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Date: August 04, 2004
I have traveled for several days through a desert
worn flat as my flip-flops. It is the dry season and the few trees
are losing their leaves; if I climb a slight hill the distant trees
look like a Technicolor afro. I have camped in the bush for two
nights. There has been a few antelope tracks and some old elephant
dung. One question Africans ask frequently is: Aren’t you
afraid of wild animals? I always reply, “There is only one
animal I am afraid of.”
I am stopped at a veterinary roadblock by a power-drunk
policeman who searches all my panniers “for matters of police
interest” which should mean poached or diseased meat, a tsetse
fly hitchhiking, or perhaps stolen goods. In three years and 50
countries only the Italians made a cursory search for cigarettes
and alcohol because Dennis accidentally jumped the queue. The Zimbabwe
officer searches every pannier. “There are no elephants in
there, if that is what you are looking for,” I joke. He appears
in a stupor, as if the burdens of officiating the world have dulled
his nerves, deafened his ears, as if he has heard everything, even
his eyes roll in their sockets toward the ground.
“My bicycle is too heavy and my knees are too
weak to carry matters of police interest,” I protest and grudgingly
open my panniers one by one, though his sighs indicate he would
rather I just dump them all on the ground. When he finishes his
search he looks me in the eyes for the first time and says, “How
are you?”
“I could use some water,” I croak. I have
cycled for 40 kilometers on one liter of water.
“What is your name?”
“Scott. And, you?”
“You did not show me any identification?”
“You did not ask?”
“I am asking now. Passport please.”
I unbury my passport from its super-secret hiding
spot. “American!” I am not sure what authority he has,
but at least I know he is a real policeman; however, like a conman
impersonating an official he holds my passport ransom. He writes
my name in his book.
“Is there a problem?” I begin to
speculate how much money is appropriate for a bribe. Perhaps, I
should have slipped ten dollars into my passport.
“No. I see you are riding a bicycle and
I just want to ask about your journey. Is this not okay?”
He smiles and exposes the palms of his hands in a gesture of friendship,
but he is lying. I know a dangerous policeman is seemingly benign,
a golden leopard stalking his prey like a gentle breeze stirring
the golden grasses.
Of course, you can ask me questions about America,
and I will ask you questions about Zimbabwe – this is why
I am here.”
“So, tell me about this book you are
writing?” The conversation may seem slow, basic and boring
by Hollywood standards, however our comments disguise our enmity,
and between sentences my mind is analyzing statements for hidden
meanings and trying to determine motives: Is he bored? Or, corrupt?
Could he be honest, upholding the law, as he sees it? How I wish
I had the omnipotent point of view of a fiction author; how interesting
his thoughts must be.
“It is a book about my journey. I write about
the things I see while cycling.”
“And, what type of things do you write about
Zimbabwe?” I realize what is happening. He suspects I am a
spy or a journalist. The Americans having been putting pressure
on the Zimbabwe government to reform many things, for instance,
Mugabe (the president or dictator of Zimbabwe depending on point
of view) eliminated the freedom of the press and, therefore, freedom
of speech to prevent the Western media from continuing to exploit
Zimbabwe or, depending on point of view, uncovering the evidence
of his corruption. I am sure my journals would be interpreted as
subversive propaganda, and if I am caught I would be imprisoned.
(Now, I am transferring my journals to the internet and then I intend
to destroy the evidence and flee the country.)
I become suspicious of giving him any information,
so I counter, “Nothing special. I write about the culture
of different countries, how I experience life on a bicycle.”
“Where do you write these stories?”
I avoid revealing my journals and say, “On the
internet.” His face goes blank as his mind processes this
and I realize he doesn’t understand. “A computer.”
I mime a keyboard.
He asks again what I am writing about; and I expound
using simpler sentences.“So, you lied to me,” he says.
I gasp, “Lie?”
“You said….” but he his accent swallows
the words.
“I --” “Ah! So, you didn’t
say that!” He scoffs, throwing his head back, feigning emotion,
as if he has caught my espionage red-handed. Luckily, his amiable
counterpart corrects his misunderstanding. “I see,”
he says. “Tell me -- what do you know about Zimbabwe culture?
What do you tell your friends?” He stresses the last word.
My liberty depends on my trivial knowledge of Zimbabwe.
“I tell them what it is like to drink maize beer.” It
is like drinking vomit. “I tell them what it is like to eat
mealy maize.” Also known as ugali, nsima or sadza, eating
mealy maize, the staple food of Africa, is like eating damp grits
sprinkled with silver and aluminum. “I tell them about Victoria
Falls and Hwange National Park.” Victoria Falls is like being
an ant watching ten elephants in a row pissing. And visiting a national
park is like visiting a zoo except that you are in the cage and
the animals are outside. It doesn’t compare to the magic of
seeing a monstrous, six-ton, bull elephant lumber across the road
in front of my bicycle. “I tell them how difficult life is
now because of the -- the -- economic situation and how friendly
and peaceful the Nbebele and Shona tribes are in spite of their
troubles, unlike the warlike Zulus in South Africa who have everything.”
Zimbabweans are remarkable, but I am customizing my words to appeal
to his pride and avoiding any mention of politics. He is appeased
momentarily, ponders and asks, “Where will you make your next
report?”
“Maybe in Bulawayo. I don’t always write.”
“How will you find the ‘internet’?”
“There are many internet cafes these days.”
He frowns and I volunteer, against my general principal of never
volunteering any information to a police officer, “I can show
you on my map.” I fumble out my map. It shakes like a leaf
in the wind. I am contemplating running. I could survive in the
bush long enough to cross into Botswana. The problem is he won’t
give me enough reason to run. He’ll lead me step by step --
it is just procedure, you understand, nothing to worry about, but
I need to ask you a few more questions in the police station --
until I am locked in prison watching the animals on the outside.
“This is Bulawayo city center.” He looks at the map
nearly as fascinated as a schoolboy looking at my map of the world
for the first time. “I am looking -- I don’t see one
-- maybe they don’t have one -- there isn’t always internet
access -- wait --” I flip through the pages with a desperation
generated by my belief that if I find an internet café I
will be proved innocent; however, it must be my incompetence more
than any other factor that gains my liberty.
He laughs, “You may--”
“Wait--”
“--Go.”
I found--”
“GO!” he commands.
I go. Go, Scott, go.
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