Since moving to Seattle, I’ve had to rethink walking because we didn’t bring my car with us.  Back home in Indiana, walking is something you do to get from your car to your mailbox. If you are super health conscious, you might go on walks around the neighborhood or at the mall with other “walkers,” but walking is usually a choice and rarely a mode of transportation (and if you are going to do it right, you’ll need special shoes!). Seattle, on the other hand, requires walking. Even if you do have a car, parking is so tedious that you’ll be walking to get to your destination unless you drive to the suburbs where parking spaces abound. This summer when I broke my toe for vain, lazy reasons (pretty shoes and a short cut I shouldn’t have taken), I discovered how important it is to keep feet happy and healthy now that I’m an urban dweller. If you don’t, you’re quickly relegated to shut-in status. That said, a big city like Seattle offers plenty of transportation options (buses! ferries! water taxis! street cars!) to get you where you need to be.

Zimbabwe, though, sheds a whole new light on walking. For the majority of the population this and mini-busses are simply the only way to get from Point A to Point B. There is no choice. No moral superiority about your decision to live car-free or how small your carbon footprint is. You just do it. Z’s family, fortunately, is a car family, so I’ve been able to cover a lot of terrain here, even if it is on the “wrong” side of the road. If they were a walking family, I’d be in the ER because of my uncalloused feet and inability to handle the sun shining on my head for extended periods.

The first time I was on the dual carriageway between Harare and Z-ma’s house, I couldn’t quite figure out who all these people were walking on the dusty sides of the road.  Had a concert or sporting event just let out somewhere? (At home, people walking along a road like this have either had car trouble so you should stop to help, or they are up to no good and so you should hit the gas.) I’d squint my eyes and stare at the people we passed: school kids in uniforms, men in dress pants and shirts, women in skirts with babies strapped to their backs with toweling, devout members of the apostolic sects here that are dressed completely in white that–despite the dust and the hours they spend seated penitently on rocks—seems to stay pristine, small children who look barely able to stand toddle after their mothers, mindful of the traffic that whizzes past them.

And the footwear? Definitely not expensive European engineering like my feet require if I’m to do any serious walking. In many cases, people are barefoot and seem completely oblivious to the pebbles, though I am regularly plagued by them.

So on our last day in his hometown when Z and I find ourselves at home without the truck, we decide to walk down to the shops to pick up a few items to take back to America and to check on the status of the shoes he’s having mended by the cobbler. It’s warm and the tree canopy between his house and where I know the turn off for the shops is looks nonexistent.  Winter has just ended, after all, so things haven’t greened up yet. He says it’s a ten minute walk, but I can tell from looking it’s going to take me a half hour. He suggests I stay home and he’ll run our errands, but despite all the things out there—including mosquitos and stray dogs of dubious temperament—I want the experience of really walking for something I need.

Z may be a native of Zimbabwe, but we both look like two big, pale, sweaty Americans after ten minutes. We both have on our “Life is Good” caps that I bought for our honeymoon at a garage sale, sunglasses, the pastiness that comes with a layer of sunscreen, and athletic shoes. The people we pass are just dressed for whatever the activities of their day require—they don’t have special walking costumes like the ones we’ve fashioned.

It’s a straight shot from Z-ma’s house to the shops, and so we walk and talk. Past Florence Nighten Girl’s School, past the Mimosa Flats that were built for workers at a platinum mine some years ago, past houses that used to belong to the neighbors of Z’s childhood but now belong to strangers, past the houses that are late additions that fill up the space that used to be where Z and his brother caught butterflies.

We talk about how it was then and how it is now, and this is one of the qualities I love about Z most: his ability to be perfectly content in the present moment. Were we walking in my hometown, I would be kvetching the whole time about how it wasn’t like it used to be, that houses had gotten dumpier, that trees had been cut down, that old buildings had been demolished. Basically, I’d be lamenting that it wasn’t still 1955 even though I wasn’t even alive in 1955. But he, who can remember a time when the houses didn’t need huge walled fences topped with razor wire and a time when his country functioned more smoothly, well, he doesn’t complain. He says, “What can you do?”

The only thing that kind of riles him is the amount of litter that lines the road.  In some places, it appears that every empty chip packet and soda bottle in the country has found a final resting place along the street of his youth.

Our first stop at the shops is the cobbler’s little hunk of real estate against the back wall where we hope to collect Z’s teaching shoes. The big question in our minds is not will he be there but will the shoes be ready and wearable. So when we turn the corner expecting to see his little bench with tools and Z’s shoes, gleaming in the sun, we’re a bit surprised to see that a thatched awning with a pool table underneath it is sitting approximately where the cobbler was when we dropped the shoes off. In the few days since the shoes were handed over, an entire structure has cropped up and the cobbler has been displaced.

