From as far back as I can recall, I’ve seen less than impressive pics of the continent of Africa. Potbellied, kwashiorkor kids, competing with flies for grains of sticky rice doled out by missionaries or other Aid volunteers were etched on my young mind.
I recall the sentiments that welled up in my heart after viewing these images.
I was glad for slavery.
I was glad that my foreparents were forced across the Atlantic and deposited on the shores of my island paradise. I was glad that I wasn’t in those places. Glad that I wasn’t one of those persons.
Otherwise I might have been one of the kids I now viewed on tv.
For years I watched these scenes presented by the major media houses and half listened to the commentary because the scenes were so jarring, compelling, depressing.
For years the sentiment, that ugly, shameful sentiment echoed and reechoed in my heart. I am glad for slavery. How ashamed I am now to have felt those feelings.
Then, this past December rolled around. My African (Zimbabwean) husband and I along with our young son, journeyed home to Africa – Southern Africa. His home. My home. My ancestral home.
It was my first. My maiden voyage to the Motherland. I decided I would embark on this adventure with an open mind. A cleansed mind. I wanted to have my own experience. I did not want it colored by the lenses of any media house. I did not want the soundtrack to be anything other than what I would create in my own mind, with my lack of musical talent.
So, we set off, seven days before my 47th birthday. It was a long flight. Almost an entire day by the time our feet hit the dirt in Africa, but oh was it worth the journey.
We landed at O.R. Tambo International Airport and the man himself, now immortalized in stone, greeted us even before my sister in law did. Standing tall and immovable, his wave, though made of stone was not cold, as one would expect of stone, but warm and friendly and welcoming. We posed at his feet – my son and I. We just had to even though my son had no idea who the man was.
We greeted my sister in law and then made our way to Kempton Park , Johannesburg to drop our bags before heading out Sandton City for a photo shoot with another of my heroes – Nelson Mandela himself.
Of course, he is dead. I know this.
But getting so close to his statue, hugging stony his leg for a photo taken with my Samsung phone is all and more this island girl will ever have of this icon.
Sure, I was in the national stadium in Kingston, Jamaica when he visited on July 24, 1991 shortly after his release from prison. But I was one of thousands who crammed into that stadium hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the most important black men of all time. But I was too far away to even get a proper glimpse of the great man. But now I’m here in his country standing, as it were, at his feet.
I, me. This insignificant girl from an insignificant place, standing at the feet of this giant of a man. It was surreal. Yes, it was a statue, made of stone. But it was the statue of a man whose heart was soft for his people, for their freedom and worth. And being black I’m one of those people. So his heart was soft for me too. I felt honored, blessed to be in this place. Standing there.
We rested for the night in Kempton Park, before heading back to the O.R. Tambo to catch our next flight. Next stop: Zambia.
We landed at the airport Harry Mwanga Nkumbula International airport in Livingstone, Zambia. From there we drove for another 2 plus hours to the Botswana border and what greeted my eyes was just sheer beauty. I was delighted. I wanted to squeal. I felt like a kid in a candy store. This surely was not Africa. I was supposed to be seeing desert everywhere. There was supposed to be hungry children lining the streets and dry completely dusty vistas on every hand. Instead what I saw was green, lush, verdance.
I thought I was tricked and taken back to Jamaica. But it wasn’t Jamaica. It was Africa. It was on that stretch between the airport and the Botswana border where I saw my first live, wild giraffe.
We journeyed to the edge of the Mighty Zambezi river where we rode a ferry across to Botswana. We got our passports stamped at immigration and then made our way to Kazungula, Botswana where we stayed for 4 days experiencing the best of what Botswana had to offer.
We did the Chobe Safari and enjoyed a sunset cruise on the Mighty Chobe River. We even got an opportunity to set foot on Namibian soil. I was thrilled.
While there our rented car developed issues, but the issues provided an opportunity for us to experience Swana hospitality.
