May 4

The day starts with another early morning walk - even earlier than yesterday, but this time it is just Ellie and I.  When we get to the place where we are going to start our walk, there are four cars there.  We try to judge from the cars' appearances whether they are dog walkers or wailers.  Wailers are of the religious type who go into the rocks to implore God to deliver them from all sorts of evils. I remember seeing one man walking round and round in tortured circles, shouting, 'God, God, come to Bulawayo, God!  Come! Come!' Obviously, God steered clear of that one.

I have often thought that many Christians address God as though he isn't going to listen to them or as if he is a teacher facing a class of enthusiastic pupils, all waving their hands in the air when he asks a question, but he can only choose one.  Surely if you believe in something, you know it will deliver what you ask for.  All this wailing surely only points to a lack of belief.

Luckily, we come across neither dog walkers nor wailers.

John goes shopping and is stopped at a roadblock by a policeman with no face mask so John gives him a (rather large) piece of his mind and is swiftly waved through.  He comes back as disheartened as I was on Saturday.  As the council water tastes so disgusting, we now have to pay for drinking water which is unsustainable in the long term.

Confusion reigns as regards the government's directive that companies have to test their workers for the coronavirus before they can reopen.  A test that is worth US$1 is being sold by the government for US$25.  If you have a hundred workers, that's a rather large amount of money you will have to shell out.

It might be worth a wail in the rocks.

May 3

Sometime over the last few weeks, I mentioned how nice it would be to have a very early morning walk.  Nobody took me up on the offer - until today.  Ellie wakes me up when it is just getting light and informs me we are going for a walk.  It is chilly, but good to be out early.  I love the smell of the bush when it is still damp.  It reminds me of camping trips when you crawl out the tent into the cold of the morning, desperate for a cup of tea.

A number of years ago, I signed up to an employment website for teachers and every day I get an email alert which tells me what jobs are on offer.  I signed up as a secondary English teacher, but often the adverts will include jobs that I could not possibly do like be the head of the Physics department.  Today I get one for Teacher of Clarinet and Saxophone. I wonder if I could get away with knowing absolutely nothing about either. In Zambia, we came across many teachers - especially headmasters - who certainly weren't what they said they were. The expat teaching market is definitely a dodgy one and it is quite easy to turn up in a place like Ndola or Solwezi and profess to have an Oxford degree when really the nearest you got to Oxford was on a number 9 bus.

Most of the rest of the day is spent getting ready for school - writing notes and preparing lessons.  At 5pm, the water comes back so we are able to put the washing machine on. Next week looms ahead: homeschooling, lockdown, the compulsory wearing of masks, more price hikes. Perhaps, I think, I should apply for the clarinet and saxophone job anyway.  What have I to lose?

May 2

The power went off again last night and is still not back on this morning.  I manage to get through to ZESA who assure me that they know of the fault and that the electricity will be back later in the day.

I have not been to the shops for two weeks so I decide to venture out.  It is one of the most depressing experiences I have had in a long time.  The range of food is very limited and many things are just not available, even things that are made in Zimbabwe, like oats.  What is available is extremely, ridiculously expensive.  The girls asked me to buy a watermelon and I hesitate to put it in the trolley.  Eventually, I buy a quarter.  As the holidays are coming to an end, I buy a small bottle of tonic water as I am tired of drinking gin and orange juice.  I feel like I am being extremely decadent and put the bottle back three times before I actually say to hell with it and buy it.

When I get home, I feel so extremely depressed, I lie comatose on my bed.  I have not felt so hopeless in such a long time.  Since the just before the lockdown, we have had no income from our cottage and John has been unable to work which has meant we have had to rely entirely on my salary.  It is just impossible.  I have this overwhelming feeling of being trapped here, unable to leave because there isn't any way of actually getting out of the country besides ramming the car through the closed border post.  

I know life is hard for many people; I know it is much harder for many more people than it is for me and I know I should be grateful and I know I will survive.  That does not stop me from occasionally feeling complete despair. 

