November 24

In the afternoon, we are invited to a friend's house for tea and cake.  My friend, who is Russian, is going to the UK for part of the Christmas holiday and will be taking a parcel for my sister.  The post is generally so slow here that I cannot rely on it getting to her by Christmas.  Anyone going to the UK over Christmas will tell you how they are given parcels and Christmas cards to post.  It can be quite annoying when you are given vast amounts that take up a lot of space in your suitcase. Why the postal system is so slow, I do not know.  When I lived in the UK as a student, letters from my mum in Bulawayo would take about a week at most to arrive and, in fact, if she sent it on a Thursday, her letter would come through my letter box two days later.  

Another Russian friend is also there and she has made the most amazing cake with something like eight layers.  It is delicious.  The friend going overseas is very excited.  She has only lived here just over a year and is battling to settle into Zimbabwean life.  I must say that I would find it very difficult.  For those of us who have enjoyed better days, we can at least remember a time without all the current problems, but for somebody coming here now from a First World country, it must be hard to get used to all the things that don't work.  

I don't tell her, but I have over the years come across a number of people, mainly women, who have initially hated living in Zimbabwe, but give it a couple of years and they do eventually come to enjoy it.  Some may even come to love it.

November 23

The day begins with the sighting of a bird I have not seen before.  It is a plum coloured starling.  What a beautiful bird it is and I make a mental note to mention the sighting at the next gathering of tweeters and twitterers and general gardening people. I can't wait to see their reaction.

On my way into town, I am nearly involved in an accident at the traffic lights.  When the lights are not working, chaos reigns.  The rule of giving way to the right is generally not adhered to; whoever can make their way across the intersection without bashing into someone else or being bashed into by someone else is the 'victor'.  Some cars do not even slow down; they just shoot through with their hazard lights on as this obviously makes one quite invincible.  I have already entered the intersection when a car speeds through from the left, narrowly missing us.  The driver looks at me as though he can't understand what I am making all the fuss about when I blast him with the hooter.  To observe people's behaviour at times like these is to view a social experiment: how people react when there are no rules or regulations.  What so many people fail to realise is how, through their impatience and total disregard for others, they actually make their own journeys longer and more complicated.

In the evening, we have our film night again.  This time we watch Vita and Virginia, a film that documents the relationship between Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf.  We have a visitor, someone who lived in the house before us.  He is now living in Nigeria and describes how limiting and claustrophobic it is to live in an expat compound.  He misses the ease of Zimbabwean life.

November 22

The council announces 96 hour water cuts from Monday. We will be off from Monday to Wednesday and Friday to Sunday.  This is devastating news for us. The majority of our visitors stay at the weekends.  We will be fine as long as there is power, but that is certain to go off at some point over the weekend.

I am sitting in the car park at Ellie's school, waiting to pick her up.  A woman I would describe as a 'yummy mummy' gets out of an expensive looking car with her young daughter and proceeds to the school buildings.  She is on the phone and from the tone her voice, she is complaining.  Her language is terrible; she swears profusely, and very loudly, at the person on the other end of the phone, oblivious to her little girl and the rest of us in the car park.  It sounds as though she is talking to someone either at TelOne or ZOL, who are both Internet providers.  I know exactly how she feels but cannot imagine making such a scene.

It may sound a bit prudish, but I hardly ever use bad language. It has never sat right with my personality.  I do wish in many ways that I could be as forthright as this woman, though.  I think of the terrible person who phoned yesterday and completely threw me for the rest of the morning.  I wonder how many rude people TelOne and ZOL receive on a daily basis.

November 21

We don't often have to deal with obnoxious people, but today is one of those days, unfortunately. I message a man who booked three weeks ago to confirm that he is definitely coming tomorrow night.  He replies in the affirmitive and asks for directions.  The next thing, his daughter messages me to confirm the price. Her answer is 'That's great.'  However, half an hour later she phones me to ask how the pricing system works. I explain that the price per person decreases if more people stay.  There is a pause before she launches into a tirade of nastiness, demanding how we can charge what we do.  I explain again, and I am then told that we are more expensive than the last place she stayed at in Bulawayo!  

I have gone past trying to make people happy; I advise her to find somewhere else, preferably the cheap place she stayed at the last time she was here.  'No, no, no,' she insists, 'my father made this booking so we have to stay.'  I am not sure I see the logic in this line of reasoning, especially as she won't let the matter drop and starts again.  'So you are not going to bring your price down?'  Funnily enough, no.  This woman obviously has no idea of psychology.  Being nasty does not automatically qualify you for a discount.  I do not want her to stay; she is the kind of person who will look for everything that is wrong. Again, I suggest that she finds somewhere else to stay and this time she says that everywhere is booked up.  I assume she means all the very cheap places. Ten minutes after the end of our call, she cancels.  What a relief.

In the evening, we go to speech night at Ellie's school.  The guest speaker talks about maintaining the essence of what makes a Zimbabwean education unique.  Here is another subject I could do a PhD on.  If there is any subject that is bound to bring people to blows at dinner parties, it is not politics (we all united on the fact that the government is useless), it is education.  The Zimbabwean education system used to be the best in Africa, but it has deteriorated greatly over the last few years.  The private school system has survived, but at great cost.  There are many good things about it, but it is struggling.  Based on the old British public school system, it represents values that are often highly contradictory in nature.  Good manners are always impressed (to the extent that boys are taught to doff their hats), but only recently have any of the boarding schools begun to take the issue of bullying seriously.  I agree with the speaker that Zimbabweans do work hard and their attitude is highly valued in countries where people have not grown up in a system where seniority is respected.

However, as a Head once told me, our school system is a replica of our government.  We give far too much attention to the people at the top and treat those at the bottom with little respect.  We also teach pupils to keep quiet, constantly reminding them that those who don't toe the line, won't be rewarded.  We don't teach them to question or challenge the system within which they exist.  The challenge for us is to be able to move with the times, but also maintain what is good about the system.

