Back to Bulawayo
When my eldest son Gilad completed his Bagrut in 2006 I decided it was the ideal opportunity to visit Zimbabwe after 30 years in Israel (and about 35 years since I was last in Zimbabwe). I had always wondered what life was like for my father growing-up in Lithuania and I regret never having visited a part of the world which undoubtedly influenced my fathers' attitudes to
life in general and to his sons in particular. So, as a gift for Gilads' eighteenth birthday and prior to his enlistment into the IDF in March 2007, the two of us decided to visit South Africa and Zimbabwe.
We spent the first night in Joburg and flew the next morning to Livingstone. Already at the airport in Livingstone, my nostrils took-in the nostalgic aroma of summer rains in this part of Africa. It was not long before I saw a "chongalola" on the tarmac and a wave of memory was ignited of times when we used to gather bucket-loads of
When my eldest son Gilad completed his Bagrut in 2006 I decided it was the ideal opportunity to visit Zimbabwe after 30 years in Israel (and about 35 years since I was last in Zimbabwe). I had always wondered what life was like for my father growing-up in Lithuania and I regret never having visited a part of the world which undoubtedly influenced my fathers' attitudes to
life in general and to his sons in particular. So, as a gift for Gilads' eighteenth birthday and prior to his enlistment into the IDF in March 2007, the two of us decided to visit South Africa and Zimbabwe.We spent the first night in Joburg and flew the next morning to Livingstone. Already at the airport in Livingstone, my nostrils took-in the nostalgic aroma of summer rains in this part of Africa. It was not long before I saw a "chongalola" on the tarmac and a wave of memory was ignited of times when we used to gather bucket-loads of
From Livingstone Airport to Fawlty-Towers
chongalolas in our garden after the thunder storms. The fact that one of our suitcases
didn't arrive on the flight hardly caused any agitation as at least half of the luggage on the flight was missing. We patiently waited for the single, harried clerk to manually complete the details of every-one of about 50 passengers whose luggage had not arrived. The clerk confidently reassured everyone that their luggage would be delivered to their hotel next morning upon arrival from Johannesburg (which needless to say did not happen). On the other-hand, my internet booking at Fawlty-Towers, proved much more reliable. That had arranged in advance for our tourist visa payment waiver (the customs clerk told me to go and find the driver in the parking-lot while he retained Gilad as a deposit against my return). After some minor negotiations, the driver managed to convince the customs-clerk that we had prior hotel bookings in Livingstone and were thus entitled to a waiver of payment for an entry visa. This turned out to be a really good deal as the nightly rate was less then the visa cost (and airport transportation was included!).
Livingstone is a quaint, rather dilapidated, colonial small town. Upon arrival at our "hotel" (which is more a Youth Hostel, but has clean, comfortable and satisfactory double-rooms) we immediately signed-up for the evening sunset cruise on the Zambezi. This romantic sounding leisure cruise, turned-out to be the daily "booz-cruise". Almost the entire population of Fawlty Towers was loaded onto a waiting destined for the local harbour where we boarded the boat. Immediately upon embarkation, the travelers
didn't arrive on the flight hardly caused any agitation as at least half of the luggage on the flight was missing. We patiently waited for the single, harried clerk to manually complete the details of every-one of about 50 passengers whose luggage had not arrived. The clerk confidently reassured everyone that their luggage would be delivered to their hotel next morning upon arrival from Johannesburg (which needless to say did not happen). On the other-hand, my internet booking at Fawlty-Towers, proved much more reliable. That had arranged in advance for our tourist visa payment waiver (the customs clerk told me to go and find the driver in the parking-lot while he retained Gilad as a deposit against my return). After some minor negotiations, the driver managed to convince the customs-clerk that we had prior hotel bookings in Livingstone and were thus entitled to a waiver of payment for an entry visa. This turned out to be a really good deal as the nightly rate was less then the visa cost (and airport transportation was included!).
Livingstone is a quaint, rather dilapidated, colonial small town. Upon arrival at our "hotel" (which is more a Youth Hostel, but has clean, comfortable and satisfactory double-rooms) we immediately signed-up for the evening sunset cruise on the Zambezi. This romantic sounding leisure cruise, turned-out to be the daily "booz-cruise". Almost the entire population of Fawlty Towers was loaded onto a waiting destined for the local harbour where we boarded the boat. Immediately upon embarkation, the travelers
The Booz Cruise(mostly British youngsters in 18-25 age group) made their way to the upper-deck where the bar was already open. Beer, Liquor and food were available on an "as much as you can consume" basis and most of the revelers were in a state of hearty-merriment even before we weighed anchor. As the cruise progressed, the atmosphere degregated into total anarchy. The odd elephant or hippo immediately dove underwater after surfacing and witnessing the passing riot. We managed to endure the three-hour party (the beer, snacks and buffet dinner were actually quite good). It took the bus-driver about another hour after arrival at the quay to gather-up the group of drunken revelers, whereupon we made our way back to Fawlty-Towers. Our fellow hotel guests continued to celebrate in the hotel pool for the remainder of the evening. All in all, a good time was had by all.