Z scratches his head. We look around and see no sign of him in any other recess. Hmmm.

We stop at the shop that the family friends own and mention that the cobbler isn’t on his post. Z’s friend says, “Oh, he packs up and goes to the rural area to mend shoes sometimes. He’s usually gone a few days. Maybe he’ll be there tomorrow.” Tomorrow is it. We leave tomorrow. Z may be getting those new shoes I’ve been pushing him towards after all.

We visit briefly and asking after the friend’s mother who is “down south” undergoing some medical tests. She tells us that the results were good, and we rejoice, and then we instantly lament the fact that we won’t be able to see her before we leave. She and her other daughter arrive at the airport around the same time we’ll be departing.  We say goodbye and head off to the grocery to pick up a few items, and start the walk back home.

For the most part, as we walk under that big, hot sun, no one speaks to us. One person nods. Another says hello, but on the whole, we pass people and it is as if we are invisible to them. This is something that has consistently seemed odd to me on this trip. When I first met Z, he told me how friendly Zimbabweans are, and because of this, when we are driving and pass someone on the road (which is often), I lift the fingers of my left hand in that most Midwestern of road waves. Here, no one waves back, and eventually, I’ve not only quit waving, I’ve also quit making eye contact with the people we drive past. It reminds me of the transition I made from small, liberal arts Christian college where you couldn’t walk three paces without someone smiling and saying hello, to a big state school for my graduate program, where I once said hello to someone and nearly scared them to death, so rare was it to be greeted by a stranger. Eventually, I quit attempting friendliness there, and I’ve done the same here, at least with total strangers.

When we are halfway home, a group of school children, still in uniform, sees us and stares. One brave soul says in a small voice, “Good afternoon,” to which we reply, “Good afternoon.” Another little voice and another pipes up until it is a chorus of good afternoons. And then the giggling starts. It effervesces.

I don’t need an explanation for it because it is just a lovely moment shared between strangers. Though when Z gives me one possible interpretation once we are out of earshot, I am surprised.  It’s conceivable, he says, that we are the first white people these children have spoken to. This is something I hadn’t considered: myself as exotic animal, worthy of looking at or speaking to just by nature of being something different.  I’ve never imagined myself as the impetus for a childhood dare: you say something to them! No. You do it! This is something to add to the list of my own new experiences.

By the time we reach the gate, I’m hot. All I can think about is peeling off my walking layers and pouring some water over my head. Frank, the gardener, latches the gate behind us as we greet him and rub Skampy’s ears. Frank looks at me, beads of perspiration on my forehead, and says, “It’s very hot today!” Frank is not breaking a sweat himself, even though he has been outside trimming roses. We take our purchases into the kitchen where Eunice is working. She takes one look at my big red face and makes a tch tch sound. “It’s very hot today!” she says, disapprovingly.

This is the kind of Zimbabwean friendliness that I have come to love here, which is different than the friendliness of strangers. Neither of them is smirking. Neither of them is making me feel like it is my fault that I’m too out of shape from my life of Seattle bus riding and Indiana car riding to walk ¾ of a mile under a sun that is not really blazing at all. Neither of them seems to be condemning me for the soft life I lead. Instead, Eunice and Frank seem almost apologetic that Zimbabwe has made my cheeks so red and my forehead so sweaty.

And also, everyone seems to have genuine concern about the plight of Z’s AWOL shoes.

In no order of importance, here are some images and vignettes of things I love in Z’s homeland. You’ve already had tea with Skampy and met his family and the wildlife, so don’t look for those here, though they are all at the top of the list.

Senior Citizen Express Lines

Much of African culture venerates the elderly, which is probably something Western society could benefit from. One of the manifestations of this is that in Zimbabwe senior citizens can move to the front of the queue. This has been particularly helpful to Z-ma when she has to get a new passport or driver’s license. The lines can snake around the likes of which I’ve only seen at amusement parks when a new, terrifying ride has opened.

