Whereas it is common among people who work for the same organizations to share lunch hours together, a group of men working around Newlands shopping center have crafted it differently. Men from different organisations, including some vendors, gather under a tree close to the Caltex Service Station, eating and chatting.

Stories that make people laugh range from political jokes, social issues and the general teasing of each other.

Surprisingly, very few people know each other by name but the regular gatherings have developed enough trust to share information and lend each other a dollar or two. Sometimes strangers appear and their presence influences the type, and depth of stories and jokes of the day.

It is difficult to know how such a group came to be. No one really controls it. Sometimes two men just stand around and some start joining in sharing stories to while away the lunch hour. Usually people stay as long as possible not wanting to be robbed of any fun. In the end we all have to rush to our duties.

It is in these informal groups that one hears the deeper analytical thoughts of those who are usually not heard – those who are usually looked down upon in society, for example airtime vendors, and others who informally sell foot balls and fruits. Last week’s burning issue was polygamy. There was a polygamous man in the group defending his position in the face of criticism.

To understand poverty it is necessary to be among the poor and share with them thoughts and different ways of life, because in turn they open the pages of their lives to you. I am pleased to have joined this group because my perception of how people live has widened.

Pam and Bren, day 3

For what seems like ages, my sister Pam and I have talked about cycling from Harare to my parents’ cottage near Juliasdale in the Eastern Highlands.  Early this year we picked a date, but it came and went and we were no closer to being ready to make the trip.  Since the distance from Harare to the cottage is roughly 250km, we realized that we would need to do a bit of training before setting out on the journey.

We cycle together regularly, meeting early in the morning on a Saturday or Sunday to do a hilly loop that takes about 2hrs.  But riding together once a week hardly seemed adequate for the endeavour – hence more procrastination.  The sad truth is that I’ve been the one holding up the show.

For the last couple of years Pammy has been struggling with a bad back.  The doctor says it’s not going to get better, and in fact it’s amazing how active she is given the shape it’s in.  She does uncountable prostrations as part of her daily Buddhist practice, swims, goes to yoga and Pilates, plays the piano and has recently taken up the violin – never mind looking after a house full of kids.

Anyway, Pam recently decided that with the increasing pain load associated with her back, she’d opt for surgery in early September.  Suddenly our options for cycling together to Juliasdale telescoped down to one or two weekends in July.  Yikes.  Travel and flu had combined to limit my exercise in July and I was suddenly faced with doing this ride less fit than I’d been in awhile.  There was nothing for it but to trust in Muscle Memory!  Hopefully my legs and chest would remember that I’d been quite fit this year.

We were easily convinced that cycling the leg from Harare to Rusape, along the Mutare Road, was for the birds. Instead, to make up a similar distance to our original route, our ride would go as follows:  Day 1: Rusape to the cottage (+- 72km), Day 2: Cottage to Troutbeck and back (+- 80km), Day 3: Cottage to the bottom of Christmas Pass – about 11km out from Mutare (+- 80km).

Garigayi, the bike mechanic

We set out by car from Harare on Thursday July 29th with bicycles and mini support team at the ready – Mum, Dad and Pammy’s husband, Dave.  With the clock ticking down, we made the obligatory stop in Marondera to check in with my aunt Lorraine. Mum and Dad were recently back from a trip to the UK, so there was lots of catching up to be done – in Marondera and during the car trip.

When we finally pulled in at Rusape, it was well after 11am, making it a fairly late start when the two of us got underway at 11.30am.

With bottles of Game juice and pockets full of jelly babies and energy bars, we headed side by side up the long road towards Nyanga.  Day one was blessed with a wintery blue sky and a cool, gentle breeze.  Happily there was very little traffic on the road and we made good progress for a couple of hours.  Our support team met us roughly half way with tea, sandwiches and fruit and Dave joined us to cycle the last couple of hours to the cottage.  We put him to use sooner rather than later when we discovered somewhere along the way that my back tyre was flat.