We spent the next day visiting the Falls from the Zambian side. The site is well-kept and clean. The continuous drizzle hardly managed to dampen our spirits. We explored the views extensively from all angles, we visited the museum and we bought a few curios from the many curio stands on site.
Gilad contemplated bungy-jumping from the Falls bridge, but one look down put paid to his ambitions. The local bungy operators also didn't contribute to invoking confidence in the soundness of the operation. We decided unanimously to postpone his first bungy attempt to a more appropriate opportunity.
Driving back to Livingstone town, we stopped at the local up-market mall. The heavy presence of security-guards at all strategic positions in the complex were to ensure that only "paying" customers are allowed access to the mall. We loaded-up with light refreshments (the biltong was excellent) from the supermarket and then made our way on foot to Fawlty Towers. We then endeavored to locate our missing suitcase from the airport. I had no luck in persuading the airport authorities to deliver our bag to our hotel (as they had promised) so we took a taxi to the
The view from Zambia
airport and fetched the suitcase. The rest of the day was spent walking around Livingstone and soaking-up the local ambiance.
To Jump or not to Jump, that is the questionEarly next morning we took a taxi to the Zimbabwean side of the Livingstone Bridge. I was quite excited and exhilarated to be back in Zimbabwe after so many years. No matter what the circumstances, it is an empowering, emotional experience returning to ones land of birth after a long period of absence. I tried to share some of these feelings with Gilad, but he was hardly impressed, especially after our first confrontation with the Zimbabwean civil service. The totally apathetic customs official continued a conversation with a colleague sitting next to him for a full five minutes before taking any notice of us or the passports I had carefully placed before him. Eventually he lethargically opened the passport, and without any attempt at civility or explanation, simply said one word "money". I paid the visa fee in US Dollars and we entered Zimbabwe.
Getting into the Zimbabwean taxi in comparison to the Zambian taxi was like going into a third world country from a highly developed one. I had my doubts whether the broken-down vehicle would successfully negotiate the 1 kilometer journey to the Vic. Falls Train station where I requested he take us. I was also not sure that he had enough petrol to undertake this long journey, but I soon discovered that all Zimbabwean taxis are running on a maximum fuel gauge level of Empty.
I had made contact through the Internet with a local Travel agency. The proprietress had convinced me that the most reliable way of reaching Bulawayo from Victoria Falls was via the daily night train. The travel agent had not confirmed my booking before we departed so I decided to buy tickets at the station before doing anything else. The train was fully-booked, but the ticket clerk discovered that tickets in our name were already booked on this train. So we made our way to the Travel agency to collect our tickets. The Travel Agent had indeed booked our tickets and I was quite content that everything was going according to plan. We walked down to the falls and spent a pleasant few hours exploring from the Zimbabwe side (which is much more spectacular then from the Zambian side. )
Getting into the Zimbabwean taxi in comparison to the Zambian taxi was like going into a third world country from a highly developed one. I had my doubts whether the broken-down vehicle would successfully negotiate the 1 kilometer journey to the Vic. Falls Train station where I requested he take us. I was also not sure that he had enough petrol to undertake this long journey, but I soon discovered that all Zimbabwean taxis are running on a maximum fuel gauge level of Empty.
I had made contact through the Internet with a local Travel agency. The proprietress had convinced me that the most reliable way of reaching Bulawayo from Victoria Falls was via the daily night train. The travel agent had not confirmed my booking before we departed so I decided to buy tickets at the station before doing anything else. The train was fully-booked, but the ticket clerk discovered that tickets in our name were already booked on this train. So we made our way to the Travel agency to collect our tickets. The Travel Agent had indeed booked our tickets and I was quite content that everything was going according to plan. We walked down to the falls and spent a pleasant few hours exploring from the Zimbabwe side (which is much more spectacular then from the Zambian side. )
Victoria Falls from ZimbabweWe had worked-up quite an appetite after our extensive wonderings around the rain-forest. Making our way back to town, I could not resist the temptation to have a genuine "sadsa" meal from the local Total petrol station. Gilad was less impressed and tried to dissuade me from this culinary adventure but I was determined to renew my acquaintance with this old African delicacy. I ordered "Fish Sadsa" while Gilad who is less familiar with sadsa, settled for chicken and chips. I was happy with the meal.