Z-ma delights in her ability to slap down her move-to-the-head-of-the-line trump card. Most places recognize and honor this, but sometimes the cashiers at TM are less inclined. Often, the lines there are not that long, and my preference would be to stand in them because I don’t like to cause a fuss. But Z-ma happily announces to the cashier that she should be allowed to move to the front of the line, and if the cashier balks, Z-ma says forcefully, “I am a senior citizen. This is the law of Zimbabwe!” Z-ma is a school teacher. You do not question her authority. She moves to the head of the line and I slink into the background as best I can because I just know people are looking at me thinking, “You aren’t a senior citizen. Why are you allowed to go in front of me.” But honestly, I’m just carrying the TM bags. I swear.

Thingz

Before I was willing to eat this popular Zimbabwean snack, I asked my sister-in-law what they tasted like. She wrinkled up her brow and said, “I dunno, Beth. Thingz, I guess. They just taste like Thingz.”

It turns out there is a lot not to know about Thingz. For instance, I don’t know what these are other than a crunchy corn snack. I don’t know why a Zimbabwean snack brands itself with someone dressed in a poncho and sombrero with the message  “The Spicy Siesta Snack for Desperadoes.” I don’t know who got the bright idea for guys to sell these in the streets with newspapers and air time, nor do I know who rolls down their car window and buys a bag from a street vendor (though I think the packaging might make them impossible to resist—so blue, so yellow, so shiny!). I don’t know what it is about them that made the bag become magically vacuum sealed on the flight back to America. Most importantly, I don’t know why some American company hasn’t started importing these babies. They’re just that good.

Fruit

Because of the amazing climate in Zimbabwe (read: too warm for me, but really not as hot as you are probably imagining Africa is), there seems to be a consistent array of fruit growing in Z-ma’s yard. While here, we’ve had mulberries, pawpaw (papaya), and oranges. Soon, there will be bananas and peaches. Later there will be mangoes, and lemons.  And this is to say nothing of the vegetables. Generally speaking, I’m so busy devouring Thingz and Z-ma’s excellent cooking that I forget to eat fruit, but the thought that you can walk out your door and pluck breakfast from a tree all year round is pretty amazing.

No One Cares if I Brush My Hair

Self explanatory.

No One Cares if I Wear Make-up

Self explanatory

Mini-bus Names

Mini-buses (or commuter buses) are a significant mode of transportation. A lot of the people walking that we pass when we drive into Harare are waiting to be picked up by one or have just been dropped off. They look to be built to hold about nine people if strapped in by American safety standards, but in Zimbabwe, the buses are packed full. I get claustrophobic just looking at one as there seems not to be an inch of space. If I imagine being on one, I instantly think of breathing apparatus I’d want with me (a SCUBA tank or at least a bendy straw) to ensure I get my fair share of oxygen. As much as I don’t want to walk very far, I want to ride in one of these even less. Aside from being crowded and the frequency with which they are targeted at roadblocks by the police, the driving is often dubious. These are vehicles on the road from which  you try to keep some in no small part because of the erratic driving.

What I do love about them are the names that are often painted on the sides, making one bus stand out from another. Here is a list of some of my favorites:

• Shine on Quality Time
• Character is Destiny
• Red Carpet
• God with us is the Best
• Smile Times
• Rocket Missile
• Promised Land
• Sir George
• Movement
• Royal Comfort
• Hit Them Up
• Godfather
• One Drop
• Jeremiah
• Never Say Never
• You Never Know
• Next Time
• Expandable
• God of Mercy
• Title Contender

Out of all of these, my favorite, though I can’t say why, is “Super Wesley.”

American Money in Zimbabwe

To combat hyperinflation a few years ago, Zimbabwe adopted the U.S. dollar as its currency. (This helped curb the 6.5 sextillion inflation rate that was recorded in late 2008, and made it easier to buy a loaf of bread because Z-ma no longer had to take millions and millions of Zim dollars to the store.) Until this happened, I had no idea that a country could just decide to start using U.S. dollars. I still have no real idea about how it is that Zimbabwe gets U.S. dollars to use, because I thought when U.S. money got too tatty, it was sent to Fort Knox and incinerated. But apparently not because this is the nastiest, limpest, dirtiest, most torn and nearly indecipherable  bunch of bank notes you have ever seen. I defy any of you to take a dollar out of your wallet and try to make it look like this.

40 Cork Road

The first time we visited this café, I confess I was in it for the internet connection and could have cared less about the food, the gift shop, or the ambience. As soon as we pulled up, I was surprised to see a man guarding the parking lot in khaki safari outfit complete with pith helmet.  He stands outside the place, watching your vehicle to make sure no one interferes with it, and then he directs you as you reverse onto the road. For this service, you give him a tip of a couple of those tatty US dollars, and it is money well spent.

