Homecoming

I gaze out of the window and see people, some in white coats coming and going through the large double glass doors. A blue uniformed attendant wheels a chair under the shady oaks, pausing next to a flower bed to allow the occupant of the chair to admire the blooms. I see the attendant bending down so as to hear what is being said and then carefully picking a large Chrysanthemum bloom and handing it, like a newly discovered treasure, to the person in the chair. Others stroll to the edge of the small lake, some alone, others with a blue uniformed attendant, sitting on the brightly painted benches and throwing bread crusts to the ducks. The willows create a verdant curtain, the weeping bright green tendrils reaching for the lake reflecting in the cerulean blue water, a tapestry of hues dotted with plate size water lilies dotted with purple and white flowers. Thoughts of Monet's garden in Giverny come to mind with the replica curved bridge and myriad of footpaths weaving alongside flowering beds and shrubs.

I am driving home along a road with two narrow tarmacadam strips stretching ahead of me like two black untidy ribbons dropped onto the wide road carved through the rocky landscape, swathes of blonde grasses brush through the landscape showing tinges of green in the shade of the acacia’s and thorn trees. Masasa trees are a riot of reds, yellows and browns like paint splashes on nature's canvas.

A large dust cloud ahead tells me that a vehicle approaches, I carefully steer to my left allowing two wheels to leave the paved strip with a bump as they release themselves from the raised tarmacadam strips. A bus, its wheel alignment making it appear crablike emerges out of the dust, at the last minute it gives way to me by dropping off the paved strip, tilting dangerously and giving me my right of way. The brightly painted paintwork of the bus is covered in dust, the roof is overloaded with the valuable possessions of its occupants. Tin trunks, suitcases, live chickens in hand woven baskets, rolls of wire, roof sheets, lengths of timber. The passengers crowded together, some with large white and blue striped jute bags on their laps. The tape deck loaded with jive music blaring into the bus and out of the open windows as the bus passes precariously close to me, white teeth showing in broad smiling faces as some of the passengers wave and whistle as they pass by. I am left in a cloud of dust and come to a standstill pulling over to the side of the road as I wait for it to settle and restore my visibility. Large gray bare faced granite outcrops are ahead of me, spindly trees finding moisture and purchase in the crevices.

As I wait for the dust to settle I smell the dry air of dust and grasses through my open window. I look at the massive granite edifice ahead, dwarfing the smaller rocky outcrops and kopjes. This is my beacon telling me that I am nearly home.

The large granite mountain is called Mutemwa or Chigona Mountain and is a sacred place to local tribespeople. It is a place of worship, folklore and mystery. Built in its shadow are ancient rock settlements and in more modern times it has been the place of a leprosy clinic made famous by John Bradburne, a San Franciscan and candidate for sainthood for his work with lepers. Like many pilgrims I had scaled the precarious rockface and discovered the exhilaration of reaching the top and recall standing with companions, arms outstretched as we called the world to order and peace.

Mutemwa looms closer as the strips give way to a 9 foot tarmac surface at the entrance to the small village of Mutoko. To the left a Shell service station and opposite the small police station, the country’s flag gently fluttering in the breeze atop the white flagpole surrounded at the base by white washed rocks and a small cactus garden. Where the road forks and built on a hill, the hotel and trading store under an ancient boab tree. A scattering of dusty pick up vehicles are randomly parked outside the hotel and the pub. A small barefooted boy herds a handful of goats aside as I take a left turn onto the unpaved road which will lead me home.

A woman with a bundle on her head walks beside a man pushing a bicycle, they both wave as I pass by, I slow down to minimise the dust cloud that will follow me and cover them.

I drive past the outbuildings, two large brick buildings, a trading store and warehouse and some small iron sheds. In the yard around them are two five ton Bedford trucks. A small housing settlement with some white washed buildings and a scattering of traditional thatch huts. Chickens scratching in the bare earth and children playing and chasing each other with shrieks of laughter. Adults sit on low stools under the trees and some women pound corn with long poles in carved wooden pestle’s, singing in rhythm with the pounding. I wave out of the window as some children start running beside the car, I pause and hand a bag of sweets to the older child to share out to the others.