After being warned that Zimbabwe Railways no longer supplies bed sheets for overnight trips and that the state of hygiene in our compartment may fall slightly short of standards required by the hospital, we resolved to buy a set of bed sheets from a local general store. This mission being accomplished, we repaired to the nearby bungalow and camping site to have the sheets laundered. The washwoman happily agreed to launder our sheets for a few dollars and in the meantime we went down to the pool for a couple of beers, a swim and a shower.
We then made our way down to the famous Victoria-Falls Hotel to take High Tea. We were not disappointed. This sacred tradition was in progress on the veranda overlooking the immaculate manicured lawns with a spectacular view of the Livingstone Bridge. A security guard was employed with the sole task of chasing the monkeys away from the Hotel building with a catapult. In spite of his valiant efforts, the monkeys were getting the better of the contest and had taken the high-ground on the hotel balcony.
Monkey Business
The View from The Victoria Falls Hotel
High Tea at the Victoria Falls HotelWe did our best to devour the delightful 3 tiered treat consisting of scones, delicate finger sandwiches with the crusts removed and a selection of dainty cakes. We eventually succumbed to the inevitable and contented ourselves with admiring the view. It was all in all a very pleasant day and we eventually strolled down to the railway station in good time for the evening train to Bulawayo.
Surprisingly, in light of the large crowd and seeming disarray at the railway station, everything went quite smoothly. We found our private coupe and waited patiently for the train's on-time departure. We relaxed in the privacy of this original 60 year old railway carriage. The RR insignia was visible on the windows and bunks (and probably hadn't been cleaned since RR became ZR), but we were insulated and began preparing for an early night in our grand old Rhodesian Railways coupe.
Getting ready for a pleasant trip on the Vic. Falls Bulawayo night train.We spread-out our new laundered sheets, cleaned our teeth removed our shoes and were getting comfortable for the night. I was quite pleased with myself and was keenly anticipating our arrival in Bulawayo the next morning. We were contentedly chatting away when the train came to a sudden jolting halt, causing us to fall-off our bunks. Initially we could hear only jungle noises – the sounds of many elephants in close proximity. Slowly, there began to intermingle into these elephant cries, a human commotion. At first, we didn't make much of the abrupt stop and commotion outside – I simply put it down to sloppy driving. It was extremely hot inside the stationary compartment so we opened the window, only to be attacked by a swarm of all types and sizes of flying insects. At this stage I was starting to feel concerned that I had neglected to get anti-malaria medication and remembered reading that there was a serious malaria problem in this part of Zimbabwe – I quickly closed the window. Eventually we decided see what was going. At this stage there was complete bedlam all around and half of the occupants of the train were outside. We went to investigate and were informed by our neighbors that the train had
crashed into a herd of elephants and some coaches in front had been derailed.
Elephant carcasses after the train crashEveryone was trying to pose with an elephant carcass and anyone having a camera was much in demand. We now became a bit worried as it was fully evident that there would be no train to Bulawayo this evening (or at least for the next two weeks for that matter) and indeed there is a very slim chance that this train would be returning to Victoria Falls Station this night.,
Stranded in the Bush
Presently, the woman in the carriage next door (see the picture above) informed us that she had contacted her brother in-law in Victoria Falls and that he was on his way to fetch them. She offered us a lift back to Town (about 40 kilometers back), correctly assuming that we were excellent candidates to pay the driver for his troubles. So after about another hours wait, were on our way back to Victoria Falls.
We went back to the bungalows and hired a room for the night. After relating the events of the evening, the receptionist said that she would arrange a taxi for us the next morning to take us to the bus station to catch the daily bus to Bulawayo. After a couple of hours sleep (at about 2:00 am), we were awakened by the security guard. He told us that the taxi was waiting for us and that we should hurry as there is a queue waiting for the bus and it would be advisable to get a good position. Well off-course, not knowing any better, we dressed quickly and were transported to the local residential area about 5 kilometers out of town. Here we were deposited in an almost empty, dirt covered parking-lot. There were a few families with loads of luggage and children waiting, in what appeared to be an orderly queue. We took our place and proceeded to wait patiently for the bus (which was due to depart at 6 am). As time slowly passed, I started getting an uneasy feeling that we were in the "wrong place", especially after a few totally drunk "tsotsis" from the nearby shabeen (music still deafeningly blearing) started mingling with the waiting crowd with intimidating posturing and loud rebukes. We were the only White people, and the young thugs somehow decided to give us a wide berth (I don't really know why, but I was relieved). The thought passed through my mind that we had on our person more money then most people around us would see in half a lifetime. But all our neighbors were friendly and helpful, offering encouraging interpretations of the current situation.
