Specials

The Governor is Coming

The Governor was coming to open a bridge across a tributary of the Mazoe River.    A picture post card quality glossed the kraals that morning, as we bumped towards the rest camp being built for His Excellency's visit. Thatched rondavels of pole and mud huddled in sun-drenched clusters needing only the label: "A Typical African Village". More sanitary, if less picturesque, were the dwellings of burnt or sun-dried brick, some even whitewashed.  They called for a different title say, "Improved Housing Comes to Africa".

And then, oh sight incongruous, we lurched upon a collection of pole and dagga huts nearly obscured by two shiny late-model cars and two unshiny naked buses. "Capitalism in an African Reserve".

The next kopje was a relief. A typically Rhodesian jumble of granite boulders, grayish, with rust drippings and fungus patches of yellow-green, chiseled by centuries of weather into sensitive balance, and unveneered by modern man. A relief from parched September earth and the obscenities of Westernization.

We had promised to collect village contributions of thatching grass and deliver them to the gang of "boys" working at the camp. But the first pile proved elusive and we stopped to ask directions. The engine cut out and Gene Autry the Yodeling Cowboy (how did he get here in the first place?) wafted in.

The exponent of this sacrilege emerged from his hut dressed in yellow corduroy trousers, hitched up with rope, a blinding scarlet shirt and shredded sneakers. His instructions competed with the squawking of outraged poultry and the dreary whining of a machine badly in need of a new needle, a rewinding and a new record.

"Yes, Nkos'kas," he answered my unbelief. "Gin Autly".  

Having bounced our way back to a certain footpath, we plowed amongst brush and trees until we reached a sea of red boulders, crossed it, needled over some thorn bushes and jerked down cattle-made canyons to a dip-tank.

One emaciated bundle of grass leaned against a stone wall.

Might she be cutting this for us?  (Apparently not)

Landscape with cattle dips

Here is a more sophisticated version of the simple calabash thumb piano or mbiri we saw.

The buses looked so indecent without the things that sanction them as a legitimate part of tribal Africa. Without the passengers sardined inside and oozing through the windows; without the muddle of bicycles, vegetables, sleeping mats, cooking pots, bundles of cloth and the occasional infant who's been mistaken for a pumpkin piled on top.

Floyds’ Bush Taxi

Our trip was a lucky thing for those on the road that morning. A fat mammy, cheeks slit like pie crust, heaved herself from the roadside where she was vastly enjoying a beery reward for her efforts in a community contour-banking project, and laboured aboard, dragging reluctant offspring and sloshing her precious liquid.

Two women, with household possessions, a suckling babe apiece and five tots tagging behind, gained a short respite on their 25 mile journey between "line of rail" husbands and the fields they would begin ploughing next morning.  In his notes Barry referred to them as “walking incubators”

Our last passenger was an old man who took off his cornucopia hat of brown paper as he hoisted himself  into our Bedford truck.  He was cursed with a goitre which threatened to grow to the size of his head and a delirious squeak, his only means of communication.

When he left us, miles further along, he fumbled among his tatters and brought out a coin. I hope he lived long enough to spend it on something else.

A stream of gliding women under huge bundles of thatch provided us with a full load at last. Also the news that four lions -- "five" said another; "two" said a third -- had been cattle-raiding in the vicinity all week and were still at large.

So fascinating was the idea that I, city bred and dog-shy, should be travelling in lion country, that I never noticed when the sand ended, and regained consciousness only as we slithered through freshly churned red soil to the bottom of a gorge.

Dancing the Floor Down

Round a bend, and there, looking very far indeed from its home in Indianapolis, Indiana, was a Caterpillar tractor, devouring trees and spewing out giant mouthfuls of earth. Beyond the monster stretched a road of combed earth, curving down to the river, the camp and Africa unrestrained.

To the piercing ululations of the women and the  syncopation of drums, half a hundred Africans were stamping, leaping, dancing, whooping -- and packing down the new mud floor of the dining enclosure for dthe special guests to come.  Gyrating infants slept or guzzled unperturbed.   

Men were thatching and whitewashing the newly erected hut for the Governor and his wife who, it turned out, wanted a partition dividing their sleeping quarters.   

Was this stick suitable for holding a toilet roll in the PK ? Were the shower arrangements (a bucket for pouring on oneself) satisfactory?      

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The Big Event

The bridge and the quarters for the Governor and his party did get built in time. The bridge may look insignificant but it was to make a big difference because people and vehicles could now get across a croc infested river.

