H-Metro, Pick Pockets,and Photo Fans

Business as usual at the Gulf in Harare. This place confused me at first; my sister took me to this place. We were looking for a mobile phone. I wasn't surprised by the crowds or the merchandise. But being at the gulf can be overwhelming; it was.

In Zimbabwe, I took thousands of photos, some selective, others random, a lot clear, a few fuzzy. I was having fun with my point-and-click GE digital camera. I have always liked to carry a camera around, have always been a photographer in the making; and I remember in the 90s when I was a temporary teacher in Glen View, how I supplemented my income with photography, or back home in Mazvihwa, where people would see my camera and say, "Do you take?" and when I said, "Yes, I take", they would say, "Take me with my daughter." And I would take and take, take mothers and daughters, take fathers and sons, sisters and sisters; also, lots of solo shoots.  It was fun, even though I had a cheap 35 mm camera with those rolls of film that could easily be spoiled if over-exposed. The trip to the Kodak center and Goldline to process the film was always something to savor. Delivering the photos to the customers felt fulfilling, as if I had helped in the creation of the image these people would have of themselves: "Look at me. See? In Runde. That's me behind Chisiya hill, eating bhubhunu." I still have some of these old prints, here in America, that were never collected by their owners because I never saw them again or they didn't have the money to pay for them. The images tell many stories, and they give a picture of how these people used to experience  Zimbabwe. When they smiled, they weren't saying 'cheese'; they smiled because they meant it. They would have smiled even if you had told them to say sadza, but they smiled anyway, even when you didn't tell them to say anything. They smiled real smiles meant for someone elsewhere, someone who would see these photos and smile too.

So when I was returning to Zimbabwe in August, 2012, I bought an affordable, digital camera, the most sophisticated camera I have ever owned, yet the easiest to use. I knew I would put it to good use, and, indeed, I did.  But I knew too of the phobia and paranoia connected with public photography in Zimbabwe. I had been informed that I couldn't take photos in some places, especially government building or in the presence of the Zimbabwe Republic Police, or those who would think you were a foreign journalist (!!), and I hadn't been surprised though; even here in the USA there are such places, laces you are not allowed to bring cameras, even the ones on phones. As to the issue of not being advised not to take photos in the presence of the police because you could be targeted for questioning or be arrested, it made me move with caution.  I definitely didn't want to be arrested while vacationing in Zimbabwe. In fact, this wasn't even just vacationing; it was like a pilgrimage, a return with a capital R.  I had also heard of places where you could be shot for taking photos. Now, that was another matter; I would just avoid those altogether.

But I knew too that most of these stories were rumors anyway, that most wouldn't apply to me. I didn't trust that I would heed all the warnings. It would seem as if I thought of myself as a someone special then, and that's true, I did: I was in many ways a son of the soil returning home, temporarily of course. Being a Zimbabwean, and being who I believe I am, I knew I might not end up having to worry about such warnings and rumors. Anyway, knowledge of these attitudes just means I was informed or misinformed. Fair enough.  With Youtube, Facebook, Twitter, you go to a place and you already know a lot about it. No one can lie to you. No need anymore to rely on travel agencies who used to suggest Achebe's Things Fall Apart as a must-read for anyone visiting Africa, especially those visiting for the first time, "to get an idea about the culture". Granted, it's a good book to throw into someone's travel bag, but to say that it would help you survive as a traveler or tourist? Well, I was returning to Africa not as a tourist, and I knew  what moments I wanted to capture, and I was open to surprises as well. I would not hesitate to hide my camera upon seeing the police, as what would happen in the most unlikely of place, Takavarasha Township in Chivi, when a brother would say, "Now, Babamunini, this is the best moment to rest the machine." The machine, yes, that's what he called it. The thing has worked the whole way from Mototi, I had pointed and clicked at everything that moved, and everything the didn't move: pictures of sand in Runde River, sand burying what used to be scary pools. We had crossed three rivers, and all had signs of siltation, and barely any pools. The change of times, the brother said, change caused by people looking for gold. Somehow as I looked at the landscape, and as I took pictures, I knew this place would never return to its days of abundance; but the people were happy; the people, most of them, were smiling and laughing. It seemed the only person bothered by the situation was me.

Long story short, I arrived in Harare on August 4th. I could have started taking photos at the airport upon arrival, but I soon found out one of my suitcases was missing, so I started fretting about that, but once I was home and had settled with friends and family, I pulled out the camera. And thus began an activity that would lead to the capturing of thousands of moments, in still digital photos and mini-videos. I have photos of moments in Harare, Gweru, Zvishavane, and Mazvihwa.

And yes, the warnings were real. People worry about their relative or friend carrying a camera everywhere, even one they know has always liked to carry a camera. Below I document some of the concerns about camera carrying that came up when I was in different places in Zimbabwe, carrying my camera.

1. Don't look Like a Journalist, Sekuru

With my briefcase and camera in display as I ran about my business in Harare, I could easily pass for a journalist. And I didn't hate the idea either; all my life I have always looked at myself as a journalist, starting with my days at Gwavachemai Secondary school, where I made myself the school's journalist and the headmaster said, "Go ahead." Then years later, attending High Field High in Harare, I was an executive member of the Journalism club, and at we wore T-Shirts with the words: "Journalist: Public Informer." Those were the days of Tekere's ZUM, and so we would report on political matters, but most importantly, we covered sport trips. That's how I got to know many of the Harare schools, following the sport teams, reporting, looking like a journalist.

I didn't stop there. At the university  I was a press-card carrying reporter, writing for newspapers like The Herald (mostly literary news with editor Davison Maruziva), the Knowtown, a newspaper venture based in Norton, but I reported what I wanted. I wasn't a photographic journalist though; I just reported events, wrote book reviews, and got to attend important events. I was looking like a journalist. That press card was handy.

I can't think of a time then when I havent looked like a journalist. Take for instance the time I looked like a journalist in th most unlikely place: when I worked at a mobile service call center in Rancho Cordova. We had hundreds of employees, and many departments, so the call center director ran a newsletter, and I immediately became one of the reporters, insisting on interviewing the company's big wigs. Career-wise, that didn't anywhere substantial, but I got the opportunity to exercise something I have always had a passion.

Then with the social media boom, I seized the opportunities that come with social media, ran several blogs, some of which were for reporting literary news to an international audience. Who out there doesnt know about this blog: Wealth of Ideas? (Lol). At events in California I am often seen with my camera, spotting the right angles to capture pictures, some of which I post on Facebook immediately. Usually, I have used my Android phone to take the photos, but when I was planning my trip to Zimbabwe, I had to get a special camera, one that would capture images with high resolution, to capture moments full of life.

So, don't lool like a journalist? I tried, but that was hard. In fact, in several places I was asked if I was a journalist, and I just simply said no, but if I had stayed a little longer, I could have started to report events and try to submit works to local publications, or failing that, just publish them on my blogs and websites?

Don't look like a journalist? No. I have always wanted to look like a journalist.

2. Don't take photos of government buildings

This wasn't a problem. I had no use of photos of government buildings. The one things that nearly surprised me was when a guard quickly approached me in a bank to say I could be on my cell phone. Different from where I live now, but I saw the sense in that and hung up before my call was answered. I would not have much use of banks in Zimbabwe after that, so that issue never arose again.

3. Don't act like you work for H-Metro, or don't take random photos of people without their knowledge or consent

This concern is prevalent in Harare. H-Metro, tabloid-style, captures photos of unsuspecting subjects often in indecent poses and publishes them. Harareans gave me suspicious stares when I had my camera hanging from my neck, and when I seemed to be fumbling with its zoom functions. In a few cases, I too would look at them suspiciously, wondering why they were staring at me. I was educated on H-Metro so much on the fear of H-Metro that my first day in Harare I didn't take that many photos, but once I remembered my mission as to capture moments for myself, the floodgates opened, and with that came courage. Where I had to take a photo I would often to people, tell them I wasn't from H-Metro, and they would ask me if I was sure about that, and I would tell them yes, emphatically.

People were reasonable. Eventually I ended up forgetting about the H-Metro scare altogether. I was everywhere. I captured old buildings; I captured new buildings, but I loved crowds; I blended in very easily, rediscovered my shortcuts around Harare. I got on combis, camera hanging from my neck, captured photos through speeding windows. I captured the vending stands of Glen View, the long streets of Mufakose. I took lots of photos of UZ, went back to downtown, captured Joina City over and over again. I asked people to captured me buying airtime even when I didnt need it, I was caught by my own E-Metro buying juice two for one dollar on the streets. I was caught uploading pictures in internet cafes. This was a new Harare, but the old skeleton of Harare was becoming visible in the chaos of newness. I wanted to see the old in the new, the new in the old. And, often, I didn't have time to take it all in just by looking at it, so I snapped with the camera, for future viewing. Some of the photos were excellent, others were pathetic. But I collected all, regular size or panoramic, spotless clear or shockingly distorted.

