Make a Plan. Harare, Zimbabwe

Crossing the border to Zimbabwe via Beit Bridge is unwise, so after five hedonist days in Pretoria, I'm shuttled to Jo'burg international where I take a British Airways flight to Harare. Before I left, I had received an email cautioning me that 'the political situation here is rather tense.' What an understatement.

Like clockwork I start to feel tired in the departures terminal, and manage to catch an hour's sleep in the plane. It doesn't help, so by the time the plane touches down I'm exhausted. I swear there's some curse that drains my energy when I travel. As I step out of the plane, however, it abates for a moment. My mind sharpens and I realise I'm suddenly here. I'm in the lion's den.

The arrivals gate in Harare is a ghost town. A large enclosure, the only sounds you hear are the repressive hum of the air-conditioning, and faint mumblings of staff. The other passengers perform their duties in whispers. British citizens have to pay US$55 for a visa, a sting in the tail in response to sanctions imposed by the United Kingdom. None of the duty free shops are open, in fact as I look around, I notice that this place is lifeless, absolutely lifeless. I imagine tumbleweeds billowing between the luggage carousels. The terminal building is the size of half a rugby field, and has the warmth of a cemetery.

On my way out I was singled for a random search. I was taken to a room where a lady asked me whether I was taking illegal items into the country. I wisely responded, enquiring what manner of items were considered illegal, and she declared, "Porn, any porn. Books? Magazines?" It sounded like an offer, however her eyes were downcast when I joked about my FHM collection. I showed her my media. It was Preez and Huxley, as opposed to Penthouse and Hustler. She poked nonchalantly at my bag for a while without bothering to look inside, before declaring me safe. The searches appear to be a formality since almost every white person on the plane was escorted away for similar interrogation.

Minutes later I'm released into the wild. What a shock! Roads are pockmarked with potholes. Cars, held together by rust and faith, navigate between the pits on the street. The grass on the side of the road is overgrown and wild, and many of the street signs are missing – stolen for their metal.

My aunt is my guide for the afternoon. I'm taken past the road to the presidential palace. Armed guards patrol the entrance of the road, fingers on the triggers of their bayoneted automatics. It's covered with security cameras and barriers. I spot caltrops in the middle of the grassy bank between the lanes. Pictures are illegal here, and the road is closed from 6pm – 6am. Here, no-one smiles.

The joke: Mugabe is kidnapped. A ransom note is sent to parliament demanding US$10,000,000 for his release. Failure to comply will result in Mugabe being doused in petrol and set alight. Broke, the Zimbabwean government calls to the good citizens of the country for donations. They respond, each offering five litres of unleaded.

Such is the feeling. We drive on a few minutes to the house I'm staying in, where I get to experience my first taste of Zimbabwean life. The power is off. It cuts out almost every day for hours at a time. Water too is cut off for long periods, sometimes a couple of days. A combination of the two often occurs. As it gets dark, candles are lit. If it weren't so tragic, a technology-free house is actually a beautiful thing. I wander around with my candle as my guide, its tiny flicker causing the surroundings to glow softly. It's a whisper of light, but it's enough.

This is merely the start of my experience. I'm advised that inflation in the republic is shooting past 1,700%. The government has decided to suspend further calculations of inflation, but an unofficial news bulletin, ZWNEWS, believes that it could rise to 4,000% by next year. It means that, like Germany under the Treaty of Versailles, currency has become meaningless. People walk around with thick bundles of Zim dollars in their bags (forget stuffing it in your wallet, you'd rather need a bucket). Z$8,000 will get you a coffee, Z$5,000 a coke. It's a gargantuan sum when you consider that the wage for a hotel receptionist is Z$500,000 a month.

"We make a plan." That's the catchphrase I begin to hear. There are shortages of common items. Bread, sugar, petrol. The government has fixed the exchange rate between the Zim dollar and other currencies. One green (US$1) gets you Z$17,000, so there's no comparison. It was becoming so bad last year that the government slashed the dollar by
three digits because basic calculators couldn't handle the sums. The real-life effect of a collapsed economy is tragic. Entire pension funds are reduced to pocket change, leaving elderly penniless. A house sold for Z$4 million five years ago is rendered worthless. Prices of commodities change on a daily and weekly basis. I spot a sign for lotto, 'making instant millionaires.' A million dollars buys you fifty blocks of margarine. In a week's time, it could buy you thirty.

You make a plan. The reported 80% unemployment is a smokescreen, since many Zimbabweans now operate on the parallel market. This is survival. No statistics exist to calculate the extent of the illegal activities citizens are forced to employ, however since the alternative is starvation, black market trading has become rampant. I enter a travel agency to ask about tourist activities in Harare. When I ask about prices in Zim dollars, the agent doesn't blink as he
quotes me black market rates. This month the government has imposed an 80% tariff on luxury imported
items. Significantly, this includes cars. It's another nail in the coffin for the public, since it makes purchases almost impossible. There's little hope left amongst the Zimbabwean people. Strikes have been organised to protest against the regime, however like everything else that doesn't work, no-one bothers to stay home. Apathy is the attitude in the air in this troubled region.

Whites are still a target. 'Glow', a popular night club attended by many whites was stormed a week ago by the police. They were hunting for drugs, weapons, and underage drinkers. A troupe of 150 suspects were arrested and led off on a police bus to detention cells. Reports are heard of beatings of some of these partygoers. It is the continued strategy of intimidation of the ruling party to the non gratia. I walk past the club. It's empty. Not just of people, but of tables, chairs, everything. The place is a shell.

Despite all this, Zimbabweans survive. They are resilient people. The Shona that I've spoken to have a sense of grace that outclasses any other person I've met; they are truly a wonderful people. In the next few days I've planned a number of activities. For now, the days are long, and my eyes have been opened.