Inside the terracotta colored walls that keep you unaware of the traffic outside, there is house/gift shop, and a lot of outdoor seating under the trees and on the verandah. The grass is like a thick carpet and all around it they’ve placed objet d’art that you can buy in the gift shop. My favorites this time are a bunch of little metal hedgehogs that appear to be streaming through a tunnel, as if they are in a hurry to get somewhere. There are also metal chickens, butterflies, and song birds nestled amongst the sofas and tables that are scattered on the grass, as if having such furniture outdoors is perfectly normal.

We almost always get baked goods and tea here, all of it delicious, and then I poke around the gift shop and try to justify yet another bag, this one made out of bottle caps. (I can’t. It stays at Cork Road.)

The other thing I love here is the sink in the ladies’ loo. It’s too beautiful to be  there purely for hand washing.

Perhaps what I love most about it is that I’ve been there enough now that I feel like a regular, which is a good way to feel when you are in a land that isn’t your own.

How People Believe Peaceful Sleep will keep Mosquitoes at Bay

When I mention that I’m being plagued by mosquitoes, more than one person innocently asks if I’ve tried the insect repellent Peaceful Sleep. Not only have I tried it, I apply it regularly. Even so, my ankles and legs are covered with approximately forty bites. From a single night in Z-ma’s lounge without long pants. When I am itching, it annoys me, but when I am not, I appreciate the sincerity of their belief.

School Uniforms

In America, I loathe the idea, but here and in Ireland and England, I’m forced to admit that the kids just look smarter when they’re dressed in uniforms.

The News

The news Z-ma gets is France 24, a sort of French version of BBC news that that is presented in English primarily by Irish newscasters.  While I’m here there is a lot of American saber rattling because of the situation in Syria, and it is interesting to hear the news from a perspective that is ever so slightly more critical of U.S. foreign policy than I would be hearing at home. It’s subtle, but it’s different.

And also, I will never understand centigrade. All the years I spent learning the metric system in elementary school because the U.S. was supposedly going to convert were a waste. Not one piece of info aside from “based on ten” latched onto my brain cells. I have a better memory of the cartoon characters in the textbook that were meant to promote metric learning than of the actual calculations.

I gather thirty is hot, yet when I hear it, I wish I had my fleecy boots.

Making a Plan

Zimbabweans are famous both for using the phrase “make a plan” and for actually doing the plan making. Americans might use some version of this phrase and they are masters of planning parties, planning their finances, and planning escape routes, but this is different. In the US, it’s about the future and how to keep things safe and secure. In Zimbabwe, it’s more about making a plan to deal with something unexpected that has arisen. Z used this phrase for the first time when he proudly told me that he’d made a plan during a particularly bad water shortage to water the parched garden with used bathwater. Z-ma’s house is testament to Zimbabwean plan making: if the electricity goes out, there’s an invertor that relies on a car-like battery that offers enough power for a light and her television. The act of taking a shower involves plan-making so elaborate that Z and I won’t take one until we get the nod from her: the geyser (water heater) has to be turned on so there is plenty of hot water, but then you  have to judge when the city water was most likely to be on so you can cool the scalding water enough to shower. If the water is not on, then you have to consider a bath that has been cooled with fresh water that is kept in buckets lining the walls of the bathroom. Making a plan is essential if you want to survive in Zimbabwe.

The Tortoises

For reasons that include my father and a few misdirected box turtles in the middle of an Indiana road at pertinent times in my life, the turtle is my power animal. It’s not very fierce, but they move thoughtfully, get where they are going, and carry their homes on their back. Because I’m from Indiana and turtles there have feet not fins, I call them all turtles and not tortoises.  (Turtle is just a better, less French word.) Despite having shown Z actual documentation that sometimes turtles have real feet and walk on land, he insists I call them tortoises, which I only do when in Zimbabwe because it seems polite. In addition to a turtle necklace Z gave me when we were courting, I travel with a stuffed turtle named ShellE who has been photographed on most of the trips I’ve taken in the last four years.  (That’s her with the big guy up above. In case it is unclear, ShellE is the one on the left.)

Z-ma has three tortoises in her yard. One is a great big strapping fellow who greeted me last time with this quick parade around his pen, as if he were saluting me. On this visit, he mostly stays in his shell, but I’m not feeling too bitter about this because apparently tortoises aren’t very active in winter. The second tortoise lives with the larger one and is medium sized. It reminds me most of the ones I grew up with. It’s shell is kind of roundy and marbled.

