At quarter past six every morning I would make my way to Elephant Nature Park's main complex for a coffee. It was my favorite time of day here. Quiet and still dark, the hustle and bustle of the day's activities had yet to begin, in the distance the silhouettes of the elephants slowly moving towards the river for a morning drink.
In ALERT founder Andrew Conolly is a dogged determination to overcome whatever obstacle is in front of him; a drive that can easily be mistaken for stubborn foolishness at first glance. At the same time, there can also be a frustrating amount of contradiction.
“I am a patient boy, I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait.” -Fugazi.
On a nightly basis our room was literally abuzz with activity. Silence the noisy fan from pushing hot, Zambian air in circles over our bodies and you’d hear a lizard scurrying behind the dresser. Turn on the light and one, if not several, rain spiders would freeze in silence on the ceiling, carefully watching us with their many eyes. I was always happy to see our roommates because it meant I knew where they were and so didn't have to worry where they weren't, unlike some of the other creatures that came party crashing into what was called the White House.
When we get back to camp, it looks like the staff are getting ready for some big shindig on the main lawn. There are banners up, tables out with AP swag, the Ingonyama dancers are waiting in the wings, the staff are dressed up in their best khakis, and the elephants are wandering around. Elephants? We've never seen them in camp before. This must be something really big.
We're in the van with Nathan, who has just picked us up at the bus stop in Gweru, where we've just arrived from Harare. As we're making the short drive to Antelope Park, he tells us there are two phrases we will hear a lot that we need to know. He first asks if we know what “TIA” means.
Chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp. Sorry, what was that? Chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp. Oh, right. Hang on. Chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp. Okay, okay! Zvakwana!
When we land in Harare it's four in the afternoon on a hot, sunny Sunday - 40 hours since we've left Seattle. The airport looks well-worn and disheveled, with its immigration officers in a similar state of adornment: thread bare uniforms, name tags missing but for the pinholes left behind to mark their absence, epaulets hanging haphazardly, expressions drifting disinterestedly. Queued up to pay for our entry visa we wait. And wait. And wait some more. Welcome to Zim.
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