Chatting with Chissano.

The hall filled up fast, we were graciously led to our tables and proceedings went ahead without the lengthy delays one experiences in Zimbabwe. We were there in honour of President Chissano (Mozambique's President). He took to the floor, casually dressed, from afar he looked like a diminutive version of Nelson Mandela. He was extending goodwill to all foreign investors. Unfortunately, all the speeches were in Portuguese and fairly lengthy. Each time I thought Mr. Chissano was winding down to a grand finale he would wiggle his hands in the air and launch once again into rapid Portuguese. Just as I was about to nod off there was a deafening round of applause and he weaved his way through the crowd back to his seat. Dinner was announced and there was a mad scramble to sample the buffet. After a lengthy wait Pat and I ventured up to see what was on offer. It seemed to cater for all tastes. I cast a wary eye into an enormous pot and had to retreat with horror Goodness was that a Goat's head!!. I hastily returned to the table with Pat rapidly following me. Neither of us are that adventurous when it comes to local cuisine. 

I noticed Bert Hill at the next table had thought ahead and was tucking into a pre -ordered feast of grilled langoustines washed down with Chivas Regal. He very sweetly proffered his bottle and made us join him and we drank lots of whisky and reminisced about the good old days. Chissano and his entourage were now at the meet and greet stage, they arrived at our table. He took my hand in his, a flashbulb popped,the Portuguese greeting that I had practiced all night flew right out of my head, I looked at him in bewilderment and then in desperation burst out. Mr. Chissano you have a lovely shirt on. He beamed his delight and thanked me profusely and then they all swept past to the next table. We all filed out and headed for the London Pub Chimoio's famous watering hole run by the saucy Cecelia. We left in the early hours of the morning feeling the worse for wear. 

The next morning we were up with the birds and headed off down the Catandika road to look at a farm to see if it was suitable for paprika production. We passed fat bellied piccanins, goats, turkeys, little stalls fully stocked selling the most amazing array of groceries. Pyramids of bright yellow bananas and big round watermelons were arrranged in huge mounds. Two small black pigs crossed the road at high speed and then a tiny brown and white pig followed at a trot. I was just about to tell Pat to stop so I could scoop the little piggywig up and take it back to the Bvumba when I had a sudden vision of Lyn Evan's monster, giant pig. She had bought a tiny little piggy when they were coming back from a trip and had persuaded Dave her husband to take it home to love and cherish. Well you would reel back rigid with shock if you could see the size of him now. So I dismissed the thought immediately. 

Our journey ended as we crossed a wooden bridge and bumped down a surprisingly good dirt road onto the most beautiful farm I think I have ever seen. Huge Prince of Wales's trees towered above us and lush vegetation was everywhere. The river flowed strongly and the sun shone through the trees and the smell of Africa was everywhere. Our farmer told us he had to be back in town at 12 noon as he had an urgent meeting. Unfortunately one of his tractors had broken down so he suddenly had to grab his tools and set to work on it. I could see he was agitated and I eventually discovered why. After the tractor was put back together the farmer came to the window of the car and looked at me anxiously. Are you a Nursing Sister he enquired?. I looked at him stunned and then burst into hysterical laughter. Sorry, I am not I replied. I am rather pathetic with sick people as a matter of fact, ask Pat?, but then looking at his crestfallen face I quickly asked if he was not feeling well. He then confided that he had Malaria and he was on a course of injections he should have been at the hospital at 12. Is that all, I sighed with relief. Please don't worry Pat will do it, he is marvellous with injections, he injects horses and cattle all the time. I smiled at Pat proudly. Pat looked slightly taken back by my enthusiasm then grudgingly admitted that he probably would be able to manage it. Our farmer paled visibly. Where do you have it I said brightly. He gestured shyly towards his rear. In no time at all we had him bent over, the syringe was filled, Pat whacked it in and a blood curdling yell echoed hauntingly through the trees. No it wasn't the farmer silly, it was me I hate injections.

Mandy Retzlaff
Bvumba
Zimbabwe