At about 4:30, the bus driver appeared and entered a waiting bus. Bloomfield stadium after Hapoel Tel Aviv has just won the Derby is nothing compared to the ensuing riot. The Bus was completely surrounded by hundreds of would-be passengers who had slowly been gathering. All order was thrown to the wind and mayhem ensued. At this stage, I realized that our chances of getting on this bus (which would only be leaving in 90 minutes and no-one was allowed to alight until that time) were almost negligible. We took a taxi back to the Bungalows to get another hour sleep.
At 7 o' clock, after quite a good breakfast, I still had to face the following dilemma: We could try and get onto the "daily" flight to Bulawayo which would in no certainty be flying as scheduled or even whether there would be vacancies on the flight or we could try and catch a taxi. In the latter case, we were told that all taxis depart early in the morning and that we would have to leave immediately to ensure places. So off-we went again to the central Bus station. This time I told the Taxi driver that we would under no circumstances vacate the taxi until we were assured of a seat on a bus/taxi to Bulawayo – he agreed to my condition.
Back at the Bus station our Taxi driver unloaded us onto a waiting combi which was very busy with the refueling process. A small army of assistants was running here and there, siphoning and negotiating, bringing all manner of liquid containers (such as coke bottles, jam jars, mineral water bottles etc.) with small quantities of petrol. This refueling process was no mean matter and continued for over an hour. We, in the meantime, had taken our seats at the back of the combi and were reluctant to move in case somebody else would take our seats.
Presently, the woman in the carriage next door (see the picture above) informed us that she had contacted her brother in-law in Victoria Falls and that he was on his way to fetch them. She offered us a lift back to Town (about 40 kilometers back), correctly assuming that we were excellent candidates to pay the driver for his troubles. So after about another hours wait, were on our way back to Victoria Falls.
We went back to the bungalows and hired a room for the night. After relating the events of the evening, the receptionist said that she would arrange a taxi for us the next morning to take us to the bus station to catch the daily bus to Bulawayo. After a couple of hours sleep (at about 2:00 am), we were awakened by the security guard. He told us that the taxi was waiting for us and that we should hurry as there is a queue waiting for the bus and it would be advisable to get a good position. Well off-course, not knowing any better, we dressed quickly and were transported to the local residential area about 5 kilometers out of town. Here we were deposited in an almost empty, dirt covered parking-lot. There were a few families with loads of luggage and children waiting, in what appeared to be an orderly queue. We took our place and proceeded to wait patiently for the bus (which was due to depart at 6 am). As time slowly passed, I started getting an uneasy feeling that we were in the "wrong place", especially after a few totally drunk "tsotsis" from the nearby shabeen (music still deafeningly blearing) started mingling with the waiting crowd with intimidating posturing and loud rebukes. We were the only White people, and the young thugs somehow decided to give us a wide berth (I don't really know why, but I was relieved). The thought passed through my mind that we had on our person more money then most people around us would see in half a lifetime. But all our neighbors were friendly and helpful, offering encouraging interpretations of the current situation.
At about 4:30, the bus driver appeared and entered a waiting bus. Bloomfield stadium after Hapoel Tel Aviv has just won the Derby is nothing compared to the ensuing riot. The Bus was completely surrounded by hundreds of would-be passengers who had slowly been gathering. All order was thrown to the wind and mayhem ensued. At this stage, I realized that our chances of getting on this bus (which would only be leaving in 90 minutes and no-one was allowed to alight until that time) were almost negligible. We took a taxi back to the Bungalows to get another hour sleep.
At 7 o' clock, after quite a good breakfast, I still had to face the following dilemma: We could try and get onto the "daily" flight to Bulawayo which would in no certainty be flying as scheduled or even whether there would be vacancies on the flight or we could try and catch a taxi. In the latter case, we were told that all taxis depart early in the morning and that we would have to leave immediately to ensure places. So off-we went again to the central Bus station. This time I told the Taxi driver that we would under no circumstances vacate the taxi until we were assured of a seat on a bus/taxi to Bulawayo – he agreed to my condition.
Back at the Bus station our Taxi driver unloaded us onto a waiting combi which was very busy with the refueling process. A small army of assistants was running here and there, siphoning and negotiating, bringing all manner of liquid containers (such as coke bottles, jam jars, mineral water bottles etc.) with small quantities of petrol. This refueling process was no mean matter and continued for over an hour. We, in the meantime, had taken our seats at the back of the combi and were reluctant to move in case somebody else would take our seats.
