airport – curiousgnome

Saturday 8 March

Run around Shawasha Hills

Once again, Reece and I were up early to run before the day’s heat kicked in. His lovely friend Emma picked us up at 6:30 and drove us to a leafy car park 20 minutes from the house. We were heading into the Shawasha Hills, a rural area on the northeastern edge of Harare, to complete an 11km off-road loop.

We set off on a dirt track and were soon heading up a steady incline. I really noticed the thin air despite the relatively easy pace. Thankfully the stony trail and unfamiliar scenery, which consisted of distant ridges and diverse hillside shrubs, grasses and trees, kept me occupied. Being the FT (T meaning tourist) I stayed at the back, having decided that I was most expendable in the event of some kind of chase. Although slightly conscious of the numerous snakes, spiders, scorpions and other perilous wildlife I’d read about, I was heartened by the others’ lack of concern.

We backtracked once after missing a turn, then the narrow path became almost obscured by thick bush. We hacked our way up, down and back up rough slopes at a slow jog while spines, thorns and seeds did their best to ravage our limbs. We failed to find another overgrown turn and bushwhacked our way, slowly and as the crow flies, up the second hill to a trig point, where we stopped to take in the view. A great patchwork of grassland, trees and maize fields sprawled across a low plain to the east, backed by undulating, bluish silhouettes of layered ridges. The view west was less aesthetic – a huge, terraced mine, presumably gold, had been carved into the hillside like a great, industrial scar. I turned my back to it and, as I had at Domboshava the evening before, drank in the vastness of the landscape.

We found a narrow path and continued down the south side of the hill, through more bush and down some steep sections made slippery by clayey soil. At the bottom we came to a marsh and waded through ankle deep muddy water, our view obscured by taller-than-head-high grass. We emerged grinning, feet sodden, and picked up the pace along a track that cleaved a straight course between the swathes of endless grass, stopping briefly to watch a long-tailed widowbird (I think) land on a tall reed, its disproportionately long tail swooping elegantly after its little black body.

The rest of the route was relatively flat and straightforward, apart from the sudden appearance of a stray dog from the grass (they can be aggressive) and a small river crossing. We passed a glassy lake that captured blue sky and fluffy, white clouds in a perfect reflection, and returned friendly “hellos” to occasional pedestrians. I wondered where they’d come from and where they were going, until I realised that little rustic buildings were dotted amid the grasses down subtle, red dirt paths. Given the hindrance of the earlier terrain, it was a relief to regain some time in the last few miles, although I struggled noticeably more than usual in the heat and altitude.

We got back to Emma’s car covered in scratches and grass seeds, which stuck securely to our tacky skin. We picked up a couple of hitchhikers on the potholey road, dropped them at a garage at the edge of Harare and returned to the house. Emma left to rush to a christening and Reece and I took a much-needed shower. On reflection, I gave the run 10/10 for scenery, varied terrain and excitement.

Local market: snacks & a bushbaby

After a quick coffee, Reece, Iz, Tilman, Ryan and I hopped into the car and went off to Old Stables, the local Saturday morning market. Tens of gazebos filled a walled square, shaded by a handful of big trees with fern-like leaves. It was like an exotic version of an English farmer’s market, with stalls selling fruit, flowers, baskets, pottery, plants, clothes and hot food. We circumnavigated half of the busy square, pausing for Reece to buy (and try) cheese, then returned to the hot food area near the entrance.

While perusing the food stalls, we spotted a lady wearing a tiny bushbaby on her shoulder. Not wanting to accost her, we watched from a distance as she let someone pet it, but I took a small step in for a closer look and she started telling me – quite enthusiastically – all about its rescue from a bushfire and the carnage that can stem from cigarettes and barbecues. I returned her enthusiasm and before I knew it – to my delight – the bushbaby was on my shoulder, its enormous, conker-brown eyes shining like lamps. After a moment it sprang back to her in a surprising burst of propulsion and I thanked her profusely. Afterwards, Reece took great pleasure in telling me how they wee on their fingers to help them stick.

We whizzed round the other half of the market, stopping to buy fridge magnets and peaches, then shared some delicious chicken and pork gyozas at a shady table in the middle. Satisfied with our purchases, we went back to the house and spent a couple of hours cooling down at the bar (which always involved darts, dix-mille – a dice game – and a lot of laughing) while Shelley prepared food for the evening’s much-anticipated family party. As usual, I spent a while scouring the garden for wildlife.

Airport run for Gus & Dan

The five of us set off around 3pm to pick up Gus and Dan, the final British arrivals, from the airport. On the way there we got caught in a deluge like we’d never seen. Rain hammered relentlessly at the windows in a loud, angry torrent and quick, brown rivers coalesced from nowhere at the edges of the roads. It was pleasingly dramatic, and thankfully only held us up by a few minutes.

We sat in the airport bar and watched, bemused, as tens of people gathered at the window overlooking the runway. Something happened and they erupted in jubilant uproar. We assumed that a long-delayed plane had finally arrived, or perhaps a football team, but – on asking a barman – Reece confirmed that the event was nothing more than the landing of a common-or-garden Kenyan Airlines plane. The excitement was short-lived and the crowd quickly dissipated as we sat and drank our beers, baffled.

Shortly afterwards we spotted Gus and Dan from above, negotiating their way through passport control. Dan clearly did a better job of this as she sailed through and collected their luggage, while Gus stood for a suspiciously long time at the kiosk, at one point – to our concern – slapping his hand down on the desk. Thankfully they were both allowed into the country and we met them with joy, delighted to have finally assembled the fellowship.

The rain had completely cleared on our journey back to the house, as if nothing had ever happened. Gus and Dan were shown to their room, then – as family had already started arriving – thrown headfirst into the party.

The Party

I won’t and can’t recall much of the party that evening, but can share that everyone had a really great time. I’ll list a few highlights, instead: meeting a lot of very lovely people, Shelley’s stellar table spread, Paul’s diligent bartending, at least five dogs, Gus and Dan diving into the pool (fully clothed), Dan dancing on a stool (sunglasses on), darts, Ryan with Uncle Kieran on his shoulders, arm wrestling Kieran (who didn’t win) and Luca (who would have if he’d tried), dancing with a clawful of Cheeky Chilli crisps, Bryn and Kieran’s Birkenstock cheek-slap contest and an awful lot more dancing to DJ Shelley’s excellent music.

My lesson of the day: Zimbabwe is the best kind of wild.

Saturday 1 July

At the time of beginning this post (11 July), if you’d told me two weeks ago that we were about to spend a week in Croatia, I’d hardly have believed it. We found out on Friday 23 June that Ryan had managed to get annual leave for the first week of July and my work confirmed the following Wednesday. This was excellent news, as on Tuesday night we’d booked the cheapest flights we could find from Bournemouth airport – we were off to Zadar, Croatia, that coming Sunday.

We’d had minimal planning time as I was at a conference all week, but in the evenings we’d managed to book flights, accommodation and – with some difficulty – car hire. Ryan picked me up from Salisbury train station on Saturday afternoon and we rushed to Southampton to collect a Croatia climbing book from a friend and buy a pair of 60m half ropes, having discovered that Zadar County is a renowned destination for climbers. To say that packing was stressful is an understatement: the evening was spent – not without argument – trying to squeeze two 3kg ropes, a bunch of climbing equipment (the majority of which is metal), hiking gear and (minimal) clothing into our 20kg hold bag and two small cabin rucksacks.

Sunday 2 July

Our friend Cam picked us up at 9am and dropped us off at the airport, full of nervousness about the weight of the hold bag and size of the cabin bags. Fortunately both were fine, but on realising that I might have left a very much prohibited lighter in a pouch of hiking stuff, I spent the entire two-and-a-half hour flight expecting that our hold bag wouldn’t turn up in Croatia. After a stressful wait, we flew at 1pm, landed at 4:30 local time, and were immensely relieved when our bag appeared on the conveyor belt.

First impressions were good: towards the end of the flight I’d caught glimpses of multitudinous islands, azure sea and sprawling mountains from my aisle seat at the front of the plane, and Zadar airport was pleasantly tiny and clean. We sat on a grassy patch at the front of the airport as we waited until 6pm to pick up our hire car, and I spent the whole time marvelling at lizards, snails, bugs, moths, pine cones, cacti, flowery shrubs and long trains of large ants making their way up and down the pine trees that shaded us from the warm sun.

We picked up our pre-booked car at 6pm, and – although the rental man was very friendly – we were once again racked with anxiety at the revelation of having to put down a €1,100 deposit, at least some of which we’d lose in the event of anything happening to the brand new Renault Clio – even a tiny scratch – due to paying with a debit card. We were quite unlucky in this regard, as we were hard-pressed to find a hire place that accepted debit cards: I have a credit card but unfortunately my driving licence expired a couple of weeks before and I hadn’t yet been able to renew it thanks to DVLA’s hopeless systems, but Ryan only had a debit card, which meant we ended up paying about £100 more than if a) my licence was valid, or b) he had a credit card. I’m waffling on about this because it remains a sore subject. Lesson learnt: use a credit card in the driver’s name to hire cars abroad.

The 45 minute drive through rural Zadar County to Starigrad, the town where we were staying, would have been interesting and far more enjoyable if we weren’t reeling from the pressure of not damaging the car. Ryan had never driven on the “wrong” side of the road before and found it very strange at first, mainly getting the road positioning right – I found the same thing when I drove abroad for the first time in the Alps. Being so new and fancy, the car kept emitting beeps seemingly at random, which we later discovered was an indication that he was straying towards the lines at the edge of the road. Speed limit signs were few and far between, and for the first time in, I believe, his entire life, he welcomed some gentle back-seat driving.

We stopped at a supermarket on the way, parking as far from the entrance as possible in order to preserve the car. We were yet to realise how welcoming and friendly the Croatian people are, and felt very conspicuous and foreign among aisles of unfamiliar cheeses, meats and dry goods. We picked up some supplies, including fruit, pasta, bread, a kilogram of dubious-looking reformed sausage, cheap cheese, cheaper wine, frozen seafood risotto for that evening and crisps of an unidentifiable flavour, and continued our journey to Starigrad.

Screenshot of a video of the fresh counter, found in most supermarkets

We arrived at our accommodation at 8pm and were greeted by our host, a smiling Croatian lady who barely spoke a word of English but welcomed us warmly, showed us into our apartment, taught me how to pronounce “hvala” (thank you) after I clearly failed miserably, indicated that an unlabelled glass bottle of thick, dark red liquid was a gift for us, then returned to the ground floor veranda where she’d been sitting out with her family. On her leaving, we decided that the liquid was a kind of cherry brandy. The apartment was perfect: a simple, clean bedroom with a little kitchen and bathroom in a family home, the first floor of which had been split into three apartments. It felt like an authentic stay in a Croatian house, with the added advantage of privacy – we were free to come and go as we pleased without disturbing anyone, as the first floor had its own staircase and veranda looking down onto the street below, which was quiet except for the constant trill of cicadas. With the car parked safely on the drive, we finally relaxed.

I cooked seafood risotto with chunks of the mysterious sausage for dinner and we crashed on the huge bed, exhausted by the stress of overcoming various travelling hurdles and relieved at the effectiveness of the room’s air conditioning unit. After the last minute planning, rushing around to collect climbing gear, packing stress, airport stress, lighter-in-bag concerns, car anxiety and anticipation of finding our accommodation as we’d hoped it to be, we could scarcely believe that we’d made it to Croatia. Our holiday had begun.