November 20

Ellie goes to school dressed as a pirate.  I wish school was this much fun when I was there.

We receive the Airbnb newsletter.  I read an article about a woman who has a beach house in California. She describes all the things she does to make her guests’ stay enjoyable.  If she finds out that it is anyone’s birthday, she leaves a cake for them and, depending on the make up and interests of the guests, she will leave different information for them: lists of things for children to do in the area, places to go walking, craft fairs and festivals.  When she found out that one of her guests made patchwork quilts, she left a flyer about a quilt show. For a couple celebrating their wedding anniversary, she left a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates and roses. All this has earned her very positive reviews and customers who return time and again.  She also sells local crafts – many of the ornaments in the beach house can be purchased and she has compiled an online shopping directory for her customers to look through.

Some of these things are a little beyond us, but I like the idea of the personal touch. Three years ago, we had an American missionary couple stay with their 90 year old mother.  Her birthday was the day after mine so we thought we would ask her up for tea and cake.  I still have a very clear image of her in my mind: she was dressed entirely in the colours of the American flag; even her earrings were small replicas of the star-spangled banner.  Despite her age, she was incredibly sharp.  She was also very pro-Trump and for the next hour and a half we heard every conspiracy theory in the book concerning Barack Obama.  I don’t think we got a word in edgeways. 

I did have plans with someone I know to put homemade soap in the bathroom with a note that more could be purchased if wanted.  The soap was made by people in a co-operative and I thought it would be a good way of promoting it, but unfortunately the project itself then folded.

The only thing I do have for sale are copies of This September Sun.  There is one copy in the cottage and my general hope is that people won’t have time to finish it and so will ask if they can buy it.  Only one copy has ever gone missing and that was with the man who helped me take frogs out of the swimming pool.  Maybe he thought it was fair payment for lobbying them over the wall.

November 19

There is something wrong with the electricity; it is has been on in the early morning and evening, when it is usually off.  I often wonder what the ZESA control room is like.  I imagine a whole lot of switches with the names of all the suburbs next to them.  I wonder how it feels to flick a switch down, knowing you have plunged hundreds of people into darkness and frustration. When the power cuts began, there was some sort of timetable that was followed, but now it is completely random.  It’s a bit like holding out two closed fists and asking someone to guess which hand has the sweet in it, except that there are more than two choices.

As soon as you start thinking that your day for electricity is Monday or that you never have a cut on a Thursday night, beware – everything will change.

            Thankfully, we have rain in the afternoon.  It’s amazing how much better I always feel.  However, the rain brings the frogs.  Every evening, a great chorus starts up; some people love it, but not us. We are lucky, though, that we have not had the invasion that we had last year and the year before.  I suspect that we got such a bad review on Frog Airbnb, that all prospective customers have been put off.

            Both John and I have been known to be out in the garden at 1am, scooping frogs out of the pool with the net and putting them in a bucket.  One night last year yielded more than forty frogs.  I have even had a guest help me; he thought it was very funny, but even he gave up in the end.  When we didn’t like our neighbour, we used to empty the bucket over the wall into his garden.  This went some way to making up for the rubbish he threw over into our garden.  Now, we release the frogs at the bottom of our garden, far away from the swimming pool.

November 18

John leaves early in the morning for Francistown in Botswana. He is primarily going to buy some car parts, but also has a shopping list: toilet rolls, washing powder and toothpaste, to name a few.  Exciting stuff - and all at least half of the price of what they cost in Zimbabwe.  Hopefully, he will also buy Marmite.

John takes my car and Sian is mortified that this means we have to go to school in my mum's old car, affectionately known as Chugga. Chugga is about thirty five years old, and, although only one door can be opened from both the inside and outside and the boot cannot be opened at all, it is not to be under-estimated. I am the bigger problem as I have to get used to driving a manual again. Sian rolls her eyes at me when I forget to change gear and we stutter across the Cecil avenue traffic lights in an awkward jerking manner.

'Do you know Nana used to drive this at 120 (kph)?' There is something accusatory in her tone. I can understand why my mum might have driven it so fast though; as soon as you start slowing down, you feel as though the engine is about to cut out. At the next traffic lights, I unintentionally do a (small) wheelspin and we finally shoot into school with about five minutes before the bell goes.

We get a message from Airbnb, suggesting how we can get more customers over the next two weeks.  This involves cutting our prices in half.  Yes, of course we will get more customers that way; just about everybody will come and stay at our expense.  We will be cheaper than a backpackers'.

What Airbnb don't seem to understand is the psychology of pricing.  Most people, including myself, tend to look at the mid-range price.  We don't look at places that are vastly too expensive, but nor do we look at exceedingly cheap.  Exceedingly cheap has a big question mark over it (even two on occasion).  We wonder how such a price can be offered.  Do the sheets get changed? Are the staff getting paid properly?  If not, will they be seeking to top up their dismal salaries with what they can find digging around in our bags?  Cheap also suggests struggling: we are desperate to get you here.  Please, please, please, come and stay so we can all eat tonight.  Please!

We have discovered that the best thing is to offer clean, comfortable, pleasant accommodation that does not make any false claim to lavish luxury, but is also quietly confident and therefore does not stoop to the lows that Airbnb suggests we should.

It is a very hot and sticky afternoon with no rain.  John is back in the evening, quite exhausted.  A quick trip to Francistown still involves six hours of driving and the hassle of crossing the border.  He managed to buy two tyres for my car (two is still cheaper than one in Zim) and some other bits and pieces for his car.  He has also bought Marmite so we can all sleep well tonight.

November 17

Another thing that irritates me is silly messages that are just forwarded on without much thought. This is the sort of thing I mean:

If someone comes to your house, claiming they are from the medical council and asking for a sample of your blood, DON'T let them in.  They are a member of Al Qaeda and their mission is to spread the HIV virus. Please forward this message to as many people as possible and SAVE LIVES! (more exclamation marks on occasion.)

