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.