Beit Bridge A Fine Line Between Paranoia & Weariness
A trip to Beit Bridge yesterday was an interesting affair.
The Zimbabwean town showed little sign at first of the pending celebration for President Robert Mugabe’s 84th birthday bash. There were no posters with adulations. Instead, groups of people listlessly sat about, or moved slowly in the streets. The midday atmosphere was dusty and hot. Everyone looked tired. The fridges in a large supermarket stocked no dairy products or cool drinks, and there were few loaves of bread. Local newspapers had not been delivered for two weeks. Old issues of a South African weekly newspaper were still on sale. Another shelf had November issues of magazines on the shelves. The first sign of Mugabe’s birthday came in a side street with lines of ruling party colours leading to a large marquee. But we beat a hasty retreat when a truck loaded with uniformed soldiers pulled up, while two ZANU PF bakkies passed our car along the pockmarked street.
However, the president loomed large at a chain hotel where the dining room was packed with ZANU PF bigwigs and supporters, with some sporting T-shirts supporting Mugabe. The parking lot outside was full of luxury vehicles, while inside a jovial atmosphere prevailed. There was also no evidence of the food shortages that plague the impoverished country. Guests tucked into salads, chicken, beef, rice, pap and vegetables, followed by cake and fruit salad. The hotel has a full bar, stocked with top brands, and guests can even have milk with their tea or coffee - unlike a downtown eatery that had black tea as the sole choice of hot refreshments. People in Beit Bridge were cautious. It soon became apparent that questions were being asked about us, and the realisation that suspicious eyes had tracked our every movement hit home when our car was closely inspected by hotel staff and, later, by a policeman.
Later at the border, as we crossed back into South Africa, an immigration officer queried a form given earlier with our Zimbabwe entry stamps that specified a same-day return. “And why did they give you this?” she asked. Such forms are given to people that authorities had suspicions about, like journalists and artists, we were told. So even though we had entered as tourists, it became clear that we had been fingered as journalists at least three times: once in SA and twice in Zimbabwe. Driving back into Musina, a massive unbranded billboard called for Zimbabweans to return home and vote. “We know why you’re in SA. Life in Zimbabwe is murder these days. Just remember your country still needs you. Come home at election time and vote for freedom,” it read.
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