I cannot understand that people believe this sort of rubbish.  I try to imagine the operations room at Al Qaeda HQ: there is a round table at which are seated a lot of bearded men with dish towels on their heads.  They are poring over a map of Zimbabwe and finally settle on Bulawayo, marking it with a drawing pin.

'Tomorrow, Hillside.  The next day, Douglasdale.  Soon we shall reign supreme.'

Really!  If anyone, never mind if they looked Al Qaederish or not, turned up asking for a sample of my blood, I would be suspicious.

Here is another of the ridiculous messages:

Pls if anyone stops U and asks if u're interested in some perfume and gives u a paper to smell, pls don't!!!!! It's a new scam!!!!  The paper is laced with drugs.  U'll pass out so they can kidnap, rob or do worse to you!!!!

For goodness sake, the text language alone is enough to make me pass out.

November 16

It is absolutely incredible how quickly the garden has responded to the recent rain. Dry bushes which could easily have been mistaken for dead, have a very light covering of tiny leaves; the grass is starting to grow and some flowers have blossomed.  It is just wonderful to watch how every day brings something new and I marvel at how little rain it actually takes to make this transformation.  Although we had two heavy downfalls, we haven't even had a whole week of rain.

Eunice is in today, trying to get some of the ironing done.  She has not had electricity at her house since Tuesday.

 As usual, there are about twenty new messages on the neighbourhood watch WhatsApp group.  For some reason, it is always more busy over the weekend.

There is a dog barking on Napier.  Please could you check it out.

There is a man walking down my road with a big bag.

I can hear a strange whistling sound.  Please come quickly.  

There is a man in a white car parked across the road.  When I asked him what he was doing, he wound his window up.

A while ago, I decided to mute all my WhatsApp groups. which is probably not the right thing to do with the neighbourhood watch group, but I really can't be woken up at two o'clock in the morning to be told that someone thinks there is an intruder in their yard because they heard the bin fall over.

Our friends, Paul and Ute, come round for sundowners.  It is a beautiful evening, especially as the electricity is off and so there is no interference from the house lights, although we get bombarded by insects.  When our guests have gone, John and I sit outside a bit longer and discuss our options for the future.  It is a hot, clear night, full of stars.

'If anyone were to ask, "Tell me one thing that summed Zimbabwe up for you",' says John, 'I'd say the stars.'

How ironic it is that in our busy lives, we often forget to look at the stars and that it takes a power cut to remind us to appreciate what we have overlooked.

November 15

Our Internet is still down, three days after the storm.

We are planning to go to the Eastern Highlands over Christmas, but it has been difficult to find a suitable place to stay at.  Earlier in the week, I had sent a message to someone asking them if they had any vacancies and they had replied that they had.  They now message me again: 'Are you coming or can we cancel your reservation??? I take offence to the three question marks.  I didn't make a reservation and I feel like I am being treated as though I am unreliable.  Sian tells me I am taking the message too seriously.  

'Normal people don't look at punctuation the way you do,' she says.  Maybe she's right, but I think there is more to punctuation than meets the eye. Three question marks would be a clear sign that I was annoyed.

In the evening, we take part in a music quiz and come third last.  It's a good evening though and great to get out once in a while.

November 14

I am back in Tredgold building.  After numerous phone calls to Harare, it has been decided that for Ellie to get an external Zimbabwean birth certificate, I need to become a citizen.  I have tried on numerous occasions to become a citizen, but this has always been denied to me as I do not have a Zimbabwean passport.  Now, I am told that I have to get a new identity card which will classify me as a citizen rather than the very offensive 'alien'.

The process takes close on two hours.  I have to wait in a long queue, but it's one that moves relatively quickly.  Finally, I am herded into a small office where five people sit at desks, each handling a different part of the ID process.  I pay the first woman who handwrites a very long receipt, then finds she has written it in thw wrong book and has to start all over again in another one.  My Ecobank bank card doesn't work, I have no cash and they don't accept Ecocash.  Luckily, I have my dad's bank card with me and can use that to make the payment.  Otherwise, my waiting would have been in vain and I think I may have lost the plot completely.

At the next desk, a man changs my details in the system and at the next another man takes my papers.  The man next to him takes a photo of me and takes my fingerprints.  Finally, I go back to the previous man who gives me my new ID.

I am now told that I can apply for Ellie's new birth certificate but will need copies of my new ID and my passport so I dash across the road and get these done, rush back and find that everyone, EVERYONE, is on tea break and the office is closed.  It's another of those clenched teeth moments.

Finally, I get to do the application but there is more trouble ahead.  The woman I am dealing with notices that I have a different surname to John.  That, I explain, is because we are not married.  She looks disapprovingly at us.  'We all live together very happily,' John assures her and this turns out to be completely the wrong thing to say.

Under Zimbabwean law, she informs us, we are recognised as married, by virtue of living together.  Good news, on one hand. BUT, she says, that means that Sian and Ellie should have John's surname.  Long ago, when Sian was just born, we decided that she would have my surname.  People often comment on it, but it's a decision we made and I don't feel any need to justify it.  No one has ever told us that our children should have John's surname and it has never been a problem.  On every single identity document that the girls have, their surname is Rheam.  We are not prepared to change that now.

The woman advises us to leave John off the birth certificate all together and we agree.  It is not to me a real birth certificate anyway.  Ellie's real one is her Zambian one.  However, when we go back to the lady in charge to hand over all the paperwork, there is more shaking of heads.  'I don't understand,' she says, 'why you want your children to have your surname and not their father's.'

I feel like I have done something wrong.  I feel like telling her that the practice of taking your father's name is not done worldwide.  There are many cultures where children inherit their mother's name.  However, I am cross and tired and hungry and I just want to get out of this grotty building and have a cup of tea.  The post, she says in a tone that suggests certain doom, will be collected on Monday and the application will be sent to Lupane.  We can check to see if we are successful with the application on Friday.