Getting ready to depart for BulawayoI would have quite happily paid for half of the seats in the combi, but everyone was desperate to get to Bulawayo following the derailment (it seemed quite unlikely that train services would be renewed in the near future). Anyway, when we were finally ready to depart and we were sitting "reasonably" comfortably in the back seat, the driver's assistant cum conductor became aware of the "extra" space available and took-on another passenger. We were now 17 people (not including babies and children) in a combi with legal seating limitation of 12. Luggage was charged extra and loaded onto a trailer at the back – anything that one could carry on ones lap was included in the seat payment (anything includes babies and children, TV sets and other item that could be physically be squeezed-in between the vehicle ceiling and a persons legs). Gilad had mentally removed
himself from his physical surroundings and was in a state of semi-sleep with his head half out of the window. I was by now starting to have my doubts about the wisdom of undertaking this journey, but I decided that after having survived the 14 hour bus ride from Delhi to Manali this would be a piece of cake! We were soon underway. My traveling companion on my right was an amiable man of about my age who had also been on the train last night. His level of knowledge about the event led me to speculate that he had personally carried-out a government
Gilad, preparing for the long journeyenquiry over what had transpired. Apparently, the engine driver was a recently promoted "shunter" whose primary credentials consisted of being the Vic. Falls Station masters nephew. His rapid promotion to the post of Engine driver was largely precipitated by a serious collision a few months back in which five of the experienced drivers were killed. An experienced driver would have known that anything less then a Level 9 earthquake would not succeed in diverting the attention of a pair of copulating elephants from the matter in hand. The amorous pair was surrounded by their offspring and all were on the railway tracks of the Victoria Falls – Bulawayo main line. The engine driver had seen the group of elephants at a good distance in front of him and instead of stopping, decided to disperse them by blowing his whistle. This tactic did not work, and after ramming into SEVEN! Elephants, the first coach went off the rails. My companion maintained that elephants had been copulating on these tracks for over a hundred years and the fact that there were very few similar accidents, proved beyond any doubt that the driver was to blame. After the accident, the Zambian Railway authorities came to the aid of the derailed train. Luckily there were no serious human injuries and most of the coaches were eventually towed to Victoria Falls station where all passengers who had been patient (or unfortunate) enough to remain on the train, were rebated for their travel fare (about US$ 3 for 2nd. Class tickets).
"Lap Luggage" included in the price of the ticketAfter exhausting this topic and receiving an up-to-date political expose of the Mugabe regime (absolute condemnation, like everyone else I spoke to in Zimbabwe) , my friend moved on to the Six Day War, Arik Sharon and then spent a good hour trying to convert me to become a born again Christian.
Our combi started playing-up at about this time. The engine kept "coughing" and was not pulling very well, especially on elevations. Every 45 minutes or so, for most of the journey, the driver stopped and made emergency repairs to the engine. I expressed some concern that we might not make it to Bulawayo (I seemed to be the only one concerned), but our driver ensured us that this was only a minor problem. I was thinking that if we have a breakdown in the middle of nowhere, we would have very little chance of finding alternative transport. All vehicles along the way were completely overflowing. We had also witnessed a queue of vehicles about 5 km long waiting at a petrol station at Hwange. My disposition was not much improved a short while later when we were stopped at a roadblock for overloading. Our driver was very concerned about the fine he had just received and at the next bus stop picked-up another two passengers to cover himself for the extra expense of the fine. There were now two persons standing (or crouching because it is impossible to stand in a combi) with the vehicle tilting heavily to the left - I'm sure we could have been a candidate for a Guiness record. The pit stops were becoming increasingly annoying as the heat grew more intense and the flies began biting.
Vehicle now tilting to the left with maximum load
Pit-stop for makeshift repairs
But the day wore-on and the kilometers passed. It became cooler in the afternoon and as we got nearer Bulawayo, I imagined that I recognized old landmarks. Approaching Bulawayo by road has the advantage of increasing the anticipation – the weariness of the long-journey (seven hours!) was dissipated by the excitement of returning. I felt very good. Can you imagine seeing the old Bulawayo welcome sign as we neared the city! We approached Bulawayo from the African residential areas (what we used to call the Location). This large bustling area seemed larger then the City center and “white” suburbs that I was familiar with. People were now alighting at a very rapid rate and soon we were dropped off somewhere in 13th Avenue.
We took a taxi directly to the Holiday-Inn near Ascott Center where I had already made an Internet booking. Our taxi driver was very helpful and friendly and we soon negotiated a satisfactory arrangement whereby by he would provide us with full inclusive service for the next couple of days (this worked out very much cheaper then hiring a self-drive car for the same period).
But the day wore-on and the kilometers passed. It became cooler in the afternoon and as we got nearer Bulawayo, I imagined that I recognized old landmarks. Approaching Bulawayo by road has the advantage of increasing the anticipation – the weariness of the long-journey (seven hours!) was dissipated by the excitement of returning. I felt very good. Can you imagine seeing the old Bulawayo welcome sign as we neared the city! We approached Bulawayo from the African residential areas (what we used to call the Location). This large bustling area seemed larger then the City center and “white” suburbs that I was familiar with. People were now alighting at a very rapid rate and soon we were dropped off somewhere in 13th Avenue.