By the time we reached the turn off to the Pine Tree Inn, the temperature had dropped considerably and we were very happy to be Almost There.  Then a small disaster struck.  Going up a steep bit of dirt road about 1km from the cottage, my chain broke.  We hadn’t planned for that eventuality at all.  I was miserable as we trudged up the long hill to the cottage.  It seemed that nobody had the tools or the know how to fix my chain.  There were still a couple of options, so all was not lost.  Pam is taller than me, and Dave is taller

than Pam, so although we could swap bikes it wasn’t going to be all that comfortable the next day.  The road to Juliasdale had been a fairly hilly 70km+ Up.  The road to Troutbeck would be lots more Up.  Actually, it seems that all the roads in the eastern highlands are a mixture of ups and downs, so relief is usually at the top of the next rise.

According to my partner Bev, cyclists in Le Tour de France are advised to have an ice bath after a long day in the saddle.  My parents have a small pool at their cottage and it was Icy.  Soon after we arrived, Pam and I jumped in and very quickly straight out.

A hot bath and a square meal quickly set us right, and after an early night, we were set to go the next morning.

It's a long way to...

On Friday morning, the blue skies were gone, and in its stead a cloudy grey day with a brisk wind. Not what the doctor ordered for a long hilly ride to Troutbeck and back. The grey weather was completely countered by the wonderful news that a casual labourer working on a project at the cottage knew how to join a broken chain.  With a long nail, a pair of pliers and a hammer, he soon had me and my chain back on my own bike.  Dave had also been busy in the background and had replaced my bald back tyre with a new knobbly one!  You’ve got to love the amazingly practical folk that live around you.

We set off at 9.45am and arrived, thighs burning, at Troutbeck Hotel at 12.45am. We pulled on thermal tops and tracksuit trousers and ducked into the hotel for a cup of tea and a bit of food.  Service was a little slow and whilst we waited, Pammy and I pondered the option of being ferried back to the cottage by car by Dave. Nope! We wanted to do the mileage, And we wanted to cycle Down the long Up we’d cycled earlier.  The ride home was no picnic and by the time we arrived back at the cottage, just after 4.30pm, we were very tired. We had our obligatory freezing plunge and followed the same routine as the night before.

The next morning I was beginning to feel a bit worse for wear.  My little sister’s superior fitness was definitely starting to show.  Never mind her crocked back.  The weather had deteriorated and the mist hung rather low around us.  We hadn’t thought to bring raincoats.  Silly really, because although winters in Zimbabwe are mainly dry, the eastern highlands can be a lot more wet all the year round.  Once again, as luck would have it, someone else saved the day.  My parents had brought their raincoats.  Rather surprising for our forgetful family.  For example, my mum had brought her paints and brushes but left her art paper at home!

Pammy en route to Troutbeck

Pam and I were happy to have Dave join us for the start of Day 3 and we rode off in the cold drizzle together at 9am on Saturday morning.  There were a lot more downs that ups, but be sure that every down had an up at the other end of it!  As you can tell, I wasn’t feeling as perky on Day 3.

Thankfully the drizzle stopped after a couple of hours and the cold day warmed as we dropped height along the road to Mutare.  Acres of pine trees gave way to glorious views of bush and granite kopjes and small scale farms.  Cattle and goats on the side of the roads looked in good condition and commuters plied the road between busy rural business centres.

Dave hopped off his bike and into the support car after about two and a half hours, leaving Pammy and I to finish the journey off together.  About 12km away from our designated end, we started to discuss the possibility of doing the extra Big Up and Down into Mutare.  Christmas Pass is 11km Up and Down into Mutare.  Just then the support car pulled up to check on our progress.  We mentioned our recent thoughts.  Their response was … “It’s enough already!”  They had put their collective feet down after hours of hanging about for us over 3 days of cycling.  And, coincidentally, saved Pammy and me from our Burrell-ness  – enough is never enough if there’s another hill to be climbed.  I suspect they also saved me from a bust gut.  I was done for, even if Pammy still had miles left in her legs.