After three hours, we finally leave the building, hot and deflated and yet something big has been achieved.  At the age of 45, through a strange twist of fate, I am finally a citizen of the country I was born and have lived in most of my life - and I didn't even ask.

November 13

The electricity went off at 3pm yesterday and didn’t come back on at all which suggests there is a fault somewhere.  This is the problem with the rainy season.  Everything is so old and in need of repair that the slightest bit of rain means a total shutdown.

The electricity comes back on at 11.30am, but the internet is still off.  When John goes to enquire as to the problem, he is told that the whole system is down and the TelOne repair truck’s clutch is not working so they are not able to go and locate the problem. I think I am developing a nervous tic.

About lunchtime, I receive a WhatsApp message from a foreign number.  The view on my phone is limited to the first part of the sentence: ‘I would burn in hell before returning . . .’  My initial reaction is that this is from the man from Botswana who left yesterday.  What, the stamps weren’t enough?  We told you there would be no water or electricity.  What sort of an ungrateful psychopath are you? Thankfully, when I open the message, I realise it is not him.  The full sentence is: I would burn in hell before returning – why British teachers are fleeing overseas.  There is a link to an article from The Guardian.  It is from my friend, Phil, who I used to work with in Zambia.

There is more rain in the afternoon, although nowhere near the 120mls we were warned could fall today. The electricity is off again.  At nine o’clock it comes on again for four minutes.

November 12

Our visitors leave for Botswana early in the morning. They seemed quite jolly

about not having water and electricity last night.  The man declared himself to be quite a keen philatelist at one point whilst talking to John, who gave him some Rhodesian stamps to add to his collection.

The chongololos are out in full force.  A chongololo (sometimes spelt shongololo) is a millipede with a hard black outer shell.  They are quite fascinating creatures who can, apparently, live for up to fifteen years, although I think the majority of them get run over before living to such an old age.  They appear with the rains and always seem to be on the way somewhere, coming into the house and ending up in some of the most unlikely places, like the bottom of the laundry basket or the back of a cupboard.  They are completely harmless; the worst they do is poo on you if you pick them up.  We had a Croatian lady stay once with her South African husband and her aunt.  They were from the Eastern Cape. I had just shown them into the cottage when she emitted a loud scream and quickly shut the door as there was a snake outside. I opened the door very slowly, expecting to see a cobra and saw instead a poor, hapless chongololo going happily on his way to the garden. Apparently, chongololos are not found in the Cape - or, I suspect, Croatia.

We hope that no one books to stay until Friday as we have no water and huge piles of washing again. Rather worryingly, our inverter has started playing up.  It only lasted for an hour and half last night before giving up.  The battery is only four months old so it shouldn’t be losing its charge so quickly.

In the evening, we have heavy rainfall that continues for a number of hours.  It is lovely to go to bed to the sound of rain.

November 11

John has lived in Africa for twenty eight years and many people don't even know that he is English. A woman in a post office in the UK asked him if he was South African. The answer was lost in the sounds of her being throttled. However, despite him being 'Africanised' over the years - his driving is quite on par with that of a tshova (minibus/ taxi driver) - there are two things that to me still define him as English.

One is the fact that, despite being a very good cook, he is quite hopeless when it comes to a braai (barbeque). I am the one who usually ends up turning the (chicken) sausages over and involving myself in braai banter. An African braai is very different to the British version where someone wheels their little gas stand out onto the deck on the one day a year when the weather is good, has a glass of prosecco, follows a Jamie Oliver recipe for sizzling Moroccan prawns with tiramisu for dessert, and then packs up quickly before the rain sets in.

No, in Southern Africa a braai is so much more. There is a whole culture to it. Men and women sit separately, for example. Men are required to balance their beers (wine and spirits are for women and sissies) on their beer bellies whilst recalling some great, largely exaggerated, physical achievement and turning over huge slabs of meat (often it's a case of the rawer the better). Never make the mistake of announcing you are a vegetarian or suggesting that stuffed cabbage leaves are quite delicious with a pomegranate sauce. Jamie Oliver’s sizzling Moroccan prawns would be equally frowned upon.

The other thing that John just doesn’t get is what he refers to as the Zimbabwean obsession with rain gauges. My parents always had a rain gauge and I have even gone as far as putting it on my Christmas wish list (to no avail, sadly) and I know a number of people with them. After the rain yesterday, Facebook is alive with comments such as:

 ‘So how many millilitres did you all get? 44mls in Hillside.’

‘52mls in Suburbs,’ boasts someone else. John does not get excited about rain in the way that the girls and I do; it is not in his blood. It’s tolerable to a certain point and it keeps the garden going, but it definitely doesn’t warrant the purchase of a rain gauge or a diary recording how much has fallen to compare to previous years. He’s strange.

November 10

Heavy rain is forecast later in the day so, although it is hot when we wake up, there is feeling that it is bearable as long as the rain does actually arrive. If I ever write my autobiography, I shall call it Raining Somewhere Else as this captures the very essence of Bulawayo.  It can very easily build up for a storm with huge black clouds, thunder and lightning cracking away and then the very next minute dissipate into nothing.  It has rained somewhere else.

John and I take the dogs for a walk at Hillside dams.  There is some sort of marathon going on which fills me with dread.  I hope Rolo will behave himself.  If he does chase someone, I hope it's one of the runners as they could break the land speed record.  At one point we come across a man and his little children and their dog.  

'Rolo!' shouts the man.  'Rolo, come here and sit down!'

Why, we wonder, is he calling Rolo?  We call Rolo.  Rolo looks between us and the man and can't work out which way he has to go.  The man's dog gets frantic, jumping around, eager to come bounding over.

'Rolo!' the man commands again.  'Sit down!'

There are two Rolos.  Two Rolos at Hillside dams.  I think our Rolo is by far the genuine article though.