We took a taxi directly to the Holiday-Inn near Ascott Center where I had already made an Internet booking. Our taxi driver was very helpful and friendly and we soon negotiated a satisfactory arrangement whereby by he would provide us with full inclusive service for the next couple of days (this worked out very much cheaper then hiring a self-drive car for the same period).
Getting Near to Bulawayo
After the trials and tribulations of the last couple of days, our room at the Holiday-Inn was a veritable paradise. We each soaked for an hour or so in the bath and caught-up on the news on CNN. Once these initial primary urges were satisfied, we discovered that we were quite hungry. The Head Waiter in the restaurant at the hotel warned us that it would be highly advisable to pay cash if we wanted to eat, as charges made to the room would be payable in US$ at the official exchange rate of 1 US$ to 250 Zim $. Not having enough Zim cash on hand, we decided to look for a restaurant, which might accept credit cards at the adjoining Ascott Center. We soon discovered Max’s Italian Restaurant, and after a very short discussion we knew that we had come to the right place. After ordering dinner, Max proceeded to full us in about the goings-on of the dwindling Jewish community in Bulawayo. Max is an integral part of Jewish life in Bulawayo and it appears that all members of the community eat at Max’s at least once a week. Needless to say, the dinner was outstanding and in our humble opinion it is the best Italian restaurant in the Southern hemisphere. Max even remembered my father from earlier days when he used to run the Capri Restaurant in the center of Bulawayo. Max ensured that we return the next evening for dinner by refusing to accept US$ or Credit cards and in fact advancing me a few thousand Zim Dollars to make sure that I get-by until I changed some money the next day. Fully contented, we crashed-out on the Holiday-Inns queen sized beds.
Max & Gilad
Breakfast the next morning in the hotel dinning room was excellent. There was abundant choice of cheeses, eggs, cakes, cereals, fish and everything else. Our taxi driver wa s waiting for us as arranged after breakfast and we promptly departed on a voyage of rediscovery.
Our Taxi - note the number for your next trip
After some mundane matters such as changing money and buying a few souvenirs, we made our way (as all pilgrimages should) to the place of worship. Although I am not a religious person, it was quite a shock to see the remains of the burnt-out Shul. The Shul had been a center for Jewish communal identity in Rhodesia. Everyone, no matter what their religious inclinations had experiences related to the Shul. Jewish Festivals, Barmitzvas, weddings, funerals – everything about Jewish life had revolved around the Shul (and surrounding buildings). My mother had been chairlady of the Ladies Synagogue Guild for a number of years,
and we as children had spent many hours hanging around the place as my mother prepared for Shul related events. It was indeed sad to see the skeletal remains of this proud building, at one time symbolizing the very robust nature of the Jewish community, now in ruins.
We next visited the adjacent communal center where we used to have our weekly youth movement meetings (I used to attend Betar). The entire building has been taken-over by a teachers training college, including the old Kindergarten on the ground floor (which was indeed my first step on the educational ladder). We walked around the building for a while but were not allowed to go into the Kindergarten area as classes were in progress. The headmaster kindly suggested that I come back in the late afternoon after classes were finished.
We continued on to Carmel School. Everything looked exactly the same as when I had attended in the 1960’s. The Headmaster, recognizing me as an “old-boy”, came quickly over to welcome us. He then proceeded to give us a personal tour of the complex and introduced us to all of the teaching staff (I didn’t remember anyone). Parents, who were busy with final preparations for the school pageant in the newly built hall, suggested that we postpone our departure for a couple of days in order to attend the premier (I said we would give it serious consideration).
The headmaster of Carmel School coming over to welcome us
Our next stop was to be at 8 Clark Road, our old house. Except for the wall built around it, the exterior looked the same. The current owners of the house are an Indian family and were happy to welcome us in after I explained my background. Our whole trip was a journey down memory lane, but this was the nostalgic high.. The house was as I had remembered it – very little had changed. The floors, the built-in cupboards the gutters, my old-room, everything was as I had remembered. Even my mother's old sewing machine table was still there. The garden was also the same – the roses were still there in the same place (I don’t know if they were the same bushes, but they could well have been). Our hostess was full of praise for the avocado tree in the back yard, which never ceased to give them bountiful fruit. I remembered planting that tree from an avocado pip about 45 years ago – and as far as I can recall, the tree never bore fruit when we used to live there (I even remember knocking some nails into the tree after learning from a TV program that this would certainly stimulate fruit growth) but I was delighted that my old tree had finally come through with the goods. We wondered around the house, our hostess graciously and patiently allowing me to set the pace as waves of memories overcame me. Eventually, we repaired to the lounge (the original liquor cabinet was still In place) where tea was offered and we discussed Current events in Zimbabwe..
