Visiting the ruins of Great Zimbawe, Masvingo
Trip Start
Feb 20, 2007
1
31
38
Trip End
Jun 2007
Masvingo,
Zimbabwe
Thursday, May 10, 2007
The owner of the lodge I stayed at in Harare offered to drop me to the bus station where I would find my transport to Masvingo. Had she not have offered, I had another offer of a lift there, from the two girls working in the nearby advertising agency. Never before in my trip in Africa have I been offered a lift to catch a bus, let alone two. This was just yet another example to me of Zimbabwean kindness, and hospitality towards a foreign visitor.
The trip to the bus station revealed the other face of Harare, which which we foreigners are not supposed to see. The cleanliness was gone; rubbish littered potholed streets. There were very run-down looking buildings, and a look of poverty about the place. The bus station was lively, as any African one is, where you have to watch your belongings carefully, despite being distracted by the noise, excitement and colour of everything that is going on all around you. When the bus for Masvingo pulled in there was an almighty rush to the door to get a good seat, in which me and my bags got crushed. I carefully extracted myself from the chaos, waited for the crowd to ebb in, and then climbed on, still managing to get a good window seat.
The four hour journey was pleasant, if a little uncomfortable. As usual my mysterious bus-fatigue washed over me as soon as we trundled off, and I promptly fell asleep for most of the journey.
Eastern Ruins
For those snatches that I was awake the landscape didn't vary much. There was bush, or thinned bush, or else plains of elephant grass. The hills of the east had melted into gently sloping flatlands, and although everything was beautiful, it lacked the excitement of mountainous landscape.We arrived in Masvingo about five hours later, although I didn't get off until a bus station two kilometres later, because of a miscommunication with one of my fellow passengers. Not to worry, however, Africa's public transport is always efficient around cities and towns (more reliable, in fact, than that of Ireland), and within minutes I was in a cramped matatu hurtling back to Masvingo. Masvingo is another old planned colonial town, a small grid of wide streets, a little dusty and in need of love, but a pleasant place all the same.
I then embarked on a hot, painful, and tiring walk around the town from hotel to hotel trying to find a place that would accept payment in Zim dollars. The town's backpacker's hotel (huge, but empty) was the third place I visited, and I was going to settle on paying US dollars for a dorm bed, just to end my misery. That is, until I heard such a bed would cost $20 US (usually, dorm beds cost $3-7 in Africa). So on I went, to a little lodge outside of town that appeared not to be used by foreign tourists. I collapsed into their reception and asked so pitifully that a sympathetic look was given; I was to be allowed to pay Zim dollars as long as I kept myself scarce by day, in case the police came around to check up on them.
That night, after a meal of chips and "stew" (two pieces of chewy beef in watery gravy), I went across the road from the hotel to a busy-looking bar, and went for a few drinks there.
Kopje with ruins
There were two floors to the bar, and the doorman suggested that I might prefer the upstairs more; it was quieter there. So, up I went, and found a pleasant, small room, with a bar wrapped around one corner, at which about ten men were sitting, watching a television. There was a quiz show on, showing on Zimbabwe's only television station, ZBC, an embarrassingly bad channel, jokingly called "Dead BC" by the locals. The quiz show proved to be a good bonding program for all of us to watch, as we argued over the answers.After a while I started chatting to the man next to me, a human rights lawyer in a small firm in town. I told him about my travels through Africa, and he interestedly asked me about my impressions of some of the Central and East African countries I had been to, having also visited them himself. He had the idea in his head that I was a writer, perhaps from having seen my diary and pen, which I had with me. He asked if I was some sort of a journalist; I laughed, and said you have to be careful to say what you are in this country. This was probably a little unwise of me, but it served to get him talking more openly about Zimbabwe, and allowed me to ask him more probing questions about the politics of the country.
We spoke in hushed tones, further lowering our voices when we said the M-word (Mugabe). He told me that things were in a terrible way in Zimbabwe, and they were fast deteriorating. He couldn't see things improving for at least another twenty years. I asked if he thought things would change if He died, and he said he was doubtful; there were others in the ruling party that would gladly seize control.
