It was the best of times. It was a time when anything seemed possible; a time when hope blew through the tall blue gum trees like the gentle autumn breeze that wafted us along the road. We were on our way to a military base – a place where you don’t usually look for silver linings. Maybe we were just younger and the world looked better.
It was April 1994 and behind the barbed wire and automatic weapons of this army base in Harare, the capital of Zimbabwe, there was a story that could have gladdened the heart of anyone sick of war. At this camp one of the symbolic last rites were going to be said over one of the nastier running wars of sub-Saharan Africa – or was that nastier running sores? At last, the days of surveillance, killings, and torture were over.
By the end of this day, former foes would swap stories of war over a cold beer in a new, unified, South African army; a few days later, on April 27, these soldiers would help make history. They were at polling stations as millions of South Africans lined up across the country to vote in the first delicate democratic elections that would bury nearly 350 years of minority rule.
Hope was in abundance in those crazy days in Harare. It had been the home for many political exiles from South Africa for decades. Furthermore, it seemed to be the last stop-off point for returning exiles in their sneakers and baseball caps.
“I’m going home to run my country,” they would say, in the bars of Harare, in accents more Los Angeles than Langlaagte. Most were well educated and well versed; but I always noticed a little uncertainty in their faces when they spoke of a country many had never seen.
It all seemed so fresh then. The chance of a new start for one of the most tormented countries in Africa; a bountiful country about to throw off the shackles of sanctions and reap the rewards of an avalanche of post-apartheid investment – the rainbow nation in waiting.
This gathering at the army base in Harare paved the way for the historic elections. Soldiers of Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK) – the military wing of the African National Congress and APLA, the army of the Pan Africanist Congress – were preparing for election duty. It was likely to be difficult and dangerous task – as the soldiers drilled in Harare, bombs were going off in Johannesburg. Armed groups of all creeds and colors threatened to hurl South Africa into a civil war. The elections threatened to be a bloodbath.
Many thought it was too late to train troops for an election days away. That is what I asked the then head of MK, Siphiwe Nyanda, who was to become head of the new South African army and later a cabinet minister.
“We will be ready,” he smiled.
In the ranks on that day were a number of white South African troops who were going to have to fall in, in the new army, with black guerrilla fighters they once had been paid to kill.
“As long as they can reject their racism, we can work together,” said one of the battle-hardened guerrillas of his new white comrades.
Then there was the training. Military instructors spent hours instructing the former guerrillas how to thwart the very incursions and bombings that they had been carrying out for decades. Everyone was enthusiastic with one eye on a brighter future as poachers enthusiastically turned gamekeepers.
As the last beers were drained in the golden sunset and the troops climbed onto the back of trucks there was a feeling of camaraderie; almost an end-of-term levity about it. Former foes were to become the midwives of a new democracy.
Days later, we watched the pictures of millions casting their votes for the first time. The soldiers, trained in Harare, were vigilant; it is one of the small miracles of Africa that there was no violence as votes were cast.
On May 10, we watched again as helicopters carrying the new South African flag flew low over the Union Buildings in Pretoria to the cheers of thousands.
“Never, never and never again shall it be that this beautiful land will again experience the oppression of one by another and suffer the indignity of being the skunk of the world,” Nelson Mandela said to the world.
As we all watched with broad smiles, Norman Mahaja, our sound recordist on the Harare military base story, brought us crashing down to earth.
“I want to go down south and earn the rand now,” he said.
“Before it becomes like the Zimbabwe dollar.”
The Tableaux Of The Wild
The beasts and the drama of the African bush, far from the harsh lights of big city Johannesburg.
There is a mystique about the African bush that enchants visitors from all over the world. Some of them become so captivated they decide to stay on, or return time and again.
Even a born and bred African like me, albeit of European descent, cannot say no to a few days of “bundu bashing”. There is nothing quite like escaping the bumper-to-bumper traffic and constant hum of the big city, to experience a range of smells as you move through the bush. The scent of the long grass. The whiff from the marula trees. The odor of fresh dung.
And at night, when you look up to the canopy of the sky, you feel as though you could reach out and touch the stars. The Southern Cross. Orion’s Belt. The river of the Milky Way. Venus, the morning and the evening star. The red glint of Mars.
On the day our group arrives at the exclusive Sable Camp at MalaMala within the larger Sabi Sands Game Reserve, which shares a 19-kilometer open border with South Africa’s Kruger National Park, it is hot and humid.
On this day in the country’s Mpumalanga province, it hits 39 degrees. We settle in and get ready for the first game drive of our stay.
