82
winter
|
spring
T
he path to Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe was eerily quiet. The last time I was here
was in 1994. I recall running to and from one of the Seven Natural Wonders of
the World, to avoid encounters with the cornucopia of street hustlers, beggars, and
scam artists. I remember finally trading my T-shirt for a hippo carving. Twenty years later, those
streets were silent, but the hippo carving remains on my bookshelf.
I brought my wife, Lori, this time and expected the streets to be much worse, with
a country in the midst of a downward economic and political spiral. Yet, only one man
approached us, his scraggly salt-and-pepper beard and tattered clothing accentuated the
desperation in his dark eyes.
“Where are you from?” he asked calmly. “I’m an American from California,” I told him.
“Why do you come here?” he asked, curiosity beaming.
I told him I’d been here before, that I’ve been traveling back and forth to Africa for 25 years.
I said Zimbabwe was a beautiful country, maybe a little forgotten, and certainly misunderstood.
The man in his late 30s was all smiles from that point forward, grateful we had traveled to
his country and ignoring all the negative media reports about this Southern African nation.
“Please tell others to come,” he said, and then he was gone, making his way on a game trail
shared by Zimbabweans and elephants alike.