Late afternoon, I take Sian for a driving lesson.  It is a beautiful time of the day.  The sun turns everything a delicate gold. We get lost on dirt roads that haven't been driven on for months where the grass is long and the tracks can hardly be seen.  It's fun and we laugh a lot.  I feel much happier when we get home.

I have my gin and tonic.  The tonic tastes of lemon soap.  The electricity, however, is back and one must always be grateful for small mercies.

May 1

The electricity is still off when we wake up.  At 9 o'clock, John phones ZESA and is told that help is on its way; the team is 'just collecting their tools'.  The electricity comes back on around midday.

It is May Day, a public holiday that we had all completely forgotten about.  Yesterday evening, Elizabeth reminded us of it when she said good-bye.  

'Is it a public holiday?' I asked.  I couldn't even remember what the date was.  'Isn't that at the end of the month?'

'No.' said Elizabeth. 'It's Independence Day.'

'But we've had that, haven't we?  It was a couple of weeks ago.'

Elizabeth started laughing and shaking her head.  'I don't know.  It's one of them.'

In the afternoon, we hear that in the president's May Day address, he has extended the lockdown by a further two weeks, although we have been reduced to level two in the state of emergency.  This means that some businesses and industries may reopen.  He also makes it compulsory for everyone to wear a mask.

I know there are people who find me very cynical, which is not true - except where the government is concerned.  I do not believe that the Zimbabwean government do anything for the good of their people.  If they really had people's interests at heart, they would set about restoring the economy instead of squandering billions of dollars on international travel and extravagant lifestyles.

I cannot help but feel that the whole lockdown scenario is some sort of farce; something to be played out in order to receive money and aid.  How the government must delight in being given millions of US dollars to combat the coronavirus in CASH.  Imagine, you have been running out of money, there or businesses are not many more parastatals, minesleft to ransack and along comes the coronavirus. What a relief.  

And then there is this whole business of wearing masks.  You have to wear one if you are in your car and you only person in your car otherwise you can get arrested.  Why is everything in Zimbabwe always so extreme?  Other countries, where the virus has really taken hold, have allowed their citizens to do some form of exercise; in Zimbabwe, going for a run is not allowed.

One cannot help wondering if the mask thing is not another way to make money.  When Mnangagwa came to power at the end of 2017, he took the police off the roads immediately.  They were tyrants, exacting large fines from motorists for the smallest of offences.  If anything was going to push people towards revolution, it was them.  Now, slowly, they seem to be coming back.  Where is the fine money going to go?  Who is going to benefit?

Those who call me cynical should cast their minds back to the time when everyone had to change their number plates, at great expense, because someone related to someone in the government owned the company making them.  Remember the third number plate scenario?  Remember having to buy a fire extinguisher for your car and a reflective jacket?  This whole mask scenario smacks of the same thing. It may begin with the directive that even makshift masks are acceptable, but wait for it to start to change:  all masks must be white, all masks must be double-sided . . . all masks should have the Zimbabwean bird embroidered in gold on the left-hand side.  Oh, and there's only one factory that makes them: E.M. Enterprises, trading as Scarfman Industries.

Don't get me wrong.  It's not that I don't think that wearing a mask is a good idea; it's that I am trying to see why the government has made it a legal requirement.  It is using this period to crack down on its citizens and be heavy-handed with them whilst making it look as though they care and evading criticism from other countries.  To the international community, they make themselves look like a responsible government dealing swiftly with the coronavirus but behind the scenes there is far more to this than meets the eye.

April 30

I wake to the lovely sound of soft rain falling.  It is 5.15am and dark, but I get up and go outside to see if anything needs moving into the shelter of the veranda.  It is so nice to feel the rain, although it dries up by midmorning.  

In the afternoon, I make rock buns with Ellie.  We substitute the raisins with lemon rind which is very nice. The positive side to not having certain ingredients is that it does encourage you to use different ones.  

