Tag Archives: Jon Sharples

Zimbabwe – part 1

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As I write this we are back in South Africa having spent 3 amazing weeks in Zimbabwe. Apologies for the lack of posts in the last fortnight but we have been without electricity fairly often and without WiFi for most of the stay.

And it’s difficult to know what to write about our views of a country which has had a recent history so different to ours and has a view of how whites employ backs which relies on buying in to understanding how things were in the past in order to accept how things now are: where black farm workers labour long and hard for £2 a day and the question posed to a group of white ladies as to whether it would be comprehendible to employ a white maid rather than a black one was met with absolute incredulity.

Also, I don’t want to be disingenuous to those who showed us such wonderful and generous hospitality – but who, in the majority, have views of black and white which are massively different to ours. Anything I write is from a very british perspective.

Firstly, mentioning as we will be in a little while,100 dollar bills, it would be good to stumble across some as the Zimbabwean authorities like to take lots off you.

When we flew in to Zimbabwe we got stung for 110 US dollars for entry visas. When we were visiting various places in Zimbabwe we got charged up to 5 times the local entry price for being British. Admittedly, at some of the places where they tried it we avoided the extortionate hike by pretending to be Zimbabwean. We managed this by not talking – for even my best impersonation would not have passed muster – even saying “shame” and “lekker” four times in every sentence wouldn’t totally fool the locals methinks. Then, at the airport on the way out of the country, we were stopped at the security desk and told we had to pay an exit tax. Another 100 US dollars. So we pay ‘entry’ tax, we pay “being here and visiting things’ taxes and ‘having the temerity to leave’ tax.

At the airport, on being told we had to pay the “exit tax” I didn’t voice my disbelief and displeasure nearly as colourfully and vernaculary as the guy in front of me as I feared the next conversation the guards had with me might well go along the lines of……

Thank you for paying the 100 dollars exit tax which I have pleasure in taking from you whilst not giving you a receipt. And while I have you here, may I ask: Did you breathe whilst you were staying in Zimbabwe sir?
Breathe?
Yes, that is correct, did you breathe at all?
Yes. I did. I felt it was necessary on occasion.
Well then sir, there is the Inhalation Tax to pay. That’ll be ten dollars, please.
What? For breathing in?
Yes sir. You were breathing Zimbabwean air which is the president”s air. He likes to have the air first. If you breathe it before him you must pay the tax.
That’s not fair.
No, but you are. Now then, may I solicitously enquire whether you then held your breath during your entire stay, sir?
No, I can’t say I did.
So you breathed out then?
Of course.
Ahh, well then there is the Exhalation Levy to pay too.
Which is?
5 dollars.
Half the price of the inhalation tax.
Special offer.
Well, fifteen dollars for being allowed to breathe is reasonable, I suppose: it”s definitely worth it for all the beautiful scenery I saw.
Ahh, did you look at the scenery, sir?
Yes. A lot of it was beautiful.
Then you’re liable to the Looking At Things Tax.
You’re trying to tell me there’s a tax for looking at things?
Indeed sir, ohh, and I hope for your sake you didn’t use both eyes……. And did you enjoy the views?
How much is the tax if I did?
40 dollars.
And if I didn’t?
40 dollars.
I don’t understand.
Don’t worry sir, there’s an Incomprehensible Tax which covers that…. If you’d kindly open your wallet you can leave the rest to me.

As it was, I paid the ridiculous 100 dollar exit tax and sadly, left a beautiful country with a sour taste in the mouth. Zimbabwe really doesn’t seem to care much about tourists.

Shame.

That word “shame” is an awesome Zimbabwean word (South Africans use it too, but Zim uses it much more) which seems to have an infinite number of uses. It can mean something is bad, good, happy, sad, obvious, mysterious – anything really.

I didn’t dare use it because I had an unnerving feeling I would use it totally wrong – which is strange because nowhere really seems to be the wrong place for it to go in any sentence as far as I can tell.

The following would be an entirely normal conversation between two Zimbabweans.

Hi.
Shame.
Shame.
I went to the shops this morning.
Shame. What did you get?
Trousers.
Shame.
Then I couldn’t find my car keys. Shame.
Shame.
But then I found them.
Shame.
Shame. And I found a 100 dollar bill.
Shame.
Shame.

