The Third World as seen from the saddle

I was a member of the Allan Wilson Under 13 C cricket team briefly, for just one match, which is how long it took the Sports Master to work out I was more of a bullshitter, than a bowler. I was in the team for my bowling prowess, either spin or pace, depending on what the ball did after it left my hand. But what I really wanted to be was a batsman, even if that meant sharing the one and only team cricket box, a box more suited to an under 11 side. Because I was on the team sheet as a bowler, and also because I was crap at batting, I batted down at number 11. So, by the time I got to don the box, besides being tiny inside, it was also really sweaty. But there was one lucky fish member of our team who owned his very own cricket box. It was a very splendid device, opulently padded and with room enough inside for all his man bits, or more like his boy bit,s because we were only under 13 at the time, allowing him to stride out to the crease with confidence, freedom and a smug look on his face, as opposed to crabbing awkwardly and painfully like the rest of us. The rest of the team were hugely jealous of the smug bastard and but for the fact he was also a big bastard, we’d have filled his cricket box with itchy powder, given half the chance.

I see the same smug look on the faces of those in Harare that are lucky enough to Have Masks, while the poor, unfortunate Haven’t Got Masks look on jealously, vulnerable like a tortoise without a shell. Just a week after Zimbabwe’s first reported death, Harare has gone from being sceptical to being scared. Those in the formal sector have embraced face masks and hand sanitizers and social distancing with queues that stretch outside the door and around the corner with everyone two metres apart, like the person next to you just farted. But the informal sector, not so much. When you live cheek to jowl, 8 people crammed into a 2-roomed house and you have to jostle for your place in the mealie meal queue, I guess the importance of social distance gets lost on you. And trying to find a dollar to pay for today’s $25 loaf of bread is a problem way more pressing than buying a $40 disposable face mask so that you can also look smug, and safe.

Driving home the other day in traffic, I thought I saw some evidence of social distancing in a commuter minibus. There were two men standing outside on the back bumper in traffic at 100 k.p.h., clinging to the rear windscreen wiper as though their lives depended on it, which it did. But I got that wrong. One guy was a half-fare passenger and the other was the conductor, having to stand in the cheap seats because of the twenty full fare customers crammed inside his bus, more than a few of whom would be pharmacy sales clerks, rushing to get to work to enforce the strictly two meters apart rule. Alas.

And whilst we’re on the subject of Have’s and Have Not’s, you want to know what Zimbabweans think when they hear Boris Johnson telling Sky News that his government will pay company grants equal to 80% of their wage bill, up to GBP 2500 per month, to stop them from laying people off. In Zimbabwe in the week following our first Coronavirus death, government doctors and nurses have downed tools yet again, for the umpteenth time, because they don’t get paid a living wage in the first place. We also turn the TV on and watch with amazement as China build a 2500 bed hospital from scratch in just a week. We’re right at the other end of that spectrum. Just a week after staging the country’s first Coronavirus death, Zimbabwe’s main infectious diseases hospital got closed down for renovations. That the renovations are badly needed was hammered home brutally when Patient Zero died, because his room didn’t have a working plug socket to operate the portable ventilator that his family had to beg and borrow, because the country’s main infectious diseases hospital, where all suspected Coronavirus patients get sent to for isolation and treatment, has zero working ventilators. And now zero doctors also. Alas.

And staying with the subject of Have’s and Have Not’s, in the same week that the Wilkins Hospital got shut down, on the other side of town in Harare’s leafy northern suburbs, at 92 Norfolk Rd, Mt Pleasant to be more precise, workers are working flat out around the clock to get a Fancy Pants private hospital, apparently strictly reserved for members of the ruling elite only, up and running and fully equipped before Zimbabwe’s Coronavirus curve spikes in earnest. Alas. In my last blog, I reported a zero-strategy strategy for Coronavirus. But in this blog, at least we now have a strategy, mostly thanks to Cyril Ramaphosa. Our guy does whatever Cyril does, just a week later. We’re now also locking down for three weeks, although in our Coronavirus strategy, we’re not building any border walls, to keep Zimbabweans out.

Personally, our three weeks will be very long, because we’re sharing lockdown space with Chuck, our 9-month-old Great Dane cross Horse. Chuck is grown up all legs, feet and no ears. He’s grown up quickly. Because of his growth spurt, on the 15th of July last year, Chuck stood 15 cm at the shoulder, fast forward nine months and he now stands at 90 cm, Chuck feels the need to have something in his mouth at all times, preferably food, but when he is out of food, he’s happy to substitute, either with someone’s shoes, Wallace’s head, or the cat, as in the entire cat. Consequently, the most commonly shouted phrase in our house is “Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, stop it!!!” Because this is a family blog, I’ve left out the expletives. Now 3 weeks of Chuck getting shouted weeks will drive us more nuts than Chuck drives us in the first place. So, Jenny has decided on a ‘Don’t Shout at Chuck’ rule during the lockdown. Apparently, we’re allowed to talk to him sternly, but strictly no shouting. I tried to point out to Jenny that Chuck not having ears could be considered a major shortcoming in her strategy, but she shouted me down. Fast forward to lunch time on Day One, most of us are barefoot, not by choice, Wallace’s head is soaking wet having spent the morning deep down Chuck’s throat, next to his epiglottis, the cat is on life number eight and is seriously considering going feral, and Molly, Chuck’s mom, is now an advocate of birth control. Suffice to say, it will be a long, long lock down.