Reconstructed hut on kopje
A new Zanu-PF leader would probably mean a more relaxed rule over the country, but things would only slightly improve, and the corruption that rots Zimbabwe would further fester and grow.Next years elections, he said, would be another farce. He had no doubt that intimidation and bully-boy tactics would ensure another Zanu-PF victory. He said he would probably not even bother voting, for what is the point? Although the country may appear to be safe now, he told me that I should come here in the few months before and after the elections to see the violence, oppression and fear, which reveal Zimbabwe's true face. Another thing I must see, if I wanted to understand this country properly, was the rural areas. I explained to him that unfortunately I couldn't do this; I had no car, and there were no hotels outside of towns and cities. The fact that I don't speak Shona would have also been a problem.
Although he was a lawyer, educated at the University of Zimbabwe (which is not easy to get in to, in Zimbabwe you need brains, not money to get a third level education), he had grown up in a village. This qualified him somewhat to shed light on rural attitudes towards politics. It is a well known fact that Mugabe's only significant support comes from rural areas, where he is still much adored. I had presumed that this was because of the land redistribution, but was told that this was not the case. Very little of the land seized from the whites, had, in fact gone into the hands of poor black farmers.
Ruins in Great Enclosure
Those who got the land were civil servants, politicians, and high-level members of Zanu-PF. The lawyer racked his brains for a few moments to see if he could think of anyone from his village that had gotten land; yes, there was one, but he only got a little, and he had worked as a civil servant in Harare for a few years. Those who have been given the land are usually not from an agricultural background, and as a result have failed badly in farming their new land. They have been the worst perpetrators in destroying the Zimbabwean bush, and the reason behind Zimbabwe's severe decline in agricultural exports (and hence, shortage of foreign currency reserves).The rural population supports Mugabe because they know no better, he said. Comrade Mugabe was the hero of independence, and has always only had the country's best interests at heart, in their eyes. Inflation doesn't affect these people as badly as those who live in towns and cities, the only goods a subsistence farmer needs to buy is perhaps salt and soap. All they care about is rain, and whether it comes or not. This year it hasn't rained enough, and hence the people will go hungry. Mugabe, however, knows his support lies with the poor farmers, and he will look after them. Already, maize is being imported from neighbouring countries (mainly South Africa), and will be distributed free, or at highly subsidized prices, to the drought-affected rural areas. As long as these people are fed, the lawyer said, they are happy, and will have no real reason to question Mugabe's rule.
I asked him about the sanctions that the West is imposing on Zimbabwe.
Ruins inside Great Enclosure
"The illegal sanctions", he laughed, "it is difficult for us to learn what they are, because of the restrictions on the media in this country." He said that he agreed with them in principal, but if they are to be effective they should be made greater, so as to bring the country to its knees economically. Half-hearted sanctions would never change anything, and hurt the people, not the politicians. I asked him how he got reliable information on what was happening in the country. He said that people have their own networks; he talks to friends know things. Most of this information is sourced from the internet. There are two newspapers here which are moderately critical of Zanu-PF, The Financial Gazette and The Zimbabwean Independent. I bought the latter the following day, and was surprised to find he was right, there were articles within which were critical (although carefully so) of Mugabe's regime. I asked him had he heard of Morgan Tsvangirai getting severly beaten by policemen on March 11th - he had, of course. That sort of event is widely publicized in the country's press, he said, probably to show people what happens if you challenge Mugabe's authority. The reasons given in the papers for the beatings were that Tsvangirai had coming to the police station "to make trouble". He asked if I had heard about the lawyers who had been beaten up by police in Harare while I was there. I had; members of the national Law Society were met with police violence while peacefully protesting on the streets.
Ruins on kopje
I saw photos of their leader, who was covered in horrible bloody bruises, from head to toe.He told me that he had worked as a lawyer for the national army during the war in the Congo at the start of this decade. He worked between the government of Zimbabwe and the mineral companies who came to plunder those regions held by the Zimbabwean army. He said that most of what he saw was above board, and that the profits earned appeared to be going to the government, for legitimate use. He said, however, that he held too junior a role to have seen any corruption. There were certain things that he saw that he said he wouldn't talk about until he was sixty, and then only to his children. I asked if he was afraid of people in the bar listening to what we were saying, and if there was any sort of military intelligence network operating in the country. He said that no, we were safe enough here, "but the fear is there".
The next day I set off to visit Great Zimbabwe, the country's big tourist site (after Victoria Falls, of course). This involved getting a matatu to the bus station and then finding a bus that would pass nearby the site. All this went to plan, and before I knew it I was sitting next to the driver of the bus (at his insistence), thanking my blessings that he was a slow and careful driver as well as a kind man.
