Vusa is one of the guides working for Shearwater Adventures and was manning a kayak on our rafting trip. We had a chance to talk on the way back to our hotel. He hails from one of the villages I described and gave me a little more insight to life on such a homestead. He said he was lucky to live close to school when he was a child but some of his 35 classmates would walk up to 50 kilometers each way to school. Classes began at 7 am and finished by 2 pm so they had enough time to get home before dark in winter. He said he loved school because they had a soccer field out back. He honed his skills and played professionally as a young man competing throughout Zimbabwe. Since he'd grown up with the river in his his back yard it was only natural for him to return to it once his soccer career ended. Now he feels as though the Zambezi no longer challenges him and he as been sending his c.v. around the world with hopes of landing a job with another exciting adventure company. Born the first of five children and the only boy, he himself had two sons but one of them died of pneumonia. Without complaint he expresses that he hopes for a better future for his remaining son.
We were in a very remote part of Zimbabwe. I don't even know how far from a proper city we were. I was trying to take in both the landscape and as much information from Vusa as possible while we drov
e - snapping photos not being terribly opportunistic. But this is a general idea of what a village dwelling looks like. I missed a precious shot of a handful of ladies standing around a large pump, maybe seven feet tall, one of them rocking up and down on the hand crank and the others awaiting their turn to extract water from the ground. Women have enormous responsibility in this way of life much like it was here a hundred years ago. But there is a sense of gratitude that emanates from them anyway.
Today is New Year's Eve and there is a celebration at the Kingdom Hotel. The Christmas decorations are still up and the staff is milling around making sure the dining room is arranged for dinner and dancing while festive enough to usher in a promising new year. I was spent. We'd been burning it for days and New Year's is never a party I really care about. I thought I'd write a little and then lay down for a nap before dinner having the thought if I wake up I'll participate and if I don't I don't. I finally nodded off but shortly thereafter was awakened to a nice glass of Argentine wine that had been transported from the States, spent 3 days Lord knows where and then delivered unadulterated to my bedside. Melbac, a mellow grape varietal perfectly suited to the Argentine climate, was the kick in the pants I needed to get my lampshade on and cut up a rug. A pleasant dinner was served with a few local favorites, save the caterpillar, including a beautiful turkey. The entertainment was supposed to be a band until 11pm followed by a DJ till 2am. The band (to my chagrin) played horrible songs like "I Shot the Sherriff" in a dreadfully uncool way aaaaaall niiiiiight looooong. Everybody else loved it, especially the staff. The dance floor was packed - illuminated only by the bluish glow of cell phones held high to capture the memories. We wore paper crowns on our heads - the prize from our Christmas crackers found on our dinner plates - and paper streamers spun rainbows from the cieling fans. The champagne went around the table and we helped to elect Lois the best dancer of the night. Lois is a woman in our group who had just celebrated her 74th birthday a couple of days earlier - on the plane in fact. She made John Travolta look like a chump! The DJ never did show up but that didn't phase anyone in the least. I turned into a pumpkin shortly after midnight but I heard that the party went on 'till the wee hours. Evidently my friend Vusa showed up asking for me but I was long in dreamland. He had invited us to come to a party with the locals being held at "Shoestrings" but I couldn't get any of the guys to go along as an escort. The honest truth being that I just wasn't brave enough to go on my own. We had to be up bright and early for our transfer to Botswana and I wasn't about to get left behind in a country where credit cards aren't accepted and hyperinflation prohibits normal commercial functioning. I don't need much but potable water is more than a luxury in my book.
We were in a very remote part of Zimbabwe. I don't even know how far from a proper city we were. I was trying to take in both the landscape and as much information from Vusa as possible while we drov
e - snapping photos not being terribly opportunistic. But this is a general idea of what a village dwelling looks like. I missed a precious shot of a handful of ladies standing around a large pump, maybe seven feet tall, one of them rocking up and down on the hand crank and the others awaiting their turn to extract water from the ground. Women have enormous responsibility in this way of life much like it was here a hundred years ago. But there is a sense of gratitude that emanates from them anyway.Today is New Year's Eve and there is a celebration at the Kingdom Hotel. The Christmas decorations are still up and the staff is milling around making sure the dining room is arranged for dinner and dancing while festive enough to usher in a promising new year. I was spent. We'd been burning it for days and New Year's is never a party I really care about. I thought I'd write a little and then lay down for a nap before dinner having the thought if I wake up I'll participate and if I don't I don't. I finally nodded off but shortly thereafter was awakened to a nice glass of Argentine wine that had been transported from the States, spent 3 days Lord knows where and then delivered unadulterated to my bedside. Melbac, a mellow grape varietal perfectly suited to the Argentine climate, was the kick in the pants I needed to get my lampshade on and cut up a rug. A pleasant dinner was served with a few local favorites, save the caterpillar, including a beautiful turkey. The entertainment was supposed to be a band until 11pm followed by a DJ till 2am. The band (to my chagrin) played horrible songs like "I Shot the Sherriff" in a dreadfully uncool way aaaaaall niiiiiight looooong. Everybody else loved it, especially the staff. The dance floor was packed - illuminated only by the bluish glow of cell phones held high to capture the memories. We wore paper crowns on our heads - the prize from our Christmas crackers found on our dinner plates - and paper streamers spun rainbows from the cieling fans. The champagne went around the table and we helped to elect Lois the best dancer of the night. Lois is a woman in our group who had just celebrated her 74th birthday a couple of days earlier - on the plane in fact. She made John Travolta look like a chump! The DJ never did show up but that didn't phase anyone in the least. I turned into a pumpkin shortly after midnight but I heard that the party went on 'till the wee hours. Evidently my friend Vusa showed up asking for me but I was long in dreamland. He had invited us to come to a party with the locals being held at "Shoestrings" but I couldn't get any of the guys to go along as an escort. The honest truth being that I just wasn't brave enough to go on my own. We had to be up bright and early for our transfer to Botswana and I wasn't about to get left behind in a country where credit cards aren't accepted and hyperinflation prohibits normal commercial functioning. I don't need much but potable water is more than a luxury in my book.
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