Zimbabwe

Dusty roads, big smiles and men with names like Obey, Active and Never are what come to mind when I think about my trip to Zimbabwe. I had the pleasure of traveling there for work last month to a small town called Beitbridge on the South African border.  The long drive through South African savannahs dotted with the mangled trunks of Baobab trees, passing through towns where funeral parlours were the fanciest buildings made it all too clear that I definitely was not home.

Photo courtesty LaertesCTB

And my home was even harder to explain at the border.

Immigration officer: "Tree-nee-dad end Toobogo. My sistah, where is thees place?"

No stranger to my passport being a cause of perplexity, having held up many a line at border controls while officers go and secretly google the name of my country, I handled it coolly, with finesse.

Me: "Do you watch cricket? Have you heard of the West Indies? Do you know Brian Lara?…"

Thankfully both Zimbabwe and South Africa are one of the few nations that play cricket or else I don't know what cultural reference I would make.

Getting through the border took about 3 hours. The signs posted everywhere that said, "Zimbabwe Immigrations strives for efficiency" were a bit of a slap in the face.

But what happened over the next 3 days on the other side of the border made the journey so worthwhile. We spent the weekend presenting a condensed version of the Paradigm Shift business training programme. Most of the participants already run small businesses and our course gave them much-needed knowledge where they'd been operating solely on intuition. Because jobs are scarce and the economy is weak, many turn to microenterprise to provide for their families. Paradigm Shift works with microentrepreneurs to help grow their small businesses beyond subsistence. My specific task for the weekend was to meet with the entrepreneurs and  document as many stories as possible.

If you ever want a lesson in not giving up, listen to the story of someone who's had it harder than you. I met Mary* who told me about how much her mother struggled to afford her school fees of US$6 a TERM! And about how much she wanted to go to university, but couldn't because it was too expensive.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about David*, a young pastor whose congregation suffered beatings and having their houses burnt because of their faith. I asked him why he chose to stay and he answered, very matter-of-factly, "How could I not?"

I'll never forget the tiny church we visited the Sunday before we left. Situated in a small, two-room house with a tin roof and exposed brick walls, my heart warmed at the group of people who truly understood that church has nothing to with a building. Eager and happy to give, they all pitched in and gave us money as a thank-you for sharing knowledge with them. They also expressed their hope that they could give us a cow when we return.

One the 7+ hour drive back to Johannesburg, I struggled desperately to comprehend the strength of character and the overwhelming warmth and generosity of those I'd just spent the weekend with.  I surmised that the word "defeat" must not be part of their vocabulary. And I began to wonder how I could erase it from mine.

* names have been changed