I first visited Zimbabwe some 19 years back as a primary school pupil on an educational tour. Robert Mugabe was the president. I remember his portrait was hanging on the wall at the border. The Zimbabwean Dollar was in circulation and 1 Pula was equivalent to 2 Zim Dollars. Then, Bulawayo was vibrant, clean and beautiful with green, manicured lawns on every space available in the city.
This past weekend, out of curiosity, I crossed into Zimbabwe just to observe the changes that have taken place since I last set foot in Zimbabwe 19 years ago. Indeed there has been a lot of change save for just one thing. Robert Mugabe is still president. His portrait still hangs on the walls and still spots the mucus-shaped moustache. Sadly, the Zim Dollar didn’t survive for as long.
As I drive to the Ramokgwebana border, I keep asking myself if I have made the right choice to spend my weekend in Zimbabwe. At the forefront of my thoughts is the burning desire to go and witness first hand the situation in Zimbabwe but at the back of my mind I can’t stop thinking of Btv reporters who were detained for shooting a news clip while standing on Zimbabwe soil. I vividly recall the case of Debswana employees who were detained in Vic Falls for no apparent reason. Fresh on my mind is the three Batswana wildlife wardens who are still languishing in a Zimbabwean jail for mistakenly crossing into Zimbabwean territory while in the line of duty. I also know that Mugabe loathes Batswana because our government never misses an opportunity to tell him off. And even worse, I have in the past penned articles that took a swipe at Mugabe and his government.
Well, I decide to steel my balls and head for Zimbabwe anyway. More often I visit South Africa and I had hoped crossing into Zimbabwe would be as smooth. How misplaced are my hopes.
Here the process is tedious and daunting. I’m told to fill in a Temporary Export Permit for my car before I could be provided with a gate pass. Mind you, I’m still at the Botswana side of the border post. The permit application form requires that I fill in detailed information such as the engine and chassis numbers. It even asks where the car was manufactured. My car is a German make but I guess it was manufactured in South Africa, however, I write that it was manufactured in Haiti, just to check if they check what we write in those papers. And they don’t.
Again, I’m forced to fill in the exact address of my destination in Zimbabwe. I tell the lady behind the counter that my trip was not pre-planned and as such I’ll only find my lodging address when I get to Bulawayo. She warns that I must fill in the address if I don’t want to get into trouble with Zimbabwe Immigration officials. I’m now stuck because I do not know a single physical address in Zimbabwe. I have to think on my feet and device a plan. Just next to the Immigration lady there’s a stack of similar papers already filled in by people who crossed before me and bingo! I steal an address from one of the forms. I’m now smiling and feeling hoity-toity all the way to the next counter to have my passport stamped.
I’m even made to skip the long queue of Zimbabweans waiting to be served. The perks that come with being a citizen!
As I drive out of the Botswana border gate, my heart starts to beat loud and fast. I buckle up and play my music low. The last thing I want in Zimbabwe is to be caught on the wrong side of the law. I have been warned that law enforcement officers in Zimbabwe can be exceptionally creative when it comes to making you liable to an offence. Someone even said you can be charged for not tying up your shoe laces. I try to be calm as I approach a sign board just before the Zimbabwean border gate. I shiver at the words written on the sign board. Instead of “Welcome to Zimbabwe”, the board warns, “You are now entering Zimbabwe”. They ran short of adding “at your own risk”.
As I pass through by the gate, which is already wide open, I hesitate as to whether I must stop or just drive through because there is a law enforcement officer by the gate but he doesn’t bother to signal anything for me to stop or proceed through to the parking lot. I drive past slowly and wave at him. He just looks at me pulling a serious face. Not even my fake smile could iron up the wrinkles on his forehead. Well, I’m not the source of his sorrows so I drive through and head for the Immigration office.
There I hand over my passport to the Immigration officer who then slots a piece of paper in between my passport and throws it back to me without a word. It is a form that, yet again, wants all the details of my car and my destination. I fill in the form and hand it back to the officer and this time I try to get buddy-buddy with him by asking silly questions like how is the weather in Zimbabwe. He warms up to me and we chat. He directs me to the next counter where I now have to pay some money before I can proceed with my journey into Zimbabwe. At this next counter the officer asks for my car engine capacity. It is a 2 Litre engine and for that I have to part with 200 Rands. I ask him what the fee is for and what the engine capacity has to do with it. He explains that the money is a levy for carbon emissions and the bigger the engine capacity the more the levy. I grudgingly pay the heavy levy even though my car doesn’t fart as much carbon as the Zimbabwe registered cars that I later find in Bulawayo.
I’m now set free to continue with my journey into Zimbabwe and as I go out of the border gate I’m flagged down by many people, most of whom are shabbily dressed and shouting “third party insurance”. I ignore them, press the accelerator and pump up the radio volume. I get a sigh of relief but I know I still have to behave and keep to the straight and narrow through out my stay in Zimbabwe. A few kilometers after Plumtree there is a sign board alerting me of a toll-gate ahead. I had hoped to find proper toll-gate infrastructure similar to the ones in South Africa but that is not the case in Zimbabwe. Instead of a “proper” toll-gate there is just a road block similar to the ones that are normally mounted by the traffic police in Botswana. An officer takes out a coupon from his apron pocket and asks for 1 US Dollar or 10 South African Rands.
The road to Bulawayo is straight and nice to drive on save for some stretch of bumps here and there. I feel so safe and even manage to stop by some resting place along the way for a short break.
In no time I am in Bulawayo. I’m surprised to find that even though it’s a weekend, the city is so quite and not abuzz with much activity. The roads in Bulawayo, just like in all other African cities, are riddled with potholes and most of the traffic lights are not functional. The first thing I do on arrival is to find accommodation at a local hotel, freshen up and take a drive around the city. I am happy to note that most of the supermarkets are fully stocked. Bulawayo is awash with liquor stores and they even sell alcohol right inside their supermarkets. Yes, they sell alcohol at Spar Supermarket. They have food outlets such as Nandos and Steers. The days of long queues at fuel stations are also gone. The Zim dollar is as useless as used toilet paper as now locals shop around using American dollars. The one US dollar note is the most circulated and everywhere you go locals brandish the soiled dollar.
After gallivanting around town, I retire to my hotel room and chill over my beer and television. I switch to Zimbabwe television station to watch local news and I realize ZBC is no different from BTV when it comes to advancing the agenda of the ruling elite. The entire news bulletin is dedicated to castigating Morgan Tsvangirai and the West for what ZANU-PF call illegal sanctions against Mugabe and his cronies.
It’s Sunday and I drive back to Botswana after an incident and accident free stay in Zimbabwe. I’m glad I didn’t come to a situation where I had to bribe anyone in Zimbabwe. As I exit the border, one Zimbabwean official tries his luck on me and asks for my insurance papers or otherwise I surrender my passport over to him. Hard luck for him because I went there fully equipped with all the necessary documentation. The sign board ahead reads “Welcome to Botswana” and I stop to salvage an ice cold beer from my cooler box. A police constable at the Botswana gate stops me and enquires why on earth would I drink and drive to which I respond, “Because there is no law that forbids me from drinking and driving”. In bafflement he quips, “Tsamaya Rra”. I then hit the road. I survived Zimbabwe.