In the afternoon, it rains.  It pours.  Sian and Ellie run outside and jump around until they are absolutely soaked.  Poor Rolo can't handle the thunder at all and is very on edge.  He follows me around everywhere with a look that says he is under siege.  We give him some rescue remedy which helps to a certain extent, but he is not a happy dog.  It rains so much that parts of the garden are under water.  It actually brings tears to my eyes.  It has been SO hot and the rain is so very welcome.

November 9

It's boiling hot.  Depressingly boiling hot.

Rolo is in a very odd mood.  I am up at 5.30 despite it being Saturday and he is desperate to get my attention.  First, he takes my dad's hat and threatens to pull it apart.  Next, it is a cushion from the sofa and then a large plastic bottle left over from the birthday party which he tosses around, making a loud noise. He is like this the whole morning, running outside and barking at anything that moves.  Our guests have people who come and visit and Rolo is not happy about this at all so we have to keep him inside.  He won't bite anyone, but he can be very annoying. As soon as he knows he is locked in, he wants to go out so he sits next to the door and whines.  And whines. And whines.

John and Ellie have a costume fitting for the pantomime.  John comes back with a ridiculous pair of boots that are too small for him and a crown that will need some tarting up before it will be taken seriously.  Midday finds Ellie and I manning the grade 5 stall at the school fete for half an hour.  Afterwards, we wander round the other stalls, but if you take away the clothes, the shoes and the cheap Chinese junk, there is not very much on offer.  Ellie buys a Rudolph Christmas pen for her and one in white for Sian.

Our guest asks if they can stay another two nights.  Usually, this would make us happy, but the problem is that on Monday there will be no water or electricity.  Ellie says it's like a survival challenge: the first night you will stay, there will be water and electricity; the second night, there will be no electricity and the third night, no water or electricity. Can you make it through to the bitter end?

The electricity is off for hours and then even the inverter runs out.  I take the opportunity to have an early night and go to bed at eight thirty.  As I am falling asleep, I think of all the writers who must have written books by candlelight. Am I just a spoilt twenty-first century person, blaming their circumstances for their lack of ability to get anything done?  Perhaps.

November 8

I get home from work to find at least thirty children running round the

garden and swimming in the pool.  My friend, Anne, is having her daughter's birthday party at our house. Needless to say, large amounts of gin and tonic are needed to steady my nerves.  Ellie, who cannot swim because of her dog bite wound, gets stuck in a huge clump of Christ thorns in an attempt to show some boys where the fairies live.  John spends the next half hour trying to extract thorns from her feet.

The Internet is not working so I go down to the TelOne office and ask them what the problem is.  The technician looks at his watch and mutters that I have left it rather late in the day - it is a quarter past five and they close at six.  He tells me to take a seat and goes off into a room with lots of wires and flashing lights.  While he is gone, I survey my surroundings, identifying yet another place that needs some feng shui.  A swivel chair behind one of the desks has completely collapsed and I don't see how anyone could sit in it without either being some sort of contortionist or doing themselves some serious bodily harm. Broken things are another way of storing negative energy, but I suppose there is nothing to replace it with.

The man comes back and tells me all should work now.  I ask him what the problem was and get the standard vague answer: there was a problem, but we fixed it. Maybe our wire was connected to the wrong flashing light.  Who knows?  When I get home, the Internet is still not working so I fiddle around with lots of wires and connect things into different sockets and then back in their original ones and, quite suddenly, it works.

By the time we go to bed at nine o'clock, our guests have not arrived, but just as I am drifting off into that lovely tomorrow-is-Saturday-and-I-don't-have-to-get-up-early-sleep, my phone rings and then stops.  The dreaded Missed Call.  It is not a number I recognise, so I ignore it.  It rings again. Ha, ha, I think, don't play that game with me. Finally, it rings again.  It is Hillside Police.

Our guest has got completely lost and has been driving round Hillside for about an hour.  I give him directions and John goes down to the gate to meet him.  The first thing I notice about the car is its diplomatic number plates.  Oh dear, I hope these people are not going to be high maintenance.  It turns out it is a Sri Lankan man who was brought up in England, met his Japanese wife in Indonesia and now lives in Botswana.  He has his maid and his one and a half year old son with him.  His maid's niece was killed in a random shooting in a shop in Johannesburg and will be buried on Sunday.  They have come for the funeral.

November 7

Early in the morning, I stand in front of my cupboard, searching for an outfit suitable for a visit to Tredgold House to apply for Ellie's external birth certificate.  It is very important to wear the right clothes when dealing with officialdom.  I need something fairly bland and unremarkable as they like quashing people who look too glamorous or sophisticated.  As I am always either glamorous or sophisticated, this is a difficult task.  (All those people who take me literally, this is called being humorous.)

I don't know what time Tredgold House opens, but when we get there at eight, there is already a queue a mile long.  However, we discover we do not have to join it.  That is not our queue, thank goodness.  The man in charge asks us if we need to make an appointment to which we respond that we haven't a clue.  He rolls his eyes in a way that is characteristic of a teenager having to deal with a technologically inept parent.  He sends us into another office where we speak to a very polite, helpful lady who considers our plight.

The office is a standard government one: piled high with files and papers, with yellowed notices falling off the wall, mission statements in cheap gold frames and curtains that are far too short hung with about three curtain hooks so that they loop down, looking very untidy.  I often wonder if someone didn't just go and take all the curtains in every government institution down one day to wash them and then just sent them randomly back to whatever room they felt like with the result that some long windows have short curtains and other short windows have curtains that drag on the floor. Everyone who works in these places is miserable.  The answer, I believe, is Feng Shui.  If only they could just throw all these files away and replace them with a couple of water fountains and goldfish, they would all be a lot happier.  I want to tell them that they should always keep corners free of clutter as they collect bad energy, but I am not sure my advice will be too readily received. One thing I like about this office is that the lady has quite a number of African violets growing in pots on the windowsill.  This is a start and explains why she is the happiest person I have seen in the building.