Carefully examining the fittings
Our Taxi - note the number for your next tripAfter some mundane matters such as changing money and buying a few souvenirs, we made our way (as all pilgrimages should) to the place of worship. Although I am not a religious person, it was quite a shock to see the remains of the burnt-out Shul. The Shul had been a center for Jewish communal identity in Rhodesia. Everyone, no matter what their religious inclinations had experiences related to the Shul. Jewish Festivals, Barmitzvas, weddings, funerals – everything about Jewish life had revolved around the Shul (and surrounding buildings). My mother had been chairlady of the Ladies Synagogue Guild for a number of years,
and we as children had spent many hours hanging around the place as my mother prepared for Shul related events. It was indeed sad to see the skeletal remains of this proud building, at one time symbolizing the very robust nature of the Jewish community, now in ruins.
We next visited the adjacent communal center where we used to have our weekly youth movement meetings (I used to attend Betar). The entire building has been taken-over by a teachers training college, including the old Kindergarten on the ground floor (which was indeed my first step on the educational ladder). We walked around the building for a while but were not allowed to go into the Kindergarten area as classes were in progress. The headmaster kindly suggested that I come back in the late afternoon after classes were finished.
We continued on to Carmel School. Everything looked exactly the same as when I had attended in the 1960’s. The Headmaster, recognizing me as an “old-boy”, came quickly over to welcome us. He then proceeded to give us a personal tour of the complex and introduced us to all of the teaching staff (I didn’t remember anyone). Parents, who were busy with final preparations for the school pageant in the newly built hall, suggested that we postpone our departure for a couple of days in order to attend the premier (I said we would give it serious consideration).
The headmaster of Carmel School coming over to welcome usOur next stop was to be at 8 Clark Road, our old house. Except for the wall built around it, the exterior looked the same. The current owners of the house are an Indian family and were happy to welcome us in after I explained my background. Our whole trip was a journey down memory lane, but this was the nostalgic high.. The house was as I had remembered it – very little had changed. The floors, the built-in cupboards the gutters, my old-room, everything was as I had remembered. Even my mother's old sewing machine table was still there. The garden was also the same – the roses were still there in the same place (I don’t know if they were the same bushes, but they could well have been). Our hostess was full of praise for the avocado tree in the back yard, which never ceased to give them bountiful fruit. I remembered planting that tree from an avocado pip about 45 years ago – and as far as I can recall, the tree never bore fruit when we used to live there (I even remember knocking some nails into the tree after learning from a TV program that this would certainly stimulate fruit growth) but I was delighted that my old tree had finally come through with the goods. We wondered around the house, our hostess graciously and patiently allowing me to set the pace as waves of memories overcame me. Eventually, we repaired to the lounge (the original liquor cabinet was still In place) where tea was offered and we discussed Current events in Zimbabwe..
Our old house – number 8 Clark Road
Carefully examining the fittings 
In the gardenOur next port of call was the Centenary Park. We stopped at the “famous” fountain which was built around 1968, the opening of which I can vividly remember. The park is still much as it was although the lack of water is quite noticeable and the swan lake in the center is slowly drying out. The miniature railway is still there but has not been operational for a few years. I remember once squirting the engine driver with a water pistol from the overhead bridge. He was extremely angry and after completing the ride, he made a point of finding us and soaking us with a gallon of water – that was a scary experience. Some memories of this park go pretty far back – Bertha our nanny, sometimes used to take us here when were 3 or 4 (I think I can remember, but then again…).
Bulawayo Centenary Fountain (75 Anniversary of Bulawayo).
Miniature Railway
We walked over to the nearby Bulawayo theater (remember the two masks, one smiling one serious – see above) where the set was ready for a school performance that evening – I had a flashback to a play we went to see with my mother in the 60's (possibly Peter Pan).
And so the day progressed. We drove out of town to the animal orphanage (I can't remember the name) where the collection of lions was most impressive. It was somewhat encouraging to see that at least some private organizations are actively engaging in conservation activities. This is not much in light of the utter disintegration that is everywhere (the road network and other infrastructure doesn't seem to have been attended to since Ian Smith left) and our taxi driver informed us that loss of natural wildlife resources is continuing at a staggering rate.
We returned to Bulawayo via Hillside dams. The dam is almost completely dry and the once tidy and green picnic spot is disorderly and overgrown. Our taxi driver said that people are wary of coming here lately since a mysterious murder and robbery of some hiker a few months ago in this area still remains unsolved.