Preparations for the opening were frenzied and disorganised.  Now, if only LDO Barry Floyd  had been in charge . . .  but his role was to make  countless trips to fetch and deliver supplies, even furniture.  

Then it looked like rain, not too surprising as this was now November when the rainy or Green Season begins.   

We had already given our quarters to officials for the occasion. Now we gave our tarpaulins to the Governor’s party. We could sleep under the stars for a couple of nights.

We – Floyds and an assistant Native Commissioner and wife – set up our cots on a piece of vacant ground.   African staff settled for the night in the tin food hut.

Outcome:  the Africans moved into our truck and four Floyds plus ANC and wife into the small  food hut (where someone had left very smelly shoes and sadza going ‘off’).  

It is probably best to draw a veil over the events of the night–-such as Father’s cot collapsing onto a flooded earth floor.

An awful lot of ceremony for a little bridge? — but lots of excitement for the locals.

The people had some experience of visiting dignitaries because Princess Margaret had been present for another big event in the area the previous year and, according to our neighbours, had sought help in smuggling out letters to Peter Townsend whom she had been forbidden to marry as he was divorced.

Maybe this helps to account for the something more that seemed amiss in the very African scenes before us. A dress printed with Japanese dancers, what remained of a blue serge suit coat, and dawned the familiar answer.

A handsome young man with a large metal wave clip in his kinky hair squatted before a hollowed half-calabash. Within it, he produced a musical effect reminding one of the European xylophone, but definitely, distinctly, "African". So, at least there remained a "typical African instrument!"

I peeped inside. Two thumbs twanged skillfully upon rows of metal strips. And on the wires were strung: Coca Cola tops.

Some people know what to do to keep dry.  We didn’t on this occasion.

The mbira dzavadzimu (voice of the ancestors) may have as many as 28 forged metal strips.  It is in effect Zimbabwe’s national instrument and has been played by the Shona for thousands of years on religious and social occasions.

The shells or bottle tops  are usually attached to the soundboard to create a buzzing sound when the instruments in played, the better to attract ancestral spirits.

For a performance the mbira will be placed in a calabash  which acts as a resonator to amplify the sound.

Occasionally there was room for the family too on these trips..

We slept in a hut erected on the day we first stayed overnight -–not quite as smart as the one for the Governor.   

By day we could watch huge hippos sporting in the river to keep cool.  When it was dark they came out of the water to graze  and to treat us to snorts, neighs and bellows throughout the night.   All very exciting, but after the first night we would have been willing to swap the concerts for some sleep.

There were  a few chances for Jimmie and his Daddy to fish in the Mazoe River itself.

And one night we were treated to a demonstration of crocodile shooting by a couple of Daddy’s colleagues. The trick apparently is to aim for one of their red eyes.

The event itself and the dancing entertainment went well, except for a slight panic when dogs got into the food hut and ate most of the meat.

On the Big Day we loaded up with children, lettuce in a fast melting bowl of ice on my lap (it was limp on arrival). various other food supplies, tarpaulin in case of rain and set off before 5 a.m.

The Governor,  armed with the formidable name of Admiral Sir Peveril Barton Reibey William- Powlett, C.B.E., K.B.E., K.C.M.G., D.S.O. (true, really!) performed the very British ceremony of ribbon-cutting and then the throngs surged to test it

The heavens opened.

The next morning as we were spreading sopping bedding and clothing to dry on grass and branches the government party came to say goodbye.   Mrs Governor asked brightly,  ‘Oh, did it rain  here?  We heard thunder but no rain came. . . . . ‘  

Our canvas gifts were returned – completely dry and unused.

To round off the event,   Mrs Governor sat on a camp chair under a tree.  She got up to accept some breakfast and as if on cue,  a puff adder fell out of the tree and plopped onto the chair exactly where she had just been sitting.   

The children, having spent a lively exciting night when no rules about anything counted, thought this the most fun of all.   

[See How Bravely We’ve Travelled)

The Mazoe and its tributaries
 

The Mazoe forms part of the border with Mozambique before joining the larger Zambezi River. The river and its tributaries are apparently popular with gold panners, although we never saw any.

In the wet season, the Mazowe becomes a raging torrent, often breaking its banks and causing damage to local communities and farms. Its tributaries become impossible to cross except by a bridge such as the one being built.

Hippos  are amphibians and herbivores,  can devastate crops and can be more dangerous than we were aware at the time.

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