And then there is the latest addition. A tortoise so small that her name had to be Tiny. For Tiny, multiple plans have been made to ensure her survival. Her pen is closest to the house and has a cover over it so no bird of prey will swoop down and grab her. At night, Eunice brings her into the house in a covered box that is placed where the dirty dishes used to go. The dirty dishes quit going there when, one morning, Tiny was covered in ants that had been attracted by whatever deliciousness was still on the dirty plates.

My favorite tortoise anecdote from my mother-in-law’s, involves the lettuce that she grows there that the tortoises are fed. Z-ma particularly likes rocket, and one day she suggested to Eunice that perhaps the tortoises would like it too. Eunice was dubious, took a bite of the rocket, and spit it out, saying, “No Madam, the tortoises will not like this.” And thus Tiny and her comrades were saved from having to feast on this bitter leaf.

African Thatch

It’s different than Irish thatch and different than English thatch. I love them all.

Koeksister

It looks a bit rude, but you say it “cook sister” and it is a twisted, syrupy pastry that Z-ma makes for Z whenever he comes home and which he graciously shares with me. If I were a better wife, I’d learn how to make them but instead I’ll take him to Krispy Kreme and we’ll try to satisfy our longing with an original yeast donut. (It’s not the same.)

Visiting with Friends

Friends anywhere are special and life is unreliable for everyone, but there is something about the tenuous nature of life in Zimbabwe that makes friendships seem more precious. Almost none of Z’s friends from his youth are still in country, and many of Z-ma’s friends and family have either left the country or have moved from her small town into the city. When we spend time with Z-ma’s friends, it seems almost holy. First, I must confess that part of my love of these friends is that they treat Z and me like rock stars. Because they know how important time with family is, they are happy that we are here with Z-ma for three weeks. But beyond feeling like we are HRH William and Kate on tour, these women are fun. They might be talking about whether or not they’ve had Zesa or their most recent fine for some made-up traffic violation, but they are lovely, funny and kind. Because I’m an introvert, I find myself shocked by how drawn to them I am, and I’m uncertain why I feel attached to people I’ve barely known and who are so different than I am. One of the few disappointments of this trip is that one of the key players has been away having those medical tests, and so we’ve missed our chance to really visit with her.

Walled Gardens

Z tells me that the Zimbabwe of his youth did not require the high grass or cement walls around a yard, topped with razor wire or bits of angry, broken glass. Intruders were rare. I assume that the walls went up during the war that waged during his childhood, but he assures me it wasn’t until much later. I find this very difficult to fathom because, though the walls can make life here seem isolated, there is a peace and privacy behind these high walls that you don’t find in many American yards. Z’s brother and family live in Harare and I was surprised by how quiet it was, how safe I felt sitting outside (with my feet soaking in a bucket of water), looking at the gorgeous flowers and plants. The outdoor spaces here are as much a part of the home as are the indoor rooms.

My Father-in-Law’s Roses

One of these roses magically appears in my bedroom on a regular basis. I like to think Z-dad and I would have had something to talk about since I’m from a town that was once the world’s largest supplier of roses. Unlike so many roses these days that are scentless, these smell wonderful.

The Writing Desk Z-Ma Created for Me

I had no idea what to expect from something called an in-law when I got married. Based on TV shows, nothing much good. Instead, I got a woman who sneaks roses into my room, who doesn’t make me feel judged for my tedious, picky eating, and who surprised me with this writing space–Z’s old table covered with one of his beloved aunt’s table cloths.  Blue is my favorite color. Note the tortoises in the upper right corner. First there was one and then the other two arrived. “They’re a little family,” she said. Indeed.

I could compile a list of things that are my least favorite, crocodiles being at the top of the list, followed shortly by other reptiles and insects and power outages, but the truth is, even my least favorite things give me a new perspective, and it’s good to have my cage rattled.

Pardon me. Z and I have to go make a plan about our last few days in Zimbabwe.

Z likes to keep his clothes and shoes until they wear out. I don’t mean, until they have a spot on them or a little pull in the material under the arm and end up in the Goodwill bag. He brings a whole new meaning to threadbare. Right now his favorite shirt in the whole world—after these three weeks of Eunice’s vigorous hand washing—will be lucky if the collar is still attached. It’s just a mass of strings at this point. When we first got together, he was sleeping in a holey T-shirt that was more hole than shirt.