But something was missing. Something that was featured in almost every account I had come across about Africa. Where are the savages? Where are the hungry people? They weren’t visible because they were not so prolific and omnipresent as the media led us to believe.
After our purpose for being in Botswana (we were attending a wedding) was fulfilled and our 7 days allowance expired, we flew back to Joberg to catch our flight to Harare, Zimbabwe. This was our ultimate destination.
I was excited. I have heard so much about Zimbabwe, from my husband and his family and also through the media. Now I would see for myself what this country had to offer.
What is this post Mugabe place like?
We flew into Harare in mid afternoon on the 23rd – a day after my birthday. I wasn’t prepared for what I would see. After all I had cleansed my mind of everything so everything was a surprise.
I could see – clearly that this was a country that had been beautiful. Indeed is still beautiful, even if systems had broken down and lines were long. The bones were still there. There were wide streets. Impressive old brick buildings. The skeletal remains of an electric train system. This country had been on a path to somewhere. Then it got derailed.
This place had seen better days for sure.
Harare however was not our final destination. We would get there many kilometers and a day later. We were heading to Gokwe. Gokwe is a town in the Midlands province.
Gokwe, is where I would finally, after 2 plus years, meet my inlaws – for the very first time.
The scenery for me, was absolutely breathtaking as we journeyed out of Harare. The busy streets gave way to long stretches of high way sandwiched by with green turf, and dotted with donkey carts and other makeshift means of transportation.
We drove into the night stopping almost halfway to sleep at Tall Trees lodge, Gokwe.
The distance from Harare to Gokwe isn’t very far, just 347 kilometers or a roughly 4 hour drive. However, just after leaving the Gokwe Town Center the tarred roads come to an end and then the journey truly begins. The roads from that point on are sandy tracks, many times only wide enough to fit one vehicle at a time and providing an amusement park type of ride.
We spent a week in Gokwe. A hot agricultural town populated by friendly, kind and soft spoken people. The experience brought me back – way way back to my childhood years in Jamaica when donkey carts and our feet took us everywhere we needed to go.
There I feasted on free range, free roam guinea fowl, chickens and eggs and I even had a goat presented to me and killed for our meal.
I walked through thick forests, sat in traditional round huts for lunch. Visited my husband’s Gogo (siNdebele word for grandmother). Met his cousins, aunts, uncles brothers and sisters and was lavished upon with true Zimbabwean hospitality and warmth.
At the end of our week, we journeyed to Lower Gwelo and Bulawayo. Bulawayo is Zimbabwe’s second largest city and situated in the Midlands Province. This was the jumping off point as it were to get to breathtaking sceneries like those in the Matobo National Park where we viewed magnificent granite mountains and where the remains of Cecil John Rhodes are laid to rest. Sadly, I didn’t get to see it on this trip. I will next time though.
We passed by Hwange National Park, were fanned by the leaves of the Mopani trees and stopped on the side of the road to pick umthundulca and other wild fruits.
I really wanted to see this place. Not because its one of the 7 natural wonders, or even because its a water fall. There are many in Jamaica and I’ve seen the Niagara. I wanted to see if what was reported on the media (that Vic Falls had no water) and circulating just before I left Canada was indeed true. So far, so much of what I had seen in the media had not been completely true. I wanted to see for myself how much of what I had seen was actually so.
The media was again not accurate – at least not completely.
The Falls was there. It “thundered” and “smoked” in all its glory. The Zambezi snaked to the edge of those cliffs and plummeted unhindered and unbridled.
I was happy. I was happy the reports weren’t all true.
Not the reports about the Falls or about Africa or the African people. Yes – I’m aware there are people who are suffering and displaced and whose existence could be better. However, that’s not all that Africa has to offer. Its not all that Africa is about.
Its not all dry, desolate deserts. It is green, thriving, teeming, warm (as in welcoming) full of prospects, full of life, even if it has issues – but what place on this rock called planet earth doesn’t.
So after my three weeks in Africa I can say that I’m sunkissed and satisfied.
Wentors 