Great Zimbabwe, as it is called, is the ruins of one of Southern Africa's greatest civilizations, which was at the height of its glory during 1100-1500 AD. A series of impressive walls, made from granite blocks, without the use of mortar, encircle what used to be compounds of huts.
View of Central Ruins and Great Enclosure
It was an important trading centre, and evidence of Arab traders from Zanzibar and further afield have been found here: Chinese porcelain, Indian beads, and other exotic goods brought from these exotic ancient civilizations.My attempts to pay in local currency (in which the price came to less than one US dollar) failed; my explanation of having forgotten my receipts from the bank was met with a raised eyebrow. I reluctantly made my US $15 donation to Mugabe & Co, and entered the grounds of the ancient civilization. First, I visited a museum, which explained the history of the place, with some unusual inaccuracies. For example, they said that the people living here probably ate sadza, the Zimbabwean staple diet, a thick porridge made from maize (every country in East Africa seems to eat the stuff, although they call it by different names). It is well documented, however, that maize was first introduced to the continent by the Portuguese. I chose not to worry about such trivialities, and enjoyed marveling at the clay recreations of the workers who would have build this small city, allowing my imagination run wild with images of splendour and wealth which probably would have been more fitting to ancient Rome or Egypt than here.
I went outside then, finally, to explore the ruins for myself. They are spread out over a plain, measuring maybe a little over a kilometre squared. Rising from the plain is a wonderful kopje, upon which the oldest part of the city was built, no doubt for reasons of protection and security. This turned out to be my favourite part of Great Zimbabwe. The first pleasure was in the climb itself, it was exhilarating to be outdoors, and climbing, up, up, getting views of the land that stretched out for miles around. Bush, and cleared bush, little dirt tracks criss-crossing here and there, the odd hut, but mainly wilderness, wonderful, calm wilderness. The expanse of Lake Mutrikwe (created artificially by a dam) shimmered nearby.
The path, made with granite blocks, neared the summit, and the ruined walls started to appear, often rising as high as four or five metres tall, built around the natural boundaries of those impossibly large round boulders (also granite) that every kopje in this country seems to greedily hoard. The base of the wall was always wider than the crumbling top, necessary because no mortar was used. The large granite blocks completed the walls as neatly as those of a Lego castle.
As I went higher the walls started to wind more, enclosing little compounds that would have held huts (one was in fact built here recently, to help the imagination). Sets of walls now housed passageways, through which I clambered, excited as a child. I was transported back to my youth, when I imagined how great Irish ruins must have been in their day. But those Irish ruins needed greater inventiveness to be recreated in one's head, Great Zimbabwe's walls had survived time's destructive nature so well that it was easy to see how this place was all those centuries ago.
I almost ran around the passageways, not caring if I looked foolish, or childish, for there was no-one to see me. There were no others around; in my three hours exploring Great Zimbabwe I saw only two white tourists (Germans), and perhaps ten locals. For now, this kopje was mine, it was as if I was in a dream only a child could invent. As I scrambled over rocks and through secret passageways my adult marvel at the history of the place gave way to a childish view of it all as a playground, set in wild, open, empty nature. What fun could be had here by other (!) children, inventing games, passing days, weeks, whole summers, playing, hiding!
A group of local tourists passed, and I sobered myself up, and assumed my adult character again, sitting on a rock and reflecting on the history of the place, as that is what an adult should do. I reluctantly climbed down off the kopje then, to explore the rest of the ruins. I took another path down, the "terrace path", which was steeper, and almost always lined on each side by walls, creating the effect of it being a sort of passageway. When I reached the bottom I went to the Eastern ruins, following a path that has become overgrown because of a lack of tourist feet tramping it into neatness. I came to a sign that read "Mujejeje - 1km". I walked on, through bush and over granite plateaus, passing under trees filled with curious monkeys and barking baboons. I had read on an American's blog that there were snakes here, among them a deadly black mambo. I noticed several snake holes in the ground, and so made as much noise as I could while walking through the bush so as to frighten them away.
I walked and walked until I reached a fence marking the park's boundary, not having seen Mujejeje, whatever that was. I decided to turn back, a little puzzled, but happy to have had such a lovely excursion in the bush. I later read that Mujejeje are rocks that resonate when struck; I must have walked right past them without realizing it.