I tell you this so you will understand how overjoyed I was that Z decided he was willing to take his main pair of “teaching shoes” to the cobbler while we are in Zimbabwe. He is already a man of few shoes, and his two other options involve a pair of off-white veldskoens (sort of like southern African Hushpuppies) that don’t agree with the Seattle weather and a pair of black lace-ups that I suspect he has had since college and that he has taken both Gorilla Glue and a Magic Marker to, and to which he always declares, “They’re fine!” when I suggest that perhaps it is time to retire them. Let’s just say that I knew it was true love–and a good case of dimples–that kept me from judging Z by his shoes when I first met him. I’m not a complete shoe snob, but I’ve judged other men for less than globs of glue and a toe box that has clearly been colored in with marker.  These shoes he reluctantly agreed to take to the cobbler are my favorite ones because they are the least tatty, and so I was pleased that they might be saved from some of his own cobbling handiwork.

When I’m in my hometown, I invent reasons to go to the Greek cobbler who has been in business since the dawn of time. His shop smells of polish and leather and always seems like a place where life happens. He’s friendly and studies a shoe carefully before agreeing to fix it, so I get a certain jolt of pride when he declares that a shoe I’ve brought in is well made and worth saving. I once made a tiny hole in a pair of slippers bigger so I’d feel justified in taking slippers to him, and once there, I beamed with pride when he complimented their German construction and said it would be a shame to throw them out because of such a small tear.  So I was looking forward to seeing the Zimbabwean version of Mr. Marinakes, seeing if his shop smelled the same, if the energy was similar. Not to mention, I can only imagine how busy a cobbler in Zimbabwe might be given how much people walk there (though a lot of the walking is barefoot, which probably does cut into the shoe-repair trade).

So day before yesterday, Z put his shoes In a plastic bag, and we drove to “the shops” in his hometown, which kind of looks like a American strip mall in shape only, but which ultimately seems random. As in, I’m not convinced that during the three weeks I was there some of the businesses didn’t change over night.  I’ve noticed in Zimbabwe that things often seem more temporary than what I am used to. What there is at the shops is a big TM supermarket, a smaller grocery run by friends of Z’s family (who have a cat with kittens mousing inside, which seems genius and cozy and makes them way better than the chain store by default), a bank, a post office, a fruit and veg stall, a medical testing center and copy shop (where Z got a million copies for about $8 for some research he is doing, and where, I feel certain, the women who work there might be running a detective agency on the side), and a mattress store. It reminds me a little of the Fisher Price village I had as a kid in that exactly what you need is there, but not much of anything else. On my first trip to Zimbabwe, the shops were decorated for Christmas—it was a single strand of colored bulbs and half of the bulbs were burned out or broken.

Also, the moment you park your car, someone—often a young man in a red vest—appears at your car window and tries to sell you airtime for your cell phone. At the bigger shops in Harare, the airtime salesman compete with people wandering around trying to sell produce, despite the fact that you are either growing some in your own garden or you just bought some at TM. But in Z’s hometown, it’s all about airtime. Z-ma seems to be a favorite of the airtime salemsen. They call her gogo (granny), and at the nearby petrol station, one guy yells Gogo, Gogo as soon as he sees her coming, and he has huge smile on his face, which kind of makes us want to buy more airtime than we need.

Also, in the parking lot, there is a man in a truck with a big wire cage who is selling chickens.

As we parked the car, I was looking around for the cobbler’s shop, to no avail.

Z confidently walked along a wall and then behind a wall, and then around a little half wall. And there, at the back of the shops where I was expecting to see, I don’t know, trash dumpsters, sat a man with a sort of card table and a few tools. On the ground beside him were maybe six shoes, some singles, some pairs. That’s it. No walls, no roof, no rows of unclaimed shoes, no excess leather or shoelaces, not even an “open” or “closed” sign. Just a guy with a table, a few tools, and apparently, if Z-ma is to be believed, some talent.

Z’s cobbler looked at the shoe in question and listened as Z explained that he only needed to have the rubber sole glued back on. The cobbler shook his head and demonstrated how he’d stitch it up so it would be stronger, and suggested that the other shoe should be stitched too since it would probably come unglued at some point. We weren’t sure what the timeframe was for Zimbabwean cobbling and we knew we had a plane to catch in less than a week, but we were assured that the shoes could be ready later in the afternoon.

Z told the man that he wouldn’t be back that afternoon but would pick them up in a couple of days. I’m anxious to see this guy’s handiwork to see how it compares to Mr. Marinakes’s. The cost: $3, which is way cheaper than the new pair of shoes I’ve been hounding Z to buy for the last six months.  I fear this is only going to strengthen his view that no piece of clothing or footwear is ever beyond salvageable.