We are here for the launch of a beautiful book by renowned wildlife photographers Gerald Hinde and Will Taylor – both men with a deep love for animals and African landscapes. We pile onto four game-viewing vehicles to find and photograph the heroes and heroines of their book – The Big Seven: Adventures in Search of Africa’s Iconic Species.
The roads are rough and rudimentary as we head into the bush, cameras with long lenses at hand. We drive along a river bed. As the sun moves slowly down towards the western horizon, its rays glint in the waves of green and yellow grass. The wheels skid in the white sand. We drive past a large bush and suddenly an elephant appears, tugging and tearing at the foliage. He looks at us and flaps his ears lazily.
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A bit further on, after literally bashing through the bush, off-road, we see her. Slinky and quiet, her pelt shines in the setting sun. The lone female leopard looks at us with the disdain of a cat disturbed by bothersome humans. She slinks through the bush as we follow her. Then she sits perfectly still, slowly turning her head from side to side.
As darkness settles, the vehicle lights come on and we head back to the lodge. In an outdoor boma, tables are set up in the round, and a five-star dinner is served under the expanse of the night sky. We are treated like royalty by all of the staff of MalaMala. Most of them come from the community that now owns the reserve, after the conclusion of a successful land claim deal in 2014.
The next day dawns. Overcast, with a soft, insistent rain. The temperature has dropped 14 degrees. Donning rain ponchos, the group of adventurers set forth on the morning game drive. The mission is to encounter every one of the Big Seven. The traditional Big Five tourists flock to game reserves to see are: elephant, lion, rhino, leopard and buffalo. Two more have been added, both on the endangered list – the wild dog and cheetah.
Just as humans are shy of rain, so are animals. They lie low in the grass or huddle under trees where they can’t be seen. An hour or so into the drive, the drizzle lifts and we see movement in the grass.
A lioness lifts her head and looks at us. Slowly, slowly, one lion after another stands up to look at the vehicles. There are, at least, eight of them. They lose interest in us again, and stretch out on the ground.
The time to leave comes far too soon. The quiet and beauty of the bush have soaked into my soul and I feel completely at peace and one with the sky and the grass and the trees and the animals and the river and the world.
Zimbabwe: Two Realities In One Country
The grandeur of the Victoria Falls is in stark contrast to the rest of Zimbabwe.
It is eight days before Christmas. We take the 1,300-kilometer drive from Johannesburg to Victoria Falls for a short vacation. As we arrive in Beitbridge, the border connecting South Africa and Zimbabwe, the sun is shining its warm golden light over the bridge. There are no birds chirping over the Limpopo River. It seems like a peaceful morning, until you get closer.
There is pandemonium as hundreds of cars line up to be stripped and searched before proceeding into Zimbabwe. Most here are Zimbabwean nationals working in South Africa traveling home for the holidays.
They are bringing with them many supplies like cooking oil, fuel, stationery, furniture, clothing, drinks, building material and even Christmas trees. These items are scarce and overpriced in Zimbabwe.
Some want to sell them to hurried customers and others want to use them at home. The problem is, most of them require as much as 40% duty and others can’t be imported.
“Is your friend here today? I would like him to help me cross with my goods,” I overhear a man in the autumn of his life say over the phone.
He isn’t the only one trying to smuggle goods into Zimbabwe. According to local reports, the Zimbabwe Revenue Authority (ZIMRA) loses over $1 billion due to smuggling each year. With hundreds trying to make their way across, a journey to Victoria Falls is delayed by at least five hours.
As we drive into Beitbridge, we can see and almost smell struggle. This place is seized by an oppressive gloom. Our first stop is an Engine Garage that now operates almost like a tuckshop. Here, fuel tanks are dry and the shop inside has only bread, water, cold drinks, biscuits and chips.
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Outside, it is filled by a crowd of people pushing, shoving, shouting, buying and selling. There is dirty water flowing down the street and litter fills the potholes. Yet, this grubby place is seeing more trade than Zimbabwe’s biggest banks. Here, the black market is king and the bond notes are pawns.
In 2016, the government introduced bond notes in hopes to ease the cash crisis that saw the US dollar become scarce. The Reserve Bank may say bond notes are 1:1 to the US dollar; the free market says no. The black market traders are selling 1 US dollar for three bond notes.
“I used to be an accountant with a good job but our company closed down and now I am jobless. I have to make a living somehow so I rather sell cash on the streets to put food on the table,” says Bongani Moyo.
As we drive further into Zimbabwe, the situation gets worse. Stores are packed with imported goods; roads and buildings are dilapidated. One of the biggest problems is fuel.
