The Third World as seen from the saddle

Zimbabwe’s Coronavirus crisis of 2020 reminds me a lot of my first ride on the Luna Park’s Roller Coaster of Death. It wasn’t actually called that, my older brother Kees came up with the name. I was about 8 at the time. Kees told me some kid in Bulawayo died when the G Forces ripped the flesh from his face. And another kid also died, after vomiting out his spleen and his colon. I didn’t want to go on it, but Kees told me tough luck, it was one of those mandatory, rites of passage things, like male circumcision with a rusty razor blade, just more sore.

Oh, woe was me. The Roller Coaster of Death was due to debut in the August school holidays, during the Agricultural Show. For months before, I went to bed with white knuckles and wide eyes. You try sleep with wide eyes. Consequently, come the dreaded day, I was knackered and a shadow of my former self. My only remaining hope was that I failed the minimum height rule. I inched forward in the queue, miserable, with bottom firmly puckered and senses heightened, which is a bummer when you’re trying hard to be short. I hunkered down in my shoes and stepped up to measuring stick, and curses, it was rigged. Even short six- year olds were deemed tall enough to die. Doomed, I filed forward to take up my seat in the carriage. My brave face slipped, and almost my lunch. Next to me, brother Kees rued hot dogs for lunch. The safety man came to strap us in. Crap. No shoulder harnesses, just a woefully inadequate, skinny metal tube lap bar that didn’t sound like it clicked properly into place. And then before I could ask the safety guy to check it again, we were off, hurtling to certain death, albeit slowly. I slammed my eyes shut and got my involuntary, high pitched scream out the way before I started vomiting hot dogs, spleens and colons, and before the G-forces started ripping flesh from my face. I waited, and waited, and waited some more, seemingly for 5 weeks, but still nothing. I opened half an eye and it turned out the Roller Coaster of Death was more like my mom’s Renault 4, but without the funny gear knob and not as exciting.

Zimbabwe’s Coronavirus crisis is likewise turning into a non-event. Five long weeks after shutting down our entire economy, we’ve got 4 people dead and 32 odd confirmed cases. Ah, I hear you say, obviously government’s bold and decisive move to enforce social distancing quickly has paid off. Bollocks. Sardines in cans have more leg room than commuters in our mini-busses and five weeks into the pandemic, and Harare’s main infectious diseases hospital still isn’t open, because the nurses still haven’t got masks, or running water in the wards. And to give you further insight into our preparedness, while all the research in the world tells us the virus has an incubation period of 14 days, our government has cut mandatory quarantine for Zimbabweans returning home from virus hotspots down to just 7 days, because they can’t afford to feed them for the extra week. Which is like a condom company saving money on rubber by leaving off the bit at the end of the condom.

No one can tell me why our little bit of Africa seems to be dodging this bullet. I’m going with God feeling sorry for us because our hands are already full, dealing with cholera, typhoid, hyperinflation, ninety percent unemployment, blah blah blah, and also don’t forget stupid. Whatever the reason, long may it continue. But when it is finally over and all behind us, it will be more a case of us looking back on how we survived the lockdown, more than the virus.

To celebrate 5 weeks in lockdown, Chuck ate a plastic 20-liter bucket yesterday. He ate the whole bucket, apart from the handle, which is a pity because I might have been able to pick up his pooh by the handle, instead of by the shovel full, which would have been a pleasant change, and in lockdown any change is like a holiday. Maybe the handle idea is something for dog food manufacturers to muse about, along with mainlining Dettol and swallowing ultraviolet light.

Five weeks into lockdown, we still haven’t found the remote for the DVD player. We now think Chuck has also eaten that. But we have figured out how to switch the DVD on using the buttons on the front of the device. But that turned out to be a moot point anyway, because Jenny flat out refuses to watch Borat, Dumb and Dumber, Friends Seasons 1 through 10, The Star Wars Trilogy, and the other Star Wars Trilogy.( I don’t think Sixlogy is a word, but it should be.) Instead and to keep the peace, I’ve watched many, many edge of the seat cookery programs in which Australians cook broccoli seven ways. Thankfully Jenny also entertained this week by retching non-stop at the thought of having to eat a raw egg. The Old Legs Tour got roped into a Raw Egg and Booze Shot challenge that has got South Africa upchucking. For those of you who think I’m exaggerating Jenny’s ability to retch, please be referred below to the gripping extract from Running Dogs and Rose’s Children, available on Amazon -

… I was halfway up the stairs when I heard the violent, gut heaving, retching behind me. I rushed back down the stairs. Jenny was doubled over next to Daniel’s bed.
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” I cried.
“Daniel’s done a pooh nappy!!” Jenny gagged.
“A what?” I wasn’t up to speed on child terminology.
“He’s shat in his nappy!!”
“But…but… isn’t that normal? Isn’t that what two-year-old kids are supposed to do?”
“Not like this!! Not huge like this!!” Jenny blurted between retches. “And what’s worse, he’s grabbed the crap with both hands. And he’s wiped it everywhere!! He’s got it all over the place!! On the blankets!! On him!!! On me!!! He’s even got it on the bloody walls!!!”
“But why did you let him do that? Why didn’t you just stop him?”
“I was busy trying to wipe his bum clean like you’re supposed to do.” More gags. More retching. “I was looking for some more of those wet wipe things, and when I looked around, he was grabbing the shit with both hands and wiping it all over the bloody place.”
“Shhh!!! We said we weren’t going to swear in front of the children.”
“We said that before the children started grabbing fistfuls of shit and
rubbing it on the walls and bedclothes and everywhere.”
As Jenny spoke between her heaves, Daniel reached for another handful of crap and daubed the nearest wall happily. Jenny’s stomach had a point. Daniel’s shit really stank. My stomach heaved in sympathy. It didn’t do foul stenches either….