There really is nowhere it can’t go and yet I know that if I said it even once it would sound entirely wrong.
A Zimbabwean: “Hi, Jon, would you like some eggs?”
Me: “Shame.”
(Frosty silence as they look at me like I’d just kicked their kitten).
So I stayed resolutely English and used words like “sandals” (they call them slops), “trainers” (takkies), pick up trucks (bukkies) MOT (they don’t have them – if you can get your car to go, that’s good enough) and “jolly good” (lekker).

Zimbabwe is a beautiful land – if she were a literary character she would be Miss Havisham.

Never more will I hoard broken things…..

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(This is my first ever blog post thing – bear with me – I’ll get the hang of it soon – jon)

What caught my eye was the simple fact that here was the best invention ever. Absolutely genius. My mind could not begin to comprehend how insanely clever it was. You just press a button and instantly, near boiling water comes out. Not pre-boiled. Not from some urn that’s constantly on and ready and waiting – but a small see-through counter top machine to sit in your kitchen and you stick cold water in the water reservoir thing and then, and then whenever you feel like it you just press the button and instant hot water comes out (you could also press a different button and chilled water came out – not quite as clever but still pretty cool). And it cost about £35 so I bought it.
That was 11 years ago, or, in the language of “broken-stuff-we-take-with-us-from-one-garage-to-a-new-garage” terms, two moves ago. Because after about 3 months of working brilliantly it didn’t anymore. Didn’t get quite as hot and didn’t get quite as cold. (See Revelation 3:16 to see what God would have done to it at that point!)
Rather than do what God would have done with it at that point, I did what I always do with things like that when they stop working. I stuck it in the garage. Is there ever a more pointless thing to do? I don’t know why I did it; why I always do it. I was never going to fix it. If I take the cover off something electrical I normally start to rock backwards and forwards and cry. I feel that as a man I’m meant to sort of instinctively know what to do with electrical things but all I can do is blow fluff away if there seems to be a build up of fluff on something wirey and/or take batteries out and give them a good shake and reinsert them. So I was never going to actually get round to mend it. And I wasn’t going to return it to the manufacturers because I hadn’t kept the receipt and so, maybe I was thinking that someday it would miraculously heal itself and equally miraculously let me know that it had. But to take the other option of “throw it away”? No chance. We don’t do that in my family. My dad would “make do and mend”: I merely hide it and hope.
So when we moved from Chester to Sale, it was one of the many items that went from sitting broken in one garage to sitting broken in a new garage. And when we moved from Sale to Astbury it found itself in a much larger garage so that many more wounded and dying items could be lined up alongside it. In the third largest room in the garage (you would not believe how big our so called garage is….) it looks a bit like the hospital tent on the battlefield of some electrical goods Armageddon. The last great battle between the Appliances of Too Cheap who had been fighting an elite force of Short, Sweet, Warranty Warriors.
Field Marshall Filter sat, broken, next to Captain Coffee Maker and Private Pancake-Grill. Two unfortunate members of the S A Espresso corps lay side by side: one with his internal workings spilling out over the worktop. A car vacuum with a loose wire had tried to valiantly solder on.
Three once proud petrol strimmers, each standing over 6 feet tall now leaned against the wall for support, their arms spread, hopeful for an embrace – each one of them, just like their off switches, terminally depressed.
Major Appliance, once stentorian, now still, silent. Calvin the crazy can-opener: unpredictable – more than one screw loose.
And as the Owner walked among them – seeing his once proud troops now pathetic, broken, dazed and fused they looked up at him and, as one, seemed to say: “Why not end the suffering? Why do you leave us here?
Henry the Hoover looked up at him with his one remaining eye – the other caved in when a sledgehammer had somehow slipped and had he been able to speak would surely have said STOP hoarding stuff. Stop keeping things that have no use.
And Henry’s red, breaking voice bled across the scene: whispering a single word which sounded as a clarion call of hope. Repeated and re-echoed around – picked up by two other broken, yet hoarded appliances, then four, and on and on until from every corner the chant rose – a single voice had become a chorus: “Re-cycle. Re-cycle!”
The Owner did the next best thing. Not the bravest thing. Not the cleverest thing. Not really a very caring thing considering it was him who had caused most of their injuries.

He ordered a skip.