Bright red and purple bougainvillea cover the timber arbor marking the entrance to the house, I pass under it and park next to my Dad's pride and joy a 1957 Chev Impala, he hears me arrive and comes down the steps to greet me. He is neatly dressed as he always has, it's his uniform, a bush green short sleeved shirt tucked into a pair of khaki shorts. His beige knee length socks neatly turned over a little below the knee and placed inside a pair of veldskoen. His black shiny hair carefully parted and now tinged slightly with gray. ‘Hello son’ in his familiar Canadian accent, ‘have a good trip, any rain along the way?’ as he follows me to the boot of my car to retrieve my bag.

Inside my Mother standing up hugs me, on the table beside her chair a metal tray with a rose decoration, on it a teapot its spout and handle peeping out of a knitted red and blue tea cozy. Beside the tray, an open overturned book, I note the title, ‘The Cruel Sea’. My Dad was a Canadian Naval officer during World War 2, perhaps he is the one reading it and reliving his Naval years. ‘Go and put your bag down, your room is ready’ she says, squeezing my hand. I walk into the living room which is off the gauzed verandah. Paintings of Tall Sailing Ships adorn the walls, the Murphy radiogram along one wall and a walnut cocktail cabinet in the corner next to my Dad’s chair. A bulky Telefunken television set crouches on a small table under a steel framed window, bright floral curtains hanging down either side, a low teak coffee table in front of the overstuffed settee holds a collection of magazines and a folded newspaper, underneath a leopard skin rug. The room is cool and subdued the wide verandah flanking the house on two sides acting as nature’s air conditioning. I walk down the passage to my room at the end, my sports shoes squeaking on the highly polished red cemented floor.

I drop my bag on the yellow candlewick bedspread, the bulbous green wine bottle lamp with its straw lampshade, slightly tilted as if doffing its hat to me, it stands on the small bedside cabinet, the varnish brush marks clearly visible in the shaft of sunlight. Next to the bed is a sheepskin rug, on the walls a selection of posters and photographs, the swimming team, a certificate of achievement, a movie poster of Elvis in Jailhouse Rock.

Later as the sun sets sitting on the verandah drinking sundowners of Gin and Tonic, Dad asks me to accompany him to the outdoor shed where the Bamford Engine stands, the shed smelling of diesel and leaking oil on the cement floor. I offer to crank the handle to run the generator and after several tries the noisy motor cranks up and the small dusty bare bulb in the shed flickers to life.

‘I have made your favourite for dinner’ Mom says ‘steak and kidney pie.’ Over dinner Dad talks about the business, six trading stores in his chain are spread through the surrounding tribal trust lands and district farms. Mom talks about the rest of the family and how she is looking forward to the birth of her first grandchild from my sister.

At eight o’clock the black and white television set is switched on for the evening news, it lasts for 15 minutes before Rawhide starts.

The next day is Sunday and the club is the local community's weekly gathering place. The farmers in the district gather all dressed in their khaki, some proudly displaying their extended bellies as they order beer and reach into the bowls of crisps, peanuts and biltong spread across the bar. Others all dressed in whites play tennis on the brown packed earth court. Children play in the pool, others running around with packets of crisps and bottled cokes. Near the pool three 44 gallon drums cut in half and mounted on steel cradles burn logs to a red glow under the meshed grates. Boerwors and Steak sizzle as a couple of red faced farmers take their turn to mind the carnivore lunch. The ladies at a gingham covered trestle arrange the salads and bread rolls.

The door behind me opens and a tap on my shoulder, Mr Richardon it is time for your medication, my sleeve is pushed up, the velcro crackles as it is pulled apart and the strap is wrapped around my arm, the pressure builds as the monitor does its work. ‘All good here, right your pills.’ a small beaker is handed to me and I tip the two pills into my hand as the other takes the glass of water and I chase the pills down. ‘Supper in 30 minutes’ she says over her shoulder as she leaves my room.

The sun is setting behind the willows and the shadows have darkened the lake and the verdant lawns. I can smell sizzling steak and boerewors as I hear my Dad ‘Drive home safely son and come again soon, we always enjoy your visits home.’