Your sister’s funeral – always a good time to rant and rave, and mention the word “hell” several times:

Zimbabwe’s Mugabe attacks West at sister’s burial

HARARE, Zimbabwe — Zimbabwe President Robert Mugabe said Sunday the death of his sister robbed him of one of his closest friends and allies in his lifelong fight against colonial era rule and Western dominance in Africa.

In an emotional and angry address at the state funeral of Sabina Mugabe, 80, President Mugabe attacked the West and said after his sister’s death Thursday he will not abandon their cause.

“To hell” with Europeans and Americans opposed to his rule, he said. “We say to hell, hell, hell with them. They will not decide who is going to lead the people of Zimbabwe.”

U.S. Ambassador Charles Ray left the funeral during Mugabe’s address, but later refused to comment on his action.

Sabina Mugabe retired from Parliament in 2008 after a lifetime in politics alongside Mugabe. She was buried at Heroes Acre, a national shrine for loyalist politicians and fallen guerrillas from the liberation war that ended white rule in Zimbabwe in 1980.

Mugabe on Sunday accused the West of imposing sanctions on his nation to force his ouster.

Since a power sharing deal formed a coalition government last year with Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai, the former opposition leader, Zimbabwe has campaigned for the lifting of travel, banking and business bans and other sanctions targeting Mugabe and some 200 of his party leaders and associates.

Mugabe blames Western sanctions for the nation’s economic meltdown. Critics say the often violent seizures of thousands of white-owned commercial farms Mugabe ordered since 2000 disrupted the agriculture-based economy in the former regional breadbasket that now needs food aid.

Mugabe said a “European-American clique” imposed sanctions for their own reasons.

“Europe and America want to keep these odious sanctions. They are now saying Mugabe must go first, and they choose someone to lead the country,” he said.

Sabina Mugabe was among those barred from Western countries. Western governments argue Mugabe has not done enough to honor the power sharing agreement to restore law and order and bring about sweeping democratic reforms.

Mugabe’s sister retired from active politics in 2005 after she suffered a stroke but she remained a constant force at Mugabe’s side and remained in Parliament.

The death Thursday of Robert Mugabe’s most trusted family confidante and associate is a severe blow to the ascetic 86-year-old president, who is often seen as having few close friends or trusted advisors.

- By CHENGETAI ZVAUYA (AP)

This has to be the Movement for Democratic Change at its most pathetic:
MDC Takes Zanu (PF) Jingles Case To Zuma

If you would have told me that I could co-author a book in my mid-twenties a decade ago, I would have laughed you off and told you you were mad!

Ask anyone who knew me as a teenager what I was like and they’ll probably tell you they are a bit surprised I have made something half-decent of myself since.

I was always the moody reclusive one who simply hated everything about me – from my height to my weight to my teeth to my feet to my soul. Nothing looked or felt good. Nothing about me seemed loveable – at least to me.

And I didn’t believe I had a vagueness of brightness in my future. Just take this entry into one of my old diaries that I earthed up recently:

Sunday August 20 2000

Time goes by. Hours turn to days which turn into weeks, months, years. Then eventually, you realise how everything is one day going to be a speck of nothing in history. What’s the whole point of this melodrama?

I continued the next day to say,

I can’t just base my life on delayed gratification and wait my turn in the Good Fortune’s Queue. There’s no future for a person who sees no future in their future.

It’s funny how I proved myself wrong because though I didn’t believe in a future for me, I did wait in that Good Fortune’s Queue and have made it to today to some place where I can say with affirmation that I AM going somewhere – and that that somewhere is to the top!

So what changed within me, you ask. At which point did I draw the line and decide that I would be someone and do something?

I can’t answer that question with any certainty because there was no line drawn, no unequivocal decision made.

A series of events – which at first seemed tragic – somehow led me to today where I can look back and say, “Ah, yes, that had to happen to get me to today!”

What are those events?

The most important has to be the collision between the spectacular fall from grace of the Zimbabwean economy and my ending high school. While everyone else’s folks were able to send them to South Africa, Australia, the UK and the US for a sound university education, I had to stay behind and wade through a new culture of learning and living that was far removed from my pristine private school education.