To help me negotiate three weeks of lockdown with Chuck, and to help me through the Namib Desert on my bike if and when we get there, my son Gary gifted me three albums of Five Finger Death Punch, an American rock band who don’t do love songs. I already had some of their music on my phone, but not enough to get me through the Namib Desert, which is properly big. For fear of bursting my ear drums, I’ve deleted those tracks where the drummer and the guitarist woke up angry, playing different songs. And because granddaughter Cailyn sometimes listens to my music on headphones, I’ve censored the tracks in which the lyricist is especially sexually fixated on his mom. On the subject of the band’s mothers, I’m guessing that all of them went very grey, very early.

I’m determined that we’re still going to ride to the Skeleton Coast at the end of May, come hell or Coronavirus. I managed just 2 training rides this last week, because Adam broke my bike. On Wednesday, he dragged me down into the Mazoe Valley in the middle of a cloud burst. Very quickly, the conditions went from firm under foot to under water. And it got worse. The Mazoe Valley has deep red soils that stick like crazy when wet, and we went from riding on 29-inch wheels to 32-inch wheels in no time. Then we’d have to stop to scrape the mud off as best we could. It was like riding through thick wet concrete, just more stodgy. 30 km from home and despite the finest Allan Wilson education, I discovered that the derailleur on my bike is harder to fix, than it is to spell, especially when buried deep in heavy red mud, like about 30 kgs heavy. Alas. Alas, the derailleur buckled and bent under the weight of the mud, and then stopped working completely, leaving me to slog out on foot. Adam says he thinks Mark Johnson sold me a pup, but that was just him trying to deflect the blame. To try and repair the damage, Adam rode ahead to meet Linda in the car and delivered me home. The security gate at our main farm gate was bemused to say the least, when Adam and I, covered in red mud from head to toe, stopped to wash our hands at the Coronavirus wash station. She was thinking we should’ve gone to the dip tank instead.

My second bike ride out to Blackfordby, after emergency repairs had been affected, was less eventful. I’m hoping that my training rides aren’t disrupted by the lockdown. I’m currently writing my third book, a novel called ‘War and other Social Diseases – A love story, sort of’ on my bike on a Dictaphone. I find writing on my bike easier than in front of any empty computer screen. But if I have to do my writing on my stationary bike instead, because of the Coronavirus lockdown, my novel will read rude like the lyrics on Five Finger Death Punch’s greatest hits. Whilst on the subject of my books, I’m hoping to get my second book ‘The Third World as seen from the saddle – the Cape Town to Kilimanjaro Blogs’ out by July. Back to back and with lots of stunning photos, the blogs make for good reading, even if I say so myself.

The Old Legs will have other stuff to keep us busy in lockdown. We’ve adopted 44 pensioners who live around Harare, outside of Retirement facilities, plus a couple of Retirement Homes that are really struggling financially. We phone them up every couple of days to see if they have any health issues, to see if they’ve run out of foods or medicines, which we will deliver, police roadblocks permitting. Because Coronavirus is so very highly contagious, we’re keeping visits to the bare minimum, strictly observing all the protocols at all times. So far, so good and the pensioners are loving the social contact, even if it is mostly by phone. It is good to know that there are people out here who care.

And the 72 lucky fish pensioners who get the blankets made for them by the Yarn Barn in Chisipite, will hear the message about caring people especially loud. A brief recap- the Yarn Barn challenged the community at large to knit at least 1 blanket square for every kilometre that we rode to Mt Kilimanjaro. After seeing the blankets and the joy they have brought, I just wish we’d ridden further. Big shout outs to all those who contributed squares to make the blankets, especially Nicola Johnson and her UK Church Group, Lesley Stead, Lyn Terry, Joanne Hulley, Heidi Oates, Lindsay Olivier, Anne Allatt, Fira Bache, Geraldine Melrose, S. Baisley, Anne White, Lisa Amira, Lindsay Macleod, Freda Burroughs, Fidelma Thoma, Tania Webster, Liezel Crawford, the O’Donovan Family especially young Conor, Pearl Corbett, Mary-Anne Smit, Pam Fawcett, Wilma, Amy Hind, Darleen du Toit, Kim Stubbs, Megan Page, Chisipite Senior School Interact, Chisipite Lower 6th Form, Linda Lamb, the ladies of Bulawayo Self Help Program, Rose Brent, Coral Lawrence, Delvine Allen, Kirsty Valentine, Almora Jacobz, Rosemary Precious, Fiona Long, Annesu Taruona, the Needlework Guild ladies, Janice Bessel, Irene, Bev Lowe, Fran Largesse, Shelagh Brown, Medina Abdula, Jackie Erasmus, Jenny Zartman, Babs Worswick, Mrs Long, Rene Dollar, Hester Fulton and last but not least, the ladies of Green Meadow Country Estate in Hillcrest, KZN who scored a copy of Running Dogs and Rose’s Children as a prize. Here’s hoping the Yarn Barn carry their challenge over to this year’s Skeleton Coast 2020.

Sorry for a blog almost as long as lock down. Until the next one, stay safe and shake hands with your feet

Eric Chicken Legs de Jong.

Photos below – Chuck not getting off the furniture despite stern talking to, blankets, blankets, and more blankets, and some of the lucky fish recipients, social distancing on the bus, red mud, an example of really bad timing and a mealie meal queue in Harare.