However, I digress, back to the Old Legs Raw Egg Challenge. More than half the video entries are now in. The standard of production has been extremely high and the Best Movie Oscar could go to any number of people, although allegations of cheating have been leveled against CarolJoy for the illegal use of sex appeal and allure, ditto Jenny for the imaginative use of a body double to down the egg. Not to put any pressure on them but I eagerly await submissions from Bruce Fivaz now 3 weeks into his epic production in KZN, and Al Watermeyer, reportedly foraging for a moose egg on location in Toronto.

The other thing that is keeping us sane in lockdown is getting out and about helping pensioners and Old Age homes cope, not so much with Coronavirus, but with the state of Zimbabwe in general. Thanks to our generous donors, last week we were able to deliver eggs, meat, chicken vegetables, bread and milk. And this week thanks to the Cheeseman, we can add cheese to the menu. And a huge big well done to Jenny for baking 2 birthday cakes, 1 with 64 candles, and the other with 86 candles.

Our list of old age homes needing urgent help has gown longer by 5. Thankfully the Rafiki Network have stepped up to the plate and will help us deliver. They have asked me to put out an appeal for pasta, sugar, cooking oil, canned foods, etc, etc. Please, let me know if you can help them. Also, a big shout out to Nigel Upton in the US for digging deep, ditto Finola Rayner on Vancouver Island in Canada. Thank you, thank you, thank you. The various account details you can use will follow the blog. Plus Dave will put them up on www.oldlegstour.co.zw. God knows we will need the help, both now and post Corona.

Around the world, governments are now starting to shift focus to reviving their tattered economies post Corona. Lucky fishes like Donald and Boris will spend trillions, while Cyril in South Africa will throw some 500 Billion at his economy. Back in Zimbabwe though, we’re still trying to borrow the US 220 million we need to fight Corona in the first place.

In the interests of efficiencies, and to show we can multitask, we’re also asking for US$955,67 million for Food insecurity, US$20,8 million for Social protection, US$75 million for Education, US$37 million for Health, US$469 million for Agriculture, US$34 million for Water, sanitation and hygiene, US$13,87 million for Nutrition, US$2,473 million for Irrigation infrastructure and livestock multiplication, US$151,25 million Shelter and logistics, US$64,1 million for Wildlife and livestock hay baling. Apparently 7.7 million people in Zimbabwe are needing urgent food assistance, plus 1,7 million requiring nutritional supplements, plus a further 1,7 million requiring social protection, and in agriculture, 1,8 million people are in need of assistance, whilst the number of people needing assistance in education stands at 3,21 million, and those who require health support is 12,2 million. But other than all of that, we look to be in good shape going forward. I’m thinking Cyril might need up his 500 Billion to include the cost of a bigger, stronger fence. Alas.

In closing, finally, finally, the bicycle bit of the blog. Because my new replacement derailleur is still winging its way from Europe by kind favour of brother-in-law Tim and DHL, I have been trapped inside on my stationary bike. Until Carl Wilson offered up the use of his spare bike, a sexy go-faster Scott that weighs not a lot. I grabbed the offer with both hands and escaped off into the bush for the first time in 2 weeks, and in so doing was finally able to figure out why Carl rides so much faster than me. Apart from his legs going round around quicker than mine, Carl goes faster on his bike mostly because of his saddle. It is a skimpy little hard-arsed racing saddle that makes you feels like you’re riding around with a permanent wedgie stuck up your bum. It’s simple. You ride faster, so that you can get to where you are going sooner, so that you can get off the bloody thing.

Unfortunately, I didn’t wait until the customary end of the ride to get off the bike and dismounted at speed halfway through instead, whilst stupidly trying to film one handedly, and busted some ribs in the process. Luckily, they only hurt when I laugh, cough or breathe. Basically, it’s all Alan Rheeder’s fault, and Coronavirus, and Mark Johnson for selling me a bike with a dodgy derailleur. But looking for positives as is my want, I have learnt a valuable lesson. If you feel that you are about to fall whilst filming on your bike, it is imperative that you stop filming immediately, otherwise you will capture the fall on film, and that is even more painful that the fall itself. Chances are I will be grumpy off the bike for three or four weeks to come. Which should leave me just enough time to get ready before we leave for the Skeleton Coast on June the 24th. Borders permitting, that is our new start date. Fingers crossed.

Sorry for another blog longer than lockdown. Until the next one, stay safe, sane, and help others if you can.

Eric Chicken Legs de Jong.

Photos below – Carl’s saddle, Happy Birthday Andrew and two headlines from yesterday.