Choosing the unknown road
鈥淚鈥檝e never used that road,鈥� the campsite owner says doubtfully.
The tent is folded. Our mattress is squashed on top of the now-empty food boxes in the back of the car. One lost pink flashlight in the shape of a pig has been located. After a weekend of camping, it鈥檚 time to go home.
The question is, which way?
The campsite in the mountainous Nyanga region of Zimbabwe is an hour and a half鈥檚 drive from our house in Mutare, the nation鈥檚 fourth lar颅gest city. There鈥檚 one road between Mutare and Nyanga that everyone uses: It threads past the Juliasdale turnoff, through Watsomba, past the Old Mutare Mission, and over Christmas Pass. It鈥檚 a good road with few potholes. We鈥檝e driven it many times.
But just before we鈥檇 left for our holiday, a friend had e-mailed to say she鈥檇 heard of another route. 鈥淚t goes past the Bonda Mission,鈥� she said. Is the road tarred all the way? I鈥檇 asked. Or are parts of it farm tracks, which our aging, inherited vehicle might not be able to manage?
There had been no reply. (Sue had left on holiday.)
So now here we are, an hour and a half before nightfall in rural Southern Africa, with two roads from which to choose.
鈥淚 don鈥檛 know if that Bonda road is tarred all the way,鈥� the campsite owner continues. She looks at our tired children. I know which road she thinks we should take.
鈥淟et鈥檚 try it,鈥� I say to my husband once we鈥檙e back in the car. 鈥淪urely it can鈥檛 be too bad.鈥�
Unlike me, an English girl who鈥檚 never forgotten her four years in Paris, my husband grew up in this part of the world. He knows firsthand the danger of untended cows wandering onto roads in the dark, the dread of breaking down miles from anywhere with no cellphone signal.
But to his credit, he turns right at the Bonda Mission sign. Almost immediately, the magic begins.
鈥淟ook, Mum,鈥� Sam, who鈥檚 10, cries. 鈥淚t鈥檚 that famous school!鈥�
Sure enough, just past Bonda Mission there鈥檚 a sign to Knowstics Academy. It鈥檚 a small rural girls鈥� school that nobody had heard of until last year when two of its pupils got the best results in the world for their divinity and history final exams, set by the University of Cambridge. We鈥檇 read about Knowstics in Zimbabwe鈥檚 main state-run newspaper but had no idea we鈥檇 see it today.
The tarmac is narrow but smooth, unpocked. It rises and falls in rhythm with rocky outcrops peppered with pine trees. Goats 鈥� well behaved, as goats normally are 鈥� stick to the sides of the road. We can see smoke rising from countless thatched kitchens.聽
I drink in, once again, the primary colors of Zimbabwe: the lilac-gray of the road, the bleached sandy-yellow of the grassy verges, the blush-pink of the sunset.
Thirteen years ago, I worked in the headquarters of an international news agency in Paris. I loved my life, my Montmartre 诲别耻虫-辫颈猫肠别蝉 with its purple whistling kettle, drinking mint tea on weekends at The Paris Mosque restaurant. I thought I鈥檇 live and work in France forever. But then I met the man who would become my husband. With two words, I changed my world. I shipped two bookshelves鈥� worth of books to my parents鈥� garage in eastern England, squashed a wedding gown into my suitcase, and followed him to Zimbabwe.
Sometimes I think of what my life might be like if I鈥檇 stayed there, if I鈥檇 kept to the main road, the one almost certain to have taken me where I thought I wanted to go: to financial security, job satisfaction, a pension. And then I remember what striking off into the unknown in Africa has given me: experiences I could never have dreamed of, friends whose loyalty stretches across the racial divide and enriches my life. A love of sadza, Zimbabwe鈥檚 staple cornmeal porridge. Two children who can identify the early-morning call of the purple-crested lourie and the droppings of a dassie. Bush landscapes that have seared themselves into my heart.
We drive past the wooden buildings of a clinic in the Mutasa communal lands. Coming out of the gate is a woman holding a tiny baby cocooned in a peach towel. She鈥檚 surrounded by other women, all smiling and laughing. A new mother, just discharged.
Tears prick my eyes.
鈥淲hen you鈥檙e older and you live in another country,鈥� I tell Sam. 鈥淵ou鈥檒l remember all this beauty ...鈥� and I start telling him about my childhood holidays in the mountains of Scotland.聽
He cuts me short. 鈥淏ut I鈥檓 never going to live in another country,鈥� he says. 鈥淚鈥檓 staying in Zimbabwe forever.鈥�
