10 May 2007: How to negotiate in Zimbabwe
by Lianna
I
struggle with the idea of favourite countries. People ask me what mine is,
and I quietly mumble something about each country being memorable in its own
way. Some for their scenery, some for their exotic culture, others for the
quality of their climbing yada yada etc. But when all is said and done, Zimbabwe
is my favourite country.
The moment you drive into it, you can’t miss the rock. Everywhere you look you'll see the parched farming landscape, oxen working the neatly delineated fields, and rock will punctuate every degree of the panorama. Small spires rising from farming fields, hillside crags, roadside slabs, huge granite domes, and rocky mountains entirely exposed and clean for climbing.
Add to this a culture still significantly removed from our own to be captivating, and a friendliness surpassing my expectations from such a devastated country. Go to the market. Steak is cheaper than vegetables. Go to the supermarket. Beer is cheaper than water. This really is my favourite country!!!
Driving in from the Tete Corridor through Mozambique, we headed straight for Dema, an impressive 100m high granite dome right by the road. We were travelling in the Milk Float (sometimes known as MaBeL – our Medium Beige Lorry.) She was waterproof, her stereo actually played music, her windows actually shut. She didn’t even break down! She was a far cry from the 'character' of BiRT… she was not Hot Rock!
Arriving at Dema following the crash, a long four days driving over rough roads and across awkward, excessively bureaucratic, borders, I was hoping to park in the big field that I knew to be at the base of the crag, pitch my tent, and go to sleep. But no. Procedures called...
First
we found the village head, a tribal man with social and judiciary authority,
who listened carefully to our request. He went and put on his best clothes
– smart grey slacks, a white shirt, a stripy blue oversized blazer,
Nike air trainers, and the most amazing pinto faux-cowhide cowboy hat –
before telling us with an air of gravity that we were allowed to camp and
climb there…. but only if the police captain and the Xanu PF MP said
we could.
All the while, as tribal tradition and Procedure dictated, we knelt on the ground, clapping our hands in a steady, slow rhythm.
So there I was on my knees in the dirt, clapping away, trying to snatch quickly, between claps, at the huge pile of roast groundnuts that had been put in front of me, which I had to polish off before the end of the negotiations lest I caused grave offence.
On my knees in the dirt, grinning inanely and desperately trying to cling to some slender thread of comprehension about what was being said and agreed on my behalf.
The
village head came with us to find the Xanu PF MP, and to watch as we repeated
the ordeal. Again, kneeling, clapping, snatching at groundnuts while grinning
foolishly, nodding at what seemed to me to be appropriate points, utterly
oblivious to the content of the conversation. After changing into his best
clothes – smart grey slacks, a finely-cut salmon shirt and Nike air
trainers – he solemnly told us we could stay…. if the police captain
agreed.
So off we trundled to find the police captain, one village head and one Xanu PF MP in tow. Dressed in smart black shoes and a tracksuit with his crest emblazoned on the sleeve, he was much less verbose than the other two had been. I didn’t need to understand Shona to know what he was thinking.
He took our passports, scrutinised our visas and phoned Zimbabwean Immigration
to check their legitimacy, phoned his bosses to check that none of us had
records or warrants. Slowly, deliberately, he turned our passports over and
over in his 
hands,
staring daggers at me trying to decide whether we were political activists
intent on instigating insurgent behaviour in the local (and very poor) farming
communities. Eventually he decided we were just tourists, and he’d let
us stay and climb…. if the Chief said we could.
The Chief. The big man. Each region has a Chief. It is a tribally inherited position. But it brings with it hefty political power, vaguely equivelant to a British cabinet minister.
Now here I sat with a man in a very expensive, finely tailored suit, a regular traveller in Robert Mugabe's circles. I was clapping like an idiot, grinning like a fool and (here they'd upped the ante a little...) gnawing on a sugar cane they'd given me, trying to maintain some shred of dignity as I chomped away on the tough fibres trying to stop all the juice drizzling down my face.
I had no clue what was being agreed in these discussions. I answered questions, nodded and smiled at the Chief, and sat by as they decided our fate. One day ended. We were directed to a campsite and instructed to return at 9am the following morning to resume negotiations. And they went on for hours.
And then, at some seemingly arbitrary point, the Chief decided that we should
no longer discuss in Shona. Turning to me, and speaking flawless English,
he told us we were more than welcome to climb. We had full permission to move
freely in his region. 24 hours of talking and clapping. Now we could finally
go climbing!!!
| Sharmu |  |
| Sharmu |  |
| Brent at Dema |  |
| Jez and Brent go bouldering |  |