The nice lady says she doesn't know if Ellie qualifies for the extended Zimbabwean passport as we are on foreign passports.  The fact that I was born in Zimbabwe and have lived here most of my life, means very little. She phones someone who doesn't know either.  She phones Harare and has a long conversation with someone about her son who is doing a pharmacy degree. Finally, she says:  'The reason I am actually phoning you is to ask ...' However, Harare do not know either.  Eventually, she takes my phone number and says she will get back to me.

In the evening, someone from Botswana phones and books to stay the weekend.  He says he saw us advertised on booking.com, but thought he would book directly so that we don't have to pay commission.  I am wondering how he got our contact details as booking.com do not release them until you have booked.

November 6

I receive a phone call.

'Hi Bryony, it's Jim here from Victoria Falls.  Ruby and I would like to book for the last weekend in November.  Martin will also be joining us.'

Jim, Ruby and Martin from Victoria Falls?  Who the hell are these people?  They speak to me like we are old friends.  Quickly, I try to remember anyone who has ever stayed with us from Victoria Falls.  They all have other names. I put the phone on loudspeaker so John can hear but he just shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.

He babbles on. 'Is it OK if the Robertsons join us for dinner on the Friday night? We were going to stay with Pete and Marie, but they have the Coetzees with them that weekend.'

This is terrible.  The Robertsons, the Coetzees, Pete and Marie.  Why don't I know these people.  I am so afraid I am going to give away the fact that  haven't got a clue who they are.

Finally, the booking is made and I am just about to say goodbye and then look these people up on Facebook, when he asks if I can send him directions.

'Directions?' I repeat.  'Don't you remember where we are?'

'Oh no, we've never stayed with you before.  First time for everything,' he laughs and I breathe a great sigh of relief.

November 5

Today, I check our reviews.  We have been doing well lately and all the comments are very positive.  The French people wrote:

Rien à redire. Que du positif . Excellente adresse. Fortement recommandé. (According to Google translate, this means: No complaints. Only positive. Excellent address. Highly recommended.)

The Germans who stayed about a month ago were also happy:

Sehr gute Betreuung, zuvorkommende Bedienung, umfassendes und sehr gutes Frühstück! Küche genügend, Bett komfortabel, ruhige Lage. (Very good care, courteous service, comprehensive and very good breakfast! Kitchen enough, bed comfortable, quiet location.)

Let's hope Google translate is being honest!  One of the things that booking.com asks guests to rate is our location.  I think they may be referring to the setting itself - garden, noise, proximity to other houses and the like.  However, so many people rate us according to how close we are to where they wanted to go.  We have in the past only received a 5/10 for location with the comment that we weren't close enough to the Victoria Falls road or NUST.  No responsibility is taken for the fact that they should have chosen a place on the Vic Falls road or next door to NUST.  No, we should have moved our entire property closer to where they wanted to be.

I dread reading our reviews.  Long ago, I realised people can be very sweet and nice to your face and assure you that they are quite happy and comfortable and in need of nothing and then write a review in which they list all the things you never did for them.  A young Australian couple were like this.  When they arrived, the man played around with Rolo quite a bit.  I tried to call Rolo away and he told me to leave him because he was having such a good time.  Later that day they came and asked for directions to the nearest shops because they wanted to buy bottled water.  I said that if that's all they wanted, I could give them a couple of bottles that we had in the cupboard to save them the walk.  They seemed very chirpy and we had a good chat.  Come the review, they wrote that Rolo had been a handful and that they were very put out that they had been expected to supply their own bottled water when the tap water was clearly undrinkable.  I had assured them that we all drink tap water and are perfectly fine. Maybe they didn't think I looked perfectly fine!

Another man suggested we supply coffee beans.  I have never been to a hotel where this is provided, never mind a B&B.  Someone else suggested a variety of magazines.  I don't know, maybe I am just weird, but that's the sort of stuff I would buy myself.  I can't imagine going to stay at a hotel, phoning reception and asking if they have the latest copy of Vogue because I need something to read whilst I drink my filter coffee.

November 4

We receive message of a cancellation today.  The guest was due to arrive later this week and stay for ten days so it is quite a blow.  She phones us from the UK to say that she cancelled weeks ago and doesn't know why this is not reflected on booking.com.  It was only when she received a reminder that her booking was coming up that she realised it had not been cancelled.  When she tried to cancel, she was told that she would be charged half of the total price as she had left it so late. As we are nice people(!) we believe her story and waive the cancellation fee.

We have been a bit lax about asking people for deposits if they are staying for long periods of time or over busy times such as Christmas and Trade Fair. We have been let down on a number of occasions by people who book for up to two weeks and then never show up.  Generally, we know if people are going to come or not because those who are tend to write to us and ask lots of questions about money, fuel and details such as how far Matopos is.  A couple of days before someone is due to arrive, I send them a message saying we are looking forward to meeting them and what time do they expect to arrive. Some bookings I feel are totally bogus,  Someone on a business trip books with us, shows proof of the booking to their boss who gives them money to cover accommodation and then they go and stay with a cousin somewhere or in a backpackers and keep the money.

Mid-morning, we go to Tredgold House to see if we can sort out Ellie's external Zimbabwean birth certificate, but the queue is so long we turn around and leave.

The water and the electricity are off the entire day.

November 3

It seems to have been an exceptionally hot few weeks.  October is referred to as Suicide Month, but it does feel as though it has been more consistently hot this year.  No doubt someone will prove me wrong with a whole lot of statistics about temperatures in October in the last thirty years.