I had to learn to queue for money, bread, milk and text books; to save up my devaluing spending money to check information on the Internet; to catch the slow-chugging uncomfortable train between Bulawayo and Harare on semester breaks and lastly (and most unpleasantly) to share communal bathrooms in a dingy YWCA hostel where the scampering rats in the roof kept me company on the late nights I stayed up to read.

I often felt like giving up and saying it was too hard for me, that I was too fragile, too broken to keep fighting. And there were tears and thoughts of giving up for I didn’t see the future in my future.

But somehow I didn’t give up, hardly knowing where the fight back could possibly take me, hardly believing that I could ever catch up with all my former schoolmates whose lives in the photos I saw of them seemed so much more of a joy to live than my much tougher version.

And slowly, things began to open up. Slowly, I began to surprise even myself – the hardened sceptic who had preached doom over my own life. Slowly, the words that I wrote and shared began to resonate with life and recognition among people I could never have believed read them.

Perhaps my most startling revelation was one fine Wednesday morning in May 2007, when as an intern on university attachment, I received an email from an organisation based far off in Uganda telling me that I had won an Africa-wide award for HIV and AIDS communication for the articles I had been writing about the epidemic in my part of the world. Just remembering the moment, I can feel the same knot of incomprehensible excitement tighten within my belly.

My prize was to finally leave Zimbabwe, after 23 years of never having seen anything but this one nation, to get on an aeroplane for the first time in my life and fly off to Sandton in South Africa to stay in the Hilton Hotel and attend fancy does and tour some of the must-see places in Gauteng.

Call that a quadruple shock and delight to my system!

And now, I cannot even condense what has happened in my life in just three short years since that adventure.

A lot of it is unbelievable, indescribable, magical.

There’s no future for a person who sees no future in their future.

I wrote that once with my own hands. I spoke negativity into my own situation yet in many ways I said something so very true.

There is no future for a person who sees no future in their future.

When I couldn’t see the future myself, God saw it for me instead. I have no doubt that it is He who has picked me up on the many occasions that I have fallen and broken. And He hasn’t done this for only my benefit.

He has done this so that I may be an example of what can come from the humblest and most improbable of beginnings, of what can flower from an unyielding bud.

Today, I hold a book in my hand – a book of some of the poems that I wrote in my deepest despair and fears about the world, a book of many poems that define me today as a woman who knows what I want and where I am going.

There is a future for me.

And that’s because finally, I see a future in my future.

See a future in your future too, and flower wild and uncontainable.

And yes, enjoy the sunflowers in your eyes.

Of all the heart-wrenching scenes I witnessed at the 18th International AIDS Conference, the most disturbing had to be on the last day when the Conference volunteers went about the exhibition halls rounding up mountains of abandoned books, brochures and flyers.

“It’s all rubbish now,” I gasped to myself as I watched whole piles of materials disappear into vast recycling bins.

The chatty teenage volunteers, donned in bright yellow T-shirts, probably thought nothing of it. But I thought differently.

What a waste.

The amount of money spent in producing and shipping those things to Vienna is a figure I don’t want to even try to imagine, lest I become even more upset than I already am. I was a culprit too, leaving a tall stack of books on my hotel room bed as I tried to weigh out (figuratively and literally) which would be most useful to take back home. Feeling horribly guilty about abandoning the materials, I considered leaving the housekeeper a note to say not to throw away the books and instead hand them out to friends and family. But something told me that a ‘first world’ country with a decimal  HIV prevalence figure might not take too much interest in books around reforming sexual and reproductive health rights policy in the patriarchal global south.

Maybe they might. But I thought against the idea and did what many people did in hotel corridors, lobbies and at airport check-in desks these past few days.

I dumped the books.

I had never been to one of these big HIV conferences before but went into the experience with a healthy dose of scepticism (not wholly premised on the fact that people dump stuff of course, since I’d heard about that before).

One of my strong beliefs was that a gathering of 20 000-odd people (19 300 participants, to be exact) with 248 sessions, 127 satellite meetings, 279 Global Village activities, 151 exhibits, 19 plenary sessions, 18 special sessions and enough daily sponsored after hours parties featuring copious amounts of free booze – all happening in 6 days – would lead to excited chaos and eventually, apathy.