For a week when we drive into Harare to visit the extended family, I’ve been puzzled by the graffiti painted on a bridge in Harare. It says SHOES, and it is only after meeting this cobbler that I realize the word is not the work of some hooligan with a can of spray paint slapping random nouns on concrete in the dark of the night, but is instead the open-for-business sign of the guy sitting next to the bridge with his crate and a few tools.

It is exactly this sort of thing that leaves me astounded here. There is this lack of the concrete that seems to surprise no one here but me. For instance, some of the streets have names, but no one seems to know or use those names. I listen to Z and Z-ma discuss driving routes, and they say things like, “You turn by the big tree” and then we get there to the turning place and there will be a load of trees, though one will be bigger than the others. I hadn’t noticed that it was a “big tree” at all. When I ask what the road is called that goes from Harare to Z’s hometown, he and his mother kind of look at me like it is an insane question. Why does a road need a name? It’s just the road that gets from one place to another. Before I came here, I never understood why, when I asked Z how big his hometown was, he could never give me a ballpark number. Now I understand because I can’t even tell where the town ends and the rural area begins. On our trip to Kariba, we were still in town even though to me it felt as if we were deep in the bush. It annoys but doesn’t rattle them that half the “traffic robots” (stoplights) don’t work. I think in the US, if there were regular stoplight outages, our whole society would break down. We need concrete markers so we know when to stop and when to go.

The best analogy I can come up for this thing I’m having trouble describing is this: in the U.S. it’s like everything has been drawn in a coloring book with bold outside lines, so you know what’s what and where to color and what the picture is and will be when you are done. In Zimbabwe—and maybe it is this way in Africa in general, I can’t say—it’s more like there are no outside lines; there are, instead, vague colors and shapes that form a different sort of tableau than the one I am used to. For instance, you don’t have to have walls to have a business and you don’t have to have a cobbler who has a front door.  These are things I would never have guessed.

Several years ago, Z was home in Zimbabwe when he got sick with a mysterious illness that wreaked havoc for months and no one could figure out what was wrong with him. We were just friends at the time, and I would get email reports from him about what the latest doctor he’d seen thought it might be. The symptoms were frightening and the possible (read: wrong) diagnoses ranged from just stress to that that Stephen Hawking disease. It was a scary time, and one of my frustrations was that I was (also wrongly) picturing him going to witch doctors without the training or knowledge that a good American doctor would have. Even as I thought it, I knew it was ethnocentric, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that if only he were in America, they’d figure out what was ailing him quickly and get him fixed up.

Eventually, after his GP in Zimbabwe had to cry uncle because she was at a loss, and after a host of specialists solved nothing, a very special specialist in South Africa ruled out all sorts of nasty things and then finally hit upon the problem: Back when Z was living in Indiana, a nice Hoosier doctor had prescribed for him a medicine for acid reflux but failed to mention he should take it for no longer than six months. In fact, the doctor kept prescribing it and subsequent doctors prescribed it as well. At the advice of the South African specialist, Z stopped taking the medicine and miraculously, he instantly felt better. I’m particularly fond of this story because the end result was a) a healthy Z and b) a Z who realized we needed to be together. (Win-win for both of us!)

So today we stopped by his GP’s office both to collect a prescription for muti he can’t get in the US (a good one—not one that poisons him) and to deliver a few treats to the doctor and her receptionist. I didn’t know what to expect when we arrived. I’d given up the notion of a witch doctor, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t expecting something substandard.

Instead, we pulled the car next to a gorgeous flower garden outside her office/home and two beautiful, barking Ridgebacks. We were greeted by the receptionist who offered hugs all around, seemed genuinely happy to see Z and to meet me, and who then offered us tea. Between patients, the doctor herself popped into the receptionist’s office, shook my hand, chatted about our recent trip to Kariba, asked after my health and what anti-malarials I was on, and then before dashing back to her real patients, hugged me.

I’m really not used to this in America. True, the doctor was a student of Z-ma’s and has taken care of Z’s family for a long time, but even so: tea? a hug? asking how I was “tolerating Zimbabwe”?

The water cooler at the Belltown clinic I go to is never going to seem quite so welcoming or refreshing.

So it’s Labor Day in America and the only way I realize this is that Z is supposed to go pick up his visa at the American embassy but he can’t because it’s closed. I’m imagining all the workers there, many of whom are Zimbabweans, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows in the embassy’s backyard to celebrate the workforce of the United States.

You know that look that fish have, with their mouths kind of gawping and their gills (or “ears” for illustrative purposes) flapping, as if to help them hear? Well, picture me looking like that whenever I’m in Zimbabwe, being spoken to by a Zimbabwean.