Continuing on our motorized tour, we passed the Matre Dei hospital (where I had my tonsils out at age nine), Gifford Technical School, the Trade Fair Grounds and famous spire, the Dairy Den (where the original "Ice-cream cone" sign is still on display). Taking a short detour into the Industrial sites, we stopped at Security Mills off-sales where I bought a local football club supporters shirt (my father worked here for about 40 years and as children, we used to visit the factory quite regularly). Lobels bakery is still operating (but apparently only making biscuits and not bread).
Off-sales at Security MillsBack in town, we stopped off at OK Bazaars for a small nosh and checked-out Ramjis clothes shop (which still stocks the last word in teenage fashions) where even by Israeli standards, the prices are excessive. The centre of town still contains the same buildings (Miekels, Haddon & Sly etc. etc.) and I didn't notice any evidence of new buildings since I was last here – our driver, although he had been in the area less then 35 years, confirmed my supposition and also did not remember any significant building projects. We went up Main street, past the Post office where the old statue of Cecil John Rhodes no longer stands (apparently it has been moved to a Museum for safe keeping). The only thing changed is the street names which are now unpronounceable and impossible to remember.
Driving back to our hotel, we stopped at Milton High School where I spent my first two years of High School. Standing outside the vice-principals office, that dreaded, fearful feeling of waiting for a canning came back to me. Corporal punishment was a popular tool of education in those times.
Outside the Vice-Principals office at Milton High SchoolBack at the hotel, I went to knock around in one of the squash-courts that had not been taken over by bees. The receptionist gave me an old 1970's style wooden racquet which was not very useful. Luckily, some local players appeared and we had a game (the racquet he lent me had only one string broken …. excuses, excuses). Over a beer after the game, they gave me some insights into the difficulties of living in Zimbabwe for most of the population. Electricity is haphazard, wages are adjusted to inflation only after 3 months (so even if they started with a "reasonable" salary equivalent to say US$150, by the time they got the 3rd months salary, the spending power is negligible).
Next morning we went to Jairus Juri to shop for some home-made handicrafts. They have a nice little shop near the city hall. We bought a few articles for gifts and souvenirs – the prices are reasonable, the staff are helpful and it is all for a good cause. Again we drove around town a bit and stopped for some photo opportunities at some old landmarks that I recollected.
Photo-opps at some old landmarksBefore setting-out for the Airport, we stopped-off at the Jewish Cemetery where my Grandmother is buried. We did not have the grave number so we started looking for the gravestone in chronological order. Passing the names of many that I remembered, the cemetery stands as a testimony to a once vibrant and active Jewish community. We soon found my Grandmothers grave and we stood for a few minutes and contemplated. I tried to pass-on to Gilad a little bit of what I remembered of "Mutti". The Jewish Cemetery is maintained in immaculate condition by the much-downsized current community – I personally would like to express my sincere gratitude for all those involved in this Mitzvah.
"Muttis" GraveWe were running quite early for our flight to Johannesburg so I suggested we take a trip to Lobangulas Kraal and the Indaba Tree. But our driver said that this was a major detour and he had not taken it into account in the petrol allocation. Getting some extra petrol would require special permission from the Taxi company owner and some serious logistical arrangements – we decided to give it a miss. Instead we made a stop at a nearby General Store to get rid of excess Zimbabwe Dollars on some grocery memorabilia such as sunlight soap and the like.
Bulawayo International Airport is being renovated and in the meantime an adjacent hanger is serving amply to cope with the heavy daily schedule (see the Arrival/Departures board below). The earlier plane to Johannesburg had been cancelled due to lack of passengers and the two flights consolidated. An unfortunate passenger who had missed his connecting flight from Johannesburg to Australia to attend a family wedding was in a state of shock and anxiety.
I left Bulawayo feeling quite sad. A considerable period of time had elapsed since I had returned this time and I have serious doubts whether I will be going back again in my lifetime. I am sure it was a worthwhile and valuable journey to be made, especially in giving Gilad a small insight into my background – perhaps it may
Bulawayo International Airport
help put into perspective aspects of our relationship. At the very least, the trip will help to illustrate some of his thoughts at some time or other when he may wonder about family history (as people tend to do, especially on family landmarks or special occasions). The trip itself was intense and eventful and as journeys tend to do, may strengthen the bonds between us.
help put into perspective aspects of our relationship. At the very least, the trip will help to illustrate some of his thoughts at some time or other when he may wonder about family history (as people tend to do, especially on family landmarks or special occasions). The trip itself was intense and eventful and as journeys tend to do, may strengthen the bonds between us.
* Link to the entire Photo-Album: http://www.photo-print.co.il/photoAlbum/albumAllPic.aspx?sid=104&albumId=16416&page=1&oldPage=
