Lucky

Looking for a house is one of my major projects these days. I'm learning about Harare real estate: the neighborhoods ("the golden triangle"), the peculiarities of architectural choices (toilets in closets), the MUSTS (a borehole), and the perks ("staff"). I've moved beyond the wow stage and have started wanting the quintessential Zimbabwean family home: an artsyAfrican tiled house with more than enough room for family, guests and entertaining and a big ol' yard with loads of beautiful indigenous plants and trees. Mainly I am going with my gut instinct: is this a place I can raise my family? So far, every place has been...mmmm....not exactly. Sometimes I feel like a spoiled crazy woman. The things I turn down! However, we're renting and not buying, so we can't really invest much in making these places ours. It has to be pretty darn ready for us...and since we have until June (I've been told), we have time (I hope!) to be picky.

The place where we're staying now is gorgeous if a wee bit run down on the inside. There are lots of little broken, chipped, smelly and non-functioning spots that I would love to attend to, but alas, it's not ours to improve. I'm extremely grateful though that we have this amazing house, if only temporarily.

Here's a review of what I've learned about home life in Harare:

Domestic help: most houses come with a housekeeper and gradener. This is Tari.

Kitichens have an additional "washing up" area where domestic help do the dishes and laundry.

You can see from the last picture and this close up the style of tile that is made locally and featured in lots of houses.

...as well as teak wood furniture, like this dining room table and chairs with leather strap seats (this is at a friend's house)

Most houses also have a bar. People take their entertaining seriously here.

Enough parking for guests (that's the garage and guest cottage where Tari, her son and her cousin/helper live...Yes, even help have help.)

The "gardens" are amazing, mainly due to the master work of the gardeners. This is Stanford in the herb garden.

In addition to the green house full of veggies, we have corn growing in a corner of the garden. You see corn growing all over the city since it's a staple of the diet here.

This is a typical "domestics quarters" and where Stanford lives next to our house.

You also find all swing sets in this general style: metal, painted bright colors, unique.The in-ground trampoline is pretty standard here.

Do you see just how big this tree is? That little purple thing is a kiddie swing, and man, do the kids get high when we swing them in that!

These are called "Wendy houses" and are just playhouses for the kids. You see examples of these and the swing sets at intersections around the city where craftsmen are advertising their various styles.Electric fences atop high security walls are also a part of life here, as are alarm systems, remote access automatic gates and security guards. There's not a lot of crime here...as a result? This is the view of the garden from our bedroom balcony. It isn't exactly typical, I realize now as I search in vain for another bit of paradise. Let's hope the luck in having this place carries over to our seach for the next place. Looking forward to sharing with visitors!

What Jordan Can Be Like

Weeks ago we went to a birthday party of Eiza's classmate from her nursery school. The invitation was designed as a medieval scroll: a royal celebration hosted by the king and queen for Her Highness the Princess...we'll call her Dahlia.

I understand how the princess thing is sometimes unavoidable with girls. On top of that, we live in a kingdom. But nothing, not even hearing about Dalmatian puppies once being given as party favors here, prepared me for this. On the south lawn of the prestigious Dunes Club, tables had been set up with white linens for the adults and children. There was a five star hotel buffet and a meter high pink castle cake. There was a red carpet, princess decorations galore, and at least a hundred people, half of whom were nannies, servers or party animators.

Children were asked to attend in royal costume. Upon arrival to the club, the girls were brought to a woman dressed as Cinderella who applied eyeshadow and lipstick while another woman twisted up her hair, sprayed it pink, and attached beaded butterfly clips. Eliza was given plastic bracelets and rings (that slipped off her baby fingers and arms). They gave her a pink feather boa and a crown that were fun-looking but irritating and quickly removed, as well. In fact, she went right for the swing and after that kicked off her shoes and played in the sand while the other kids gathered round for the activities led by the animator.

He was the grand dame of the ceremonies, a large campy Arab (Jordanian?) who would clap his hands and call out game rules to the children. Before starting, he always yelled, "Nannies back! Nannies back!" But inevitably, the Filipino ladies would rush in, one hand on the arm of a kid, the other scooping up scattered candy from the busted paper mache castle. There were lots of games. It was all very overwhelming. Lots of little plastic prizes.

There was something curious about the