“I just came out of a two-day fuel queue. The situation is bad. People can’t go to work and sometimes people hire [other] people to spend the day queueing for them,” says Given Mwale, as he directs us to a garage that sells fuel in foreign currency so we can continue our journey to Victoria Falls.
“That is the only garage that doesn’t get many queues and doesn’t run out of fuel. It is a private garage. They import their fuel from Botswana and they only sell in forex,” he says.
Shocked by the scarcity of cash, we drive towards Victoria Falls. On the way, many businesses are boarded up, their paint peeling and doors closed. As we arrive in Victoria Falls, there are jaw-dropping scenes.
The place looks nothing like the rest of Zimbabwe. Fueled by the tourist economy, the streets are clean and the business district buzzing. People are relaxed in summer clothing and look like they have no worry. It is a true holiday destination.
At Victoria Falls, the Zambezi River plummets over a cliff and into the boiling pot before flowing through a series of gorges. It has a width of 1,708 meters and a height of 108 meters, making it the world’s largest sheet of falling water.
As nature lovers, we experience the falls while walking through a rainforest and playing with monkeys. We also get to watch the sunset while drinking champagne in an open boat.
For a few hours, we forgot the troubles that belie Zimbabwe; until we drove out of Victoria Falls, back to Bulawayo. There may be laughter and foreign currency near the smoke that thunders but the rest of the country continues to cry for an economic breakthrough.
The Class Of 1976 – Soweto Uprising
It’s not often I find myself driving past the Hector Pieterson Memorial and Museum in Orlando West, in Soweto, an urban township in Johannesburg.
But come June every year, I inevitably steer my car to the site, mentally revisiting the carnage that happened here in 1976; the student protest and the police firing that led to an iconic photograph the world came to associate with South Africa’s brutal apartheid regime.
Two years ago, one of my assignments with FORBES AFRICA was to pursue a story on the ‘Soweto Uprising’. Thankfully, the museum gave me three vital leads to reconstruct the events of June 16, a day etched in blood in South African history.
It was a Tuesday when I met my first contact, Oupa Moloto, who then was a student at the Morris Isaacson High School in Soweto where it all started.
“On the day of the event, the school started a little earlier; the mood was different, the students were excited but the teachers couldn’t pick it up,” recalled Moloto of the first stirrings of the protest against the mandatory use of Afrikaans as a language of instruction in black secondary schools.
After the interview, I visited the school and walking around, could sense around me the nervous excitement of the students like it was 42 years ago. I could hear their voices, singing and chanting as we stood where the last assembly was held, before the shots were fired at them.
I photographed Moloto at their then assembly point and his face was a picture of sorrow. The school has been renovated since but in the older building, are still some vestiges of that time – broken windows and furniture.
A few weeks later, I met with Barney Mokgatle at his home in Alexandra, another township. He was one of the students who went into exile after the tragic march.
“The police were hunting for us, we could not sleep in one place for two nights because there were people selling us out,” said Mokgatle.
Mokgatle was the right hand man to Tsietsi Mashinini who led the march and later died in exile.
He talked me through every detail; he also said Pieterson was not the first student shot at the march.
Perhaps more intriguing was his recounting of their escape and journey to Botswana through the bushes without fear of the wilderness, with their other friend Selby Semela.
He started singing, the masculine man had a voice of the angels; it was remarkable. As soon as the humming started, I almost shed a tear, I could feel their struggle and strength as they dodged bullets and teargas in the Soweto streets wearing blazers and ties, some running with missing shoes.
But at that moment, they were crossing serene bushes unaware of the hungry beasts around them lurking in the dark all the way to the borders of Botswana.
A few days later, we met again for a shoot where a statue of his friend Mashinini was erected not far from the Morris Isaacson school. He didn’t come to Soweto often but when he saw the statue, he paused, staring at it. He finally turned and we continued walking to a wall where he showed me a collage of his two friends and himself.
The story wouldn’t be complete without speaking to the ‘girl’ in the iconic photograph of Pieterson taken by Sam Nzima. Antoinette Pieterson, the older sister, who is 58 today.
“I saw Mbuyisa [Makhubu, the boy carrying Pieterson in the famous photograph] coming from nowhere; I didn’t know him at the time. He was running towards me, he passed me. I saw he was carrying a person and I could recognize Pieterson’s shoe, I ran with him,” she recounted.
Today, as I walk the streets of Orlando, I think of the privilege I enjoyed of choosing between either isiZulu or Afrikaans as a second language in school.
Thanks to the class of 1976, we had the freedom.
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