Lately, we have tried making heavy English puddings to fill us up at supper time.  My favourite is bread and butter pudding, although bread is not very cheap.  This was my favourite comfort food when I was at university.  In my second year, I shared a house with three other girls and we must have made it two or three times a week.  It was ideal to eat in front of the television on cold winter nights.  John sometimes makes a steamed pudding with jam which is lovely with custard.  Last week, he found a very ancient recipe for something called Hatted Kit.  It goes like this:

Warm slightly over the fire two pints of buttermilk.  Pour it into a dish and carry it to the side of a cow.  Milk into it about one pint of milk, having previously put into the dish sufficient rennet for the whole.

It ends with the words: This dish can quite well be made without milking the cow into it, although direct milking puts a better "hat" on the kit.

Tonight, however, in the absence of a ready cow, he makes rice pudding.  It is cooking away in the oven with the baked potatoes I am making when the electricity goes off.  It does not come on for the rest of the night so we have 'Mostly Baked Potatoes' for dinner and go to bed early.

April 29

Sian and Ellie decide to bath the dogs.  We haven't any dog shampoo so they use some of those little bottles of complimentary shampoo you get in hotels and never use.  Rolo now smells of Fleur de Paris and Tallulah of Affinity.

At midday, John decides to take Sian and Ellie for a ride.  I don't understand this logic as it is quite hot so I suggest they go out later, but John insists. Mad dogs and Englishmen.

I must admit to breaking the lockdown rules by taking the dogs for a walk.  There is no way we would have survived five weeks at home without them ever going out. We would have had some sort of insurrection, a kind of Animal Farm scenario.  We would have been overthrown and Rolo and Tallulah would currently be running the house, sleeping in our beds, eating spaghetti bolognaise and watching Downton Abbey.  No, we have just had to take them out. I don't see the problem at all and people and animals do need exercise. You will interact with far more people at the shops.

Here's the strange thing.  I don't think I have ever come across so many people out walking their dogs, riding their bikes or going out for family strolls. It's quite incredible what a lockdown can do to bring everyone out of the woodwork.

April 28

Two things happen today concerning masks.

First of all, our wi-fi runs out so I try to renew it online, paying with Ecocash.  It all goes fantastically well and I receive a message on my phone to say that payment has been made.  However, the internet does not work.  I try all the usual tricks like switching off the modem and restarting my laptop.  Then I move to stage two: I try shaking the modem and turning it upside down.  I try stage three: praying, doing a rain dance and leaving sacrifices at its feet, but nothing works so I get in the car and drive down to TelOne.

TelOne are taking social distancing so seriously, you cannot even park in the car park.  Instead, you have to park on the side of the road.  As it is on a bend, more people are likely to be killed crossing the road to get to the office than are likely to get COVID-19, but this has not stopped TelOne getting tough with the virus.  I am told I am not allowed in as I don't have a mask.

'Well, ' I say, 'I wouldn't be here at all if you had a system that worked.  I would be sitting at home, wouldn't I? Nice and safe, away from everyone, but, no, here I am, out on the frontline. I don't think I have ever managed to properly recharge the internet online.  There is always a problem.'

The guard looks nervously at me.

'Anyway,' says the TelOne man, 'we're closed.'

'Closed?'

'We close at 1pm.'

I realise it is time for negotiation a smile and a softened tone of voice.  Eventually, he tells the guard to write down my 'issue' in the back of his notebook. He then tears it out and takes it inside the office. A few minutes later he phones:

'Are you still there?' he asks.

'Yep. Sitting in my car,' I answer as chirpily as possible.

'I think I have sorted everything out.  Go home, switch off your modem and restart.'

'Are you sure sure?'  I envisage more rain dances.

'I am sure.'

And sure enough, it works when I get home.

Second scenario.  I need to go into a shop that won't let you in without a mask.  I don't have a mask, but I have a scarf so I wrap it round my mouth and nose and Ellie does the same with a scarf of hers.  We look like bank robbers from the days of the wild west so when we go inside the shop, I joke with the cashier that I have come to rob them.  She does not even look my way and carries on scanning items.  

I try again.  No response - and then she starts talking to me about schools reopening and how children are getting bored.  When we get back in the car, Ellie tells me she couldn't hear a word I was saying, only some sort of muffled noise.  I think I'll have to invest in a proper mask if I am to hold up the shop successfully.  I'll be back.