One of the great shames of my life is that though I love language, I’ve got no ear for it. I studied French for four years, but I never really got past C’est ne pas une pipe, and I learned that in art class. I’ve avoided problems with language by primarily traveling to English-speaking countries and Italy, where everyone seems to speak English anyhow, and even if they don’t, who cares: Italian is lovely and you can pretend it means all sorts of delicious things even if they’re just asking you to move away from the gelato counter because they’d like to place an order.

Zimbabwe should be no problem for me. Sure, there are three official languages here—English, Shona, and Ndebele—but mostly people speak English. Even so, I’m a disaster at a cash register at the grocery store. The clerk will tell me how much the bill is and then ask if I want Telecel phone credit for change (Zimbabwe is using the US dollar but for some reason didn’t import any coins, so you get change in store credit, air time credit, or sweets that they keep in the jar by the register). This is exactly when I have to look at Z or Z-ma with my gawping fish face and hope that they’ll translate for me.  I am being spoken to in my very own native language, but I just can’t decipher the individual words.

Z teaches intercultural communication and when I’m here, he is regularly gently instructing me, with reminders to stand closer to people in line because it isn’t America and personal distance is much closer here, or with suggestions that I tell the gardener that the new grass fence he put up for our arrival looks nice. I am a born observer, not an interactor. If given the choice between talking to someone I don’t know and hiding behind a drapery to watch them, I’ll pretty much always go with the latter if I think I can get away with it.

Eunice is Z-ma’s domestic worker. She’s lovely, friendly, and has to despair when she sees me coming because I can’t even keep my closet shelf orderly while I’m here.  Frankly, life back in Seattle would be a whole lot more tidy if we could clone Eunice. Every morning, Z whispers to me, “Greet Eunice” or “Tell Eunice ‘good morning’” and I do it because I know it is the right thing to do, but I am horrible at a) thinking up conversation beyond hello and b) understanding what her reply is. This is no failure of hers. Her English is good, but I just can’t decipher the accent. And when Z tried to teach me a few words in Shona to say to her last time we visited, I pretty much stopped with “mangwanani” (good morning) because all the other words blurred together in my mind and on my tongue.

Yesterday, I had an empty Coke bottle and I wasn’t sure what the protocol was for those. Do they return the bottles for deposits? Recycle them? Throw them out? I was alone in the kitchen with Eunice, so I asked her. She said something to me, and I  blinked at her,  cocked my head and said, “Pardon?” She repeated herself, and then took the bottle, did a little bow, and disappeared with it as if I’d given her a gift.

I still have no idea where the Coke bottles go, and my ears are still only as good as gills.

Yesterday we said goodbye to Tambonette. I was sad to disembark and say farewell to Nhamu and Aleck (who makes the best bacon ever), but I wasn’t disappointed to be heading back to the Wild Heritage lodge. Once there, we weren’t greeted by our own personal elephant or zebra, but there were buffalo lounging around on the flood plane. I wasn’t as enthusiastic as I should have been. Apparently, you don’t see these often, and it wasn’t until later that I realized these were the buffalo with the big curly horns that make them look like cranky English barristers.

The non Americanized Zimbabweans were shrieking that the water in the kidney-shaped pool was too cold and insisted the bathwater-like jacuzzi was perfection. This is the single area where I was able to prove myself on the trip. It was cold, but it wasn’t freezing. Z and I have waded in the ocean off Washington coast, so we know cold. We splashed around in the water, listening to the hippos do their weird snort-gargling in the distance. There was an ominous-looking pool brush floating around the bottom of the pool that gave me a bit of a fright, but on the whole, it was a body of water that didn’t cause hyperventilation.

As we left Wild Heritage, I started to work myself into a pout because it was the only day out of the five in which I hadn’t seen an elephant. Before I could get my lips properly pout-shaped, an elephant moved at the side of the road. We quickly saw three others, flapping their ears and chewing whatever the elephant version of cud is. Further down the road, my newly trained elephant-spotting skills were put to the test and I saw a few more elephants high on a hill. They were waving goodbye with their trunks.

And now, I can say it, I miss Kariba. It was hot and made me cry. I’ve probably got scars from mosquito bites that I’ll carry the rest of my life. My sister-in-law could have been trampled by an elephant. I nearly shat myself when Mistresses was interrupted by something that went crunch in the night.

But it was something special. I’d say it was a trip of a lifetime, but I’m married to Z, so whose to say?