I explored the Eastern and Central ruins then, less fun than those on the kopje, but impressive nonetheless. These walls were lower, at maybe five feet high, and made enclosures around relatively flat ground. I made my way up to the Great Enclosure then, the most impressive of the ruins, structurally, at least. This was an enormous wide wall, rising perhaps ten metres high, still perfectly intact. It enclosed a roughly circular area, about a hundred metres in diameter. Inside were more small walls, and a tall, near-cylindrical tower (which was solid through - they were just building to show off at this stage, I thought to myself). I wandered around the enclosure, trying to imagine how these people lived. To think that Europeans like to believe that all Africans were savages before our arrival! The English, in fact, did everything they could to try to say that it was anyone but the Africans who built all this. I pondered how Africa would have developed had we not felt the need to come and interfere. They would probably be a lot better off had they been left alone.
I left then, and on my way out I asked if I could see the visitor's book, which everyone must sign. I saw that in the past fortnight there had been, on average, two Western tourists per day. For once I was a little happy about Mugabe's Zimbabwe; I was so lucky to have had this amazing piece of African history almost to myself.
I walked out to the main road to wait on a bus then, and was entertained by friendly, playful, laughing women who were there selling sweet potatoes and groundnuts to passing traffic. They insisted I taste everything they had, and was even given a sweet potato that they had already cooked. I was incredibly touched by how open, warm and kind they were - traits I have remarked that all Zimbabwean people seem to have. I missed a bus that passed because of talking with these women, but no matter, as I got a lift from two friendly local NGO workers in their 4x4, and zipped back to Masvingo in no time at all.
That night I went back to the bar again, hoping to meet the lawyer. He was there, and I took a seat next to him, after first asking if it was free. Five minutes later a strong-looking, drunken man told me to vacate the seat; he had been there before me. I apologized, and returned the seat to him. He wanted to know who I was, and what I was doing here. When I told him that I was a tourist he first didn't believe me, until the lawyer (a friend of his) assured him that I was telling the truth. He apologized then, saying he wouldn't have been so rude had he known. The black-white race thing was still an issue, he said. The lawyer had told me that the whites still essentially keep to themselves here. He frequents this bar almost every night, and said he hadn't seen another white here in over three months.
It turned out that the man whose seat I had taken was a major in the army, so any hope of talking politics was now gone. The lawyer made to leave, and asked the major to look after me, saying he was concerned for my safety in this bar. The two men argued in Shona for ten minutes, after which the major told me that I would be safe here tonight, but that if I did anything out of order tomorrow he would have to kill me. I immediately grew worried that the lawyer had told him that I was a "journalist", and anti-Mugabe. When he left I made to go to the bathroom, and asked him if he had spoken to the major about the previous evening's conversation. He said that he hadn't, of course. He said not to worry about the major, he was a good man, just drunk.
I returned to the bar and drank with the major for a while, as he aggressively questioned me about my thoughts on the country. I spoke of how great a country it is, a pity about the economic problems, of course, but hopefully things will get better. Now was not the time to speak my heart. I said, after a while, that I would go to the bar downstairs for a change of scenery, hoping to leave him behind. He insisted on accompanying me, for my safety.
When I went down I was glad he was with me, for it was a strange place. My entry in this room would have been met with a sudden silence, were it not for the loud music. Everyone turned around to look at me. Rough, drunken youths lounged against tables and chairs, and I immediately felt unwelcome. A few of the men were completely intoxicated, not from alcohol, but from some drug or other.
The major and I played a game of pool and had a beer. He repeatedly told me to watch my pockets here. The crowd gathered around, and applauded the major when he potted balls, to which he did a little victory dance every time. I started to come back then, and ended up winning the game. Against my better judgment, I mimicked the major's victory dance, which infuriated him, but won the crowd over. They clapped and cheered, and whatever tension I had felt on my arrival was now gone - I felt welcome.
We played again, and the major's anger at having lost the first game sobered him up enough to make sure he trounced me this time around. He kept slowly drawing a finger across his throat, looking at me, whenever he was about to pot a ball. A little scary, but always meant in jest. After the second game I decided to leave. It had been a strange evening, and a little frightening at times, but enjoyable nonetheless. It was not the kind of bar where I wanted to be when the men got too drunk. And, besides, I was on the road again the following day, to Mutare.
