moment of the past month so intensely on my own, I can’t wait to share this journey with the people I love. When I set off, my head felt crowded, crammed full of lists of things I wanted to-do, niggling doubts about what-to-do on difficult clients’ cases. I never had enough time. In the past week I’ve been amazed at how empty my mind has felt sometimes, the hours I’ve spent simply watching the sky at dusk and dawn, or vacantly staring into the bush. I’ve had more time than I’ve had thoughts to fill it with, and now I’m excited to see what might come out of this, what new directions this journey will take me in.
The end.
PS. Although I will continue writing, quite possibly about Zimbabwe, almost certainly about my work and my travels, this is intended to be the last post in this series. Thank you for reading, and I hope you’ve enjoyed it. I would love to read your comments, if you have any, which you can leave below.
The dirt tracks lead into vast expanses of land that on my map are simply blank, white space, punctuated occasionally by unfamiliar names where two tracks cross. At first they seemed to lead away from civilisation – away from the asphalt road, away from towns and cities, away from the country’s administrative, cultural and political centres – but later I realised that in fact the opposite is true. These dirt tracks lead to the heart of the country, and this heart, the rural areas, is where Zimbabwe is most foreign to me. I know that here life has a rhythm and structure that’s completely different to life in the cities, that it’s rooted in the land, and in traditional beliefs and practices I know little about, let alone understand. Anyone who has travelled a little will have noticed that there is a bigger difference between the city and the countryside in any country, than between two cities even if they are located in very different countries at opposite ends of the earth. The same is true here. However different life in Harare seemed to me when I first arrived, in truth it has more in common with life in London than with life in the rural areas that lie far down these dirt track roads. In Western Europe, where I’ve lived my whole life, the cities have been spreading into the countryside, changing it, developing it, building it up bit by bit and at times swallowing parts of whole over the course of centuries – to the point that now there are barely any real rural areas left. I have certainly never lived in any.
Luckily, it wasn’t long before Lake Mutirikwe came into view, and a few more kilometres after that I pulled up by the old man’s car at what was officially this time the end of the race. The old man, his son, and a few other riders were still waiting for the only woman among them, who I hadn’t realised had been behind me all along. Not fancying the idea of retracing my steps and cycling some of the hills I’d just climbed again, I turned down the kind invitation to join them for post-race beers and gin and tonics at the sailing club where they were staying, and headed instead to look for the campsite next to the Great Zimbabwe ruins. Despite the fact that Great Zimbabwe is a UNESCO world heritage site, trumpeted by my guidebook as one of the ‘highlights’ of the country, I wasn’t expecting much. I’m wary of the way the tourist industry sells places, telling you that you can’t miss them, and what to “discover” and “experience” once you’re there. And also, I suppose it was because I’ve been lucky enough to have already seen a lot of stone ruins and monuments in my life, ancient Roman remains, 2,000 years old, imposing and impressive old fortresses, temples, castles and cathedrals. I guess I wondered how Great Zimbabwe could possibly compare with all that. I’d fallen into the classic tourist trap of ranking places and experiences, as if everywhere in the world existed for our pleasure, to be seen and done, compared and classified. 
I was wrong. Great Zimbabwe was, at least for me, at least on this occasion, a magical place, unlike anywhere I’ve been before. I followed Rosemary, my local guide, up a steep stony path to the top of the hill complex. What from the campsite below had looked like a fairly uninteresting hill studded with large rock boulders and a few stone walls, turned out to be a disorientating labyrinth of walled pathways, enclosures and caves. What was most incredible was the way in which the dry stone walls, arches and gateways had been made to work together with the natural sheets and boulders of granite, such a perfect complement to one another that you couldn’t believe one had been there first without the other. Rosemary told me about every chamber and enclosure’s history in emphatic, theatrical tones, that reminded me of Shakespeare, and for some reason made me slightly suspicious of the historical accuracy of everything she said. But it didn’t matter if I learned nothing, as I enjoyed every word she said. And whenever Rosemary ran out of dramatic stories to recount, I asked her about her life. I learned that this had been the only job she’d been able to get after completing her degree at Masvingo university, and what she really wanted to do was work for a charity like World Vision, how she feels lucky to have this job even though it does not pay very much, and she has to help provide for her parents and younger siblings as well, who live in a thatched hut in the rural areas, not far away, where they grow maize and other vegetables on their small piece of land. 
I loved the freedom we had to pick our way around the site, climbing up onto the highest rocks, under the careful watch of the monkeys and baboons. In the United Kingdom your experience in a place like this would be carefully constructed so that you see things in a certain order, from a certain angle, take your photographs from a certain point, and leave through the gift shop. Your every movement would be constrained and controlled by health and safety regulations. 
I returned to the hill complex before dawn the next day, with two German backpackers who’d arrived at the campsite when I was already in my tent and almost ready to go to sleep, though it was probably not even 9 o’clock. Unable to get to sleep with the sound of their excited, beer-fuelled chatter, I got up and joined them. They were full of enthusiasm about their adventure which had only just begun in Harare the day before and which would take them to Bulawayo, Victoria Falls, Botswana, and Namibia. We set off from our tents in the perfect darkness of the starry night, head torches on we cut across the long grass to the bottom of the hill. But soon the electric beams were too violent for the delicate start of dawn, and as we climbed the hill we switched them off though it was still too dark to really see without them. Although not even a day had passed since I’d been up here, I got completely lost in the tall walls and multiple enclosures of the hill complex and couldn’t find the way up to its highest point. With daybreak close, we climbed up onto a large boulder and sat there as the kings may have done centuries ago, waiting for the sun to rise on the horizon, as the sky turned pink from blue, orange from green, bringing golden light from the night.