In the evening, Ellie is bitten by our neighbours' dog and I quickly rush her to hospital.  She is attended to remarkably quickly and I am impressed with the care and attention of the doctor. He insists that he sees a proper rabies certificate before he will discharge Ellie.  At times like this, I am really grateful that we are on medical aid.  It may cost a bit, but it is worth it.  If we weren't covered, we would either have to go to a government hospital, where there is likely to be a great shortage of basics such as painkillers and bandages, or sort the problem out ourselves.  Not many Zimbabweans can afford to be on medical aid.

In January, we were just leaving our house one day when Rolo leapt over the wall into our neighbour's garden and killed a chicken.  The man was understandably furious and we were very apologetic.  However, he refused to accept our apologies and offer to pay him for the chicken.  Instead, he started swearing at us and threatening to have Rolo shot. The next thing was that he brought the police around and began another tirade of abuse, telling me that this was not Rhodesia.

It ended up with us going to the police station where we interviewed by a community relations police officer.  We went through the whole incident and reiterated that we had apologised and had also offered to pay for the dead chicken.  The policeman himself could not understand why this man was getting so angry and asked him to calm down.  The matter was solved when John offered to fix his swimming pool fence which Rolo had apparently knocked down whilst chasing the chicken round the garden.  All of us, including the police officer, went to see the swimming pool fence which was so old and decrepit that it had obviously been broken for years, if not decades.  John fixed it anyway and the man warmed considerably towards us.  However, the chickens disappeared overnight as I said I would find out what the council bylaws were as regards keeping them in a residential area.

When the neighbours' dog bit Ellie, John was round there in seconds, demanding to see this guy and give him a piece of his mind.  Instead, a rather bewildered woman appeared and, after John had finished his great rant, informed him that she moved in a couple of months ago and her husband works out of town.  It seems they took over the dogs from the 'chicken man'. She was very apologetic and upset about what her dog had done.

The electricity has been on for two whole days. We are going to get hammered next week.

November 2

My day is consumed thinking of identity.  South Africa has won the Rugby World Cup and I am trying to make sense of the response.  I still don't understand why so many white Zimbabweans support SA and I wonder if the same is true of black Zimbabweans. If I had the time, I would write a PhD on White Zimbabwean identity.  We are often seen as one homogenous mass, but in reality there are many divisions between us.  Rhodesian authorities favoured British immigration, especially in the post-War period, but there was also an influx of European immigrants: Greeks, Italians, Poles and Russians.  Those of British descent usually looked down upon these immigrants as well as Afrikaners.  

Whether we have deserved it or not, Zimbabwe's white community has had a rough run of things in the last twenty years.  Our numbers have dropped dramatically and very, very few families, if any at all, have not been split up as various members have moved to other countries.  We are desperately in search of an identity, which is why I suppose we support our next door neighbour when it comes to sport, although if you ask any Zimbabwean what they hate most about travelling to other countries, it's being labelled South African.  We are a bit of an anomaly: people in the West are used to white South Africans, but white Zimbabweans?  That's just a bit too far-fetched.

I could write lots about this.  'It's a game, Bryony, just a game,' one part of my brain screams, while the other says, 'let me just write about this.'

Then there's another aspect of the World Cup outcome that riles me, this idea of rugby healing a nation.  In 1995, when South Africa won their first world cup after being allowed back on the international stage, it was an important moment.  It's now 24 years later and I feel that Rainbow Nation stuff has been done to death.  If any country needs healing, I actually think it's England. I don't think the English know who they are any more.

In the evening, we watch a series called Dickensian.  In it, it's snowing, cold and gloomy.  When I was a child, I used to dream of living in the Victorian age. For some reason, I always wanted to be a maid, cleaning out the grate every morning.  I would do anything to be in the freezing gloom of Dickensian England right now, preferably as an extremely well-off lady in Knightsbridge, but, failing, that I'll take the maid's job.  Anything, anywhere but Zimbabwe 2019.

Everton arrives quite late.  He is such a regular that we just tell him that the gate will be unlocked and the key for the cottage in the door.

November 1

The French people were back for a night last night.  Their little girl and Ellie became friends, communicating via Google translate.  They have swapped addresses which is very sweet. Ellie also has a friend in Switzerland whom she met the same way, although she is English speaking.

We now have masses upon masses of laundry to do, but the electricity is a problem.  Not only do we have to negotiate power cuts, but we also have to deal with an incredibly inept system.  The first 50 units you buy in a month are cheaper than the next 150.  This means that today, which is the first of the month, is chaos.  Everyone, including us, has been trying to make it through to today.  There are either really long queues outside shops that sell electricity or the system is down.  It seems that ZESA is determined to make getting electricity very difficult, even if you have the money to buy it.

Eventually, I phone my sister in Marondera and ask her if she can buy it through the banking app on her phone.  I then Ecocash her the money.  Success! It has worked! Someone 600kms away has managed to buy electricity for my house.  That's efficiency for you.  

October 30

I am driving down the road this morning when I see a very short fuel queue and people being served.  Quickly, I throw out the anchor, turn round and join it.  At the back of mind lurks the fear that there is a catch: it's only diesel, not petrol, they only accept cash, not card or Ecocash, they are only serving the first ten cars, they are only serving customers in red cars with blue dots or people whose names begin with X or Q, unless its followed by a u, in which case they will be turned away.  

I am third from the front and something seems ominously wrong.  Why is everything going so smoothly? I ask the lady in the car ahead what the story is with payment and she shrugs her shoulders and says she is praying that they take bank cards.  I go and ask the petrol attendant who nods in a very non-commital way when I ask if he is taking swipe.  On the way back to my car, various people lean out of their cars and call me over to find out what form of payment is being accepted.  

As I draw up next to the pump, it still seems too good to be true.  I feel like I have made it to the next round of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.  Will I be able to answer the next question?  Please let it be a literature round - Who played Mr Darcy in the 1995 BBC version of Pride and Prejudice?  Yes!  I've got it right.  The meter is going round, it's filling up.  The numbers flash by at an alarming rate.  In the end, I pay for thirteen and a half litres what I used to pay for two full tanks.