In a post mortem on the Conference, the international agency, Oxfam, called it a disappointing conference whose tone was set by the host nation, Austria, when it indicated  that it would not contribute a single cent towards the replenishment of the Global Fund to fight AIDS, TB and Malaria(GFTAM).

According to a presentation made by Paula Akubigizwe of the AIDS and Rights Alliance for Southern Africa (ARASA), the 2010 Conference delegates’ collective presence contributed an estimated total of 45 million Euro to Austria’s GDP – a figure that was equivalent to 20% of the total GFTAM Round 9 allocation to southern Africa for the response to all three diseases.

I don’t need to point out the irony for you.

I also don’t really need to point out the irony in the fact that the next conference takes place in Washington DC, moving further and further away from the hotbed of HIV which unequivocally remains sub-Saharan Africa. (Out of 18 such events held, the 2000 Durban Conference represents the only time the Conference has ever taken place in Africa.) I was simply appalled by the conversation I overheard among a group of men who each proclaimed they had been to at least three or four of these conferences and yet, had never so much as attended a single session.

What?!

We really need to think about what we are doing here, what real response and responsibility means to each one of us on a personal level. But here are my questions.

Do these big conferences actually work or are they simply glorified talk shops? Should we even be contemplating having a 19th and a 20th and, God forbid, a coming-of-age 21st International AIDS Conference?

The course of the epidemic remains very region-specific so that talking about condom negotiation to women in Sweden can be about as meaningless as talking about harm reduction to a group of Zimbabweans. Yes, it’s important to know all of this information, but on a practical level, it mostly remains useless.

And while we heard at the Conference about the alarming growth of the HIV pandemic in Central Asia and Eastern Europe, particularly among injecting drug users and sex workers, we forgot that two-thirds of all people living with HIV are in sub-Saharan Africa; women who get HIV by merely having sex with their husbands and babies who are born with no chance to reach their fifth birthday.

But this isn’t sexy enough.

And so we’ve taken to catchy phrases like ‘treatment as prevention’ or the edgy sounding ‘Treatment 2.0’ coined by UNAIDS. According to UNAIDS, the new Treatment 2.0 platform – which includes HIV testing scale up and strengthening community mobilisation as some of its pillars -  can reduce new HIV infections by one-third if treatment is provided to everyone who needs it.

But that’s what makes it more sexy than practicable.

I don’t need to tell you how many countries are falling short of providing universal access to anti-retroviral therapy (ART) for people whose CD4 counts have dipped below the 200 threshold.  Thus the 2009 World Health Organization (WHO) recommendations to up CD4 thresholds to 350 for treatment initiation for people with HIV remains a pipe dream for many.

And in many parts of the world, the thought of initiating people who aren’t even already infected with HIV onto treatment is a mere fantasy.

But let my scepticism not completely override the successes scored at this year’s Conference. South Africa, once the joke of the global response to HIV and AIDS proved that it has well and truly shaken off its demons and come to the party. No better proof of this could have been given than by the standing ovation afforded to Health Minister, Dr. Aaron Motsoaledi in one of the plenary sessions when he admitted that the task ahead was comparable to climbing Mount Everest, but needed to be carried out anyway. And also, a breakthrough in microbicide research with the CAPRISA 004 trials. With 39% effectiveness in reducing a woman’s risk of becoming infected with HIV, the female condom might soon be finding company with another female controlled device. Admittedly, the trials are still in the preliminary stages but when one of the key researchers, Dr. Quarraisha Abdool Karim, smeared a little of the clear odourless gel onto my palm, I felt like I was literally holding the future in my hand.

But the real winner?

That is unquestionably Austria and the historical city of Vienna, whose people largely went about their way oblivious to the impact that a gathering of HIV scientists, campaigners and programmers would have on the nation’s future.

Wouldn’t it have been so much more of a meaningful impact, I wonder, if we’d actually taken the conference somewhere that really needed it?