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They are arriving. The balls of energy, that light up my life and any space that they enter into, are in the air, bound for Harare International Airport. Catherine tells me she is worn out and is looking forward to checking into a spa; is there one in Harare? Now that is a good question, if you like spas, but spas are not my thing, and I’m very busy trying to make the house vaguely presentable, with some finishing touches, like mattresses and blankets.
I locate a Lebanese mattress shop that sells nothing but mattresses, and just inside the door is a pile of what the salesman tells me are special, high density foam rubber mattresses. I decide these are just what I need and tell him I will take four. He then informs me that they have already been sold. I ask him if the whole pile of 20 mattresses has been sold or just the four, I want? No, the whole pile has been sold. Does he have any more high density mattresses? No, all the rest are ordinary foam. I wonder, to myself, why he bothered to extol the virtues of a high density mattress when he knew I wasn’t going to be able to buy one. There is an obvious reason why high density mattresses exist. If you weigh more than 50 kg, the standard foam mattress compresses to nothing and you are reduced to the origin of the word, which is the Arabic word “matrah”, meaning something thrown on the floor. The irony that the owner is Arab, is not lost on me. The low-density versions do have one advantage, I can squeeze two singles into the car and a double on the roof. There is no time for a delivery service.
Time seems to have slipped by and we haven’t quite completed the thatching, which was the bare minimum before Catherine and children’s arrival. Thus the spa is starting to look like a solution. The children will be happy, excited even, to see the tree house, in whatever state, but I have a feeling Catherine might need to acclimatise first. Children are amazing, they are so adaptable and open to anything new. How do we lose that capacity when we become adults?
Incidentally, I would like to revert to the mattress salesman, I may have given you the impression that he was, also, of Arabian roots. He was not – he was an African. There is more to this phenomenon, which I have encountered before in Zimbabwe, and can best describe as politeness. This story might give more detail without shedding much light.
On an occasion, while traveling around Zimbabwe, in the 90’s, we had the pleasure of dining at a hotel in the Eastern Highlands. We were guided to a table in an empty dining room, with white tablecloths and wooden paneling. The waiter presented us with the menus, impressively bound in red leather. After browsing the numerous options, I decided to pass on the entrée and have the steak, while my dining companion opted for the fish. When we gave the waiter our orders, he informed us that neither the fish, nor the steak were available, tonight. The tonight was implied, rather than spoken. We then went for a second option and again they were also not available. I suggested to the waiter that perhaps he could save us some time and further disappointment, by telling us what was, in fact, available, tonight. With a big smile he said that the sadza and nyama was available and pointed it out on the menu. Sadza and nyama, a traditional dish, enjoyed by many on a daily basis, was the only meal available. For some reason, still not entirely clear to me, we were given menus,
I’m on my way to the airport, in rush hour traffic, when I decide that perhaps we should stay one night with my sister and family, before going “into the wild “. It turns out this is a wise decision ,on my part, Catherine is, indeed, in need of a break from the demands of three children, who all want her attention, most of the time. So ,after one last night in civilization, Mila, Ella , Oscar and I head for the tree house, while Catherine remains in the suburbs of Harare, for a few days rest. Not at a spa, but certainly peaceful.
This is what we had dreamed about, being free and in the wild, with a fire for cooking, straight out of one of our story books. A house in the forest, with silence and lots of space all around us. Later, when the hotter days arrive, the forest will be filled with the sound of cicada beatles, from the moment the sun comes over the horizon, until it sets.
For now it was silent but for the nightjar calls in the night.
At this stage we don't have a stove, of any description. So, we make a fire when we want to cook and that in itself is a ritual. Everything takes more time when you don’t have “mod-cons”, but if you have time, you can make a plan..
Perhaps the root of it all is that it’s a new way of life, that is an old way of life. There is a nostalgia to it, for me, we know that in the past it was always like this. Water didn’t magically become hot and light didnt happen at a flick of a switch. There was a lot more dust and good old-fashioned dirt around. Om that note, there certainly is now, looking at my childrens’ faces and hands. They don’t mind and neither do I.
The greatest freedom, in this adventure, is in the childrens' minds. They climb all over the roof, explore the woods and play. Each day they wake up, fresh and ready for whatever the day has to offer. They are in every moment with joy and tears and everything in between. What a pleasure it is to be with them. We are home.