And now comes crunch time - payment.  I hand over my card, quite confident that it will be rejected and I will have to leave a body part behind as surety that I will come back.  I quickly look on the back seat of my car and wonder if they will accept a pile of marking.  It's a long shot, but it's worth a try.

God is on my side today, the transaction goes through and I do a metaphorical twirl in the air.  This is what winning feels like.

October 30

We have a booking for the weekend.  It is one of our regular visitors, Everton.  Everton is a Zimbabwean who lives in South Africa, as well as having a farm in Filabusi.  As he runs his own business, he is able to pop up here for a couple of days a month to oversee the running of the farm. At one time, he was here for at least three nights at the end of each month, but this year his visits have been a little more sporadic.

When he first started staying with us, Rolo was quite young and a handful in terms of behaviour.  I

was at a friend's house when I got a phone call from Everton to say that Rolo had run out the gate while he was leaving and he had struggled to get him back inside.  When he did, he locked the gate immediately and then discovered that he had left his key behind.  I told him not to worry, I would leave the gate unlocked for him so he could get back in.  However, I did not bank on our other guests - at the time we used to rent out both our cottages - coming back late and locking the gate.  Everton ended up spending the night somewhere else and I ended up giving him a discount on the room.

Another time, very early in the morning, I reversed into Everton's truck.  I don't know who got the bigger shock, me or the person who was asleep on the front seat and who shot up like a firecracker.  Luckily, his truck was not damaged and my conscience was assuaged by the fact that he had brought some random person onto the property, even if they did not sleep inside the cottage.

October 29

It's been incredibly hot.  It is difficult to sleep at night and there is little relief from the heat.  Sometimes it feels as though we are being hammered in all directions.  Without municipal water, we swim twice a day.  I am not a keen swimmer but even I am in there as soon as I get home from work.

I feel like we have been bobbing up and down in a bath full of water from which the plug has been taken.  We were initially pulled gently towards the plughole, but now we are in the stage where the water is swirling round and round and we are about to go down.  It has become impossible to live here without huge amounts of money.  We are actually grateful for the power cuts as we cannot afford the electricity. In Zimbabwe, prices don't just go up a couple of cents once a year; they triple on a weekly basis.

The electricity is so erratic now that we no longer ask Eunice to come in on a Monday.  Monday used to be our 'free' day, but it was off yesterday.

John has taken to making his own bread and his own yogurt.  The bread is successful and the yogurt generally so.  John and I don't eat red meat, but we do eat chicken and fish.  I can't remember the last time we had fish and chicken was at least two weeks ago. We are now almost completely vegetarian.  John is a fantastic cook and does his best to come up with some great vegetarian food, but Ellie is now asking for chicken and Sian would like some 'normal' vegetarian food like macaroni cheese.  Anywhere else, macncheese is an average, everyday dish; here, it is on a par with caviar and pate de frois gras. I feel like Bob Cratchett from A Christmas Carol, going out into the world every day to bring back a couple of coins so we can a bowl of gruel. At least Bob Cratchett didn't have hyper-inflation to deal with.

October 28

We wave goodbye to the French people who are off to Victoria Falls and Hwange.  They will be back on Thursday for a night.  They are very nice, love the cottage and think Rolo is wonderful. When they speak to him in French, Rolo becomes like putty in their hands.  We had Italian bikers stay once.  When they left, they said goodbye to us and then spent about half an hour saying goodbye to Rolo: 'Bene, bene. Ciao, Rolo!'  Rolo, who hates motorbikes, could not understand how such wonderful people could possibly turn up on the back of these huge noisy beasts and desisted from barking at them when they left. We helped the French people get fuel for which they are very grateful and they promise to recommend us to their friends in Harare.

A couple of months ago, we had Sian and Ellie's passports renewed and we now need to have the permanent residency stamp put in them.  We have completed all the usual masses of forms and provided all the information in duplicate.  Zimbabwe has this thing about duplicate, and sometimes triplicate, copies of everything.  Besides a covering letter, we had to supply: a biography, letters from their schools to say they really do attend them, photocopies of the old and new passport picture pages, photocopies of every page used since the residency stamp was put in and a utility bill.  They also ask for a copy (or two) of the girls' birth certificates and it is here that we meet our problem.  Sian was born in Zimbabwe and therefore has a Zimbabwean birth certificate, but Ellie was born in Zambia and therefore her birth certificate is a Zambian one.  This is not acceptable, apparently.  Ellie must get an 'external' Zimbabwean birth certificate which says she was born in Zambia.  This is bizarre to say the least.  I wonder if all the Chinese people you see in the permanent residency queue at the airport have to do this.

In the afternoon, I go to my yoga class.  I find yoga helps me immensely both physically and mentally and I always feel better after it.  I think of all the people I would have murdered had I not taken up yoga. When I get home, I am greeted by John who is just leaving.  He has just found out that he and Ellie have to be at the pantomime practice tonight. Sian, my dad and I have supper together.  Sian is very down and asks if we can go and live somewhere else.  Living here certainly does take its toll on everyone.  I had a very different childhood in many ways and I do not remember it being stressful in this way.

October 27

The French people have a problem.  They hired a normal sedan type car in Harare and then took the cross country route from Imire, near Marondera, to Featherstone and, in the process, completely and utterly destroyed one of their wheels.  Today, they would like to go out to the Matopos, but need to buy a new wheel first.  I make some enquiries and find a place that is open on Sundays and John goes with them to show them where it is and make sure they don't get ripped off on prices.

As a Welsh supporter, I am obviously very disappointed with their defeat against the Springboks. I

don't understand why everyone refers to the South African team as the underdogs as I can remember them winning at least two other world cups.  To my knowledge, Wales has never won it.  I really don't like the smug self-assertion of the South Africans.

As the water will go off tomorrow for four days, I try to do as much washing as possible. In the afternoon, we find ourselves low on electricity, but, once again. are unable to top up as the system is offline.