This wasn't going to be an issue anyway; I wasn't planning to do so, but some photos that feature me ended up with random people in the background. When you look at such photos, just focus on me.

4. Watch out for pick-pockets and camera-snatchers, sekuru.

My nieces were protective. One had warned against going to the village because of a dream she had had weeks before my arrival. We laughed about the dream, defeated it and forgot about it altogether. But my nieces would warn me about how I presented myself when I was walking downtown Harare, or when I was travelling on Kombis, whether they were from city to Mount Pleasant, or city to Glen View, Glen View to Glen Norah, or, my frequent commute, Vainona to City, vice versa. The warnings had to with avoiding showing I had returned from the Diaspora, as that may lead to potential robberies, by kombi operators (which in my mind I thought was highly unlikely), or being taken to the wrong destination and having some robbers sent to whereever I had been dropped. In short, I had to act local, and seem to know what I was doing. One way of acting local was to not carry my brief case and distinct camera, or if I had to carry anything at all, I had to put it in an ugly bag.

I always tried to carry my laptop, so I would hide the camera in the briefcase. But after a few attempts I decided to just show it all, act like a man on his daily routine. After all, good cameras and laptops are not a rare sight in Harare. "But they will slice it right off your neck, Sekuru," said one niece. "Let them try, and they will see." We laughed, I could tell that her eyes registered worry. I was showing way too much to the untrustworthy world of Harare. After a while I didnt fear anything, I was part of that world too, I blended wiith it well; and the beauty of it is no one seemed to notice, no one seemed to care.

In a few cases I wanted people to notice the difference, to know that I had returned, to have to explain things about the other world I lived in. Hence I offered myself as an explainer of things in a Groombridge Spar Supermarket. I talked to one of the store managers about how rare their merchandise where I lived. “Oh really? And where is that?” he asked. “Oh, now that you have asked, California.” He moved closer. “We would pay a fortune to  get Mazoe Orange Punch, and I see you have plenty here.” He looked at me,  seemingly confused, but said, “Hey, keep in touch if there is any way we can help.” So soon after that, I turned on the camera, took a few photos of the goods and bragged on Facebook about how I was in the world of Mazoe.

I really got the impression that, for the most part, there was not much to worry about. People didn’t notice. People focused on the business of survival, people did what people did. And I was simply one of them, doing or not doing what I wanted to do.

I just ended up worrying about damaging my camera. In kombis we were often crammed that it was easy to hit my camera against the metal frame of a seat, or it could just be pressed between bodies. So if I hid my camera, it was mostly to protect it from the rough kombi life. What makes the life rough is that the operators try to make as much money per trip as possible, so they keep calling people to come board. To fill up a kombi to near-capacity is a good marketing strategy to attract more passengers who know that they will not be delayed by operators who still need to fill their vehicles. Eighteen-seaters can easily become twenty-two seaters. Riding on kombis is something I enjoyed this time around, but I left it certain that I would avoid it next time. 

There are many dangerous places in Harare. I have always known this: what type of Hararean would you be without worrying about thieves, robbers, pickpockets, and other little dangers. But I remembered I had survived that when I lived here full time, that although we would walk with these fears in the back of my mind, I really used not to worry anymore. So coming back, I wasn't going to pretend that I didn't know how to hide my wallet pretty good, or that perhaps someone may try to snatch my camera, or sell me some fake gadget which would not work later. But I also knew that I wasn't going to dwell too much on such fears. I was hear to enjoy every moment, I was hear to see as much of what I had missed as possible. And, in the short time, I think I did.

Happy time Harare

So I hung out in the relatively unsafe places then. I was at the Gulf a lot, looking for things to buy, taking photos of the things I bought, and the ones I couldn't. Half the time I was with my sister, and she would tell me where I could take photos and where I couldn't, but then she would also turn around and offer to take a photo of me even in places where people who suspect we were H-Metro. In fact, we were asked a lot more questions when she was doing the photos; she must have looked more the journalist than I could ever hope to be, with people saying things, "What is that ambuya doing? Why is she pointing her camera this way?" But often they would let that go when they noticed she was capturing my purchasing airtime. Moments like that, I treasured them. It's not like I had a whole schedule of more important things to do in Harare, other than see friends, attend one important meeting, visit relatives, see old ghettos, and buy airtime, buy time in internet cafes, call family in America, buy more airtime.

5. Who Are You People? 

Gweru was interesting. By the time I visited Gweru from Zvishavane, I was broke, and I had to make this trip to recieve Moneygram money at Stanbic Bank. Now looking back, I figure we would have used Western Union, which which has a branch in Zvishavane. Anyways, I wanted to see Gweru, and perhaps meet one or two of my Gweru friends. I started taking photos as soon as we had arrived (I was with my Gudo-based niece). The first few were of Chicken Inn. I had to have that place in my camera as it is one of the frequent sites of nostalgia in the Diaspora. I treated my niece to some chicken and I just got a coffee and a scone. We ate, did our little photo shoot and left. Next I we looked for an internet cafe. It had been days since I had checked my email, and I wanted to update my facebook status, post some cool Mototi photos, and even do another photo shoot in the internet cafe, if there would be moments worth capturing. But before we got to one, we passed through Kingstons Bookstore. The state of books in there was so dismal I forgot altogether about capturing the moment with my camera. There was really nothing to capture inside, but I got two good photos of the sign outside. So then I met two friends, and when they left I did what I needed to do online and we left for Kudzanai Market and Bust Terminus, to buy fruits, vegetable, and the sack of tobacco a brother back in Mototi had requested.

It was at Kudzanai where our photo activities were questioned. I was buying looking at products, such as matobwe and peanuts while my niece was taking a video, of me talking to the sales ladies, and I noticed that although they wanted to make some business, they were beginning to pay less attention to me and were stealing glances in the direction of the camera. My niece looked like she was having fun with the camera; even I looked in that direction too, momentarily forgetting about the whole act. Then the question came from a woman who had been looking from the sidelines. She walked to me, and not to my niece and said, "Are you Satanists?"

"We? No" I said. "Why would you think something like that?"
"You are taking photos of us," she said.
"It's just a video," said my niece.
"But you are using a camera on us," said the lady.
"Sorry, we should have asked first," I said, because I really hadn't known that it was now a whole video.

"It doesn't matter, we don't want Satanists here," she said.
"We're just trying to buy your goods," said my niece. "We want a lot of stuff."
"Sure, we have plenty for you."
I explained we definitely were not Satanists, and proceeded to purchasing some matohwe and oranges, 5 kgs of oranges.  Then we bought a sack for a dollar to fit all the things we have bought there. By the time we left the ladies, they had abandoned talk about Satanists, but I got to find out what they had been talking about.

The Kudzanai Market in Gweru

While in Harare the fear of photos is the fear of H-Metro, in Gweru it is the fear of Satanists. It's a deadly rumour, but to some, including to my niece, it's reality. It is said these Satanists walk around with cameras and they take photos of their victims and later suck their blood through the pictures. Mysterious deaths often result, and when investigations are made through spiritual healers and prophets, Satanists  turn out to be the cause of the deaths. They enrich themselves this way, these Satanists, they woo you with what looks like wealth, and they coopt you into their circles. The people explaining this sounded serious, and I listened intently, and by listening, I gained their approval, and would be seen taking more photos at the market without anyone approaching me again. But when I moved to the South end of the terminus, I  became so conscious of people suspecting I was a Satanist that I took the last of my photos hiding from across the street, using my camera's zoom functionality. I might not have thought of myself as a Satanist, but I certainly had become an H-Metro in Gweru.

6. Make sure you capture this, Babamunini

In Mazvihwa, people begged to have their photos taken. I was already busy capturing landscapes, but they reminded me to include people too. One of my Maigurus was good at directing me to good features and moments to capture. I liked the day she asked me to come with her to the borehole to capture people fetching water. I ended up spending more time helping with the pumping of the water than taking photos, so my Maiguru took over in the task of capturing the moments.

There was more acceptance of the camera in the village, and a lot of trust. They knew I would put the pictures to good use. In a few cases, all it took to convince someone to pause were words like, "You will be seen in America. Pose for a picture." It was not likely that all of  America would see these photos, but at least my family would, I told them. They were fine with that. They posed for the photos, and sometimes requested to see other photos I had already taken. I couldn't capture enough of the village; I was sad that I didnt get to cover all the places I had in mind. I was capturing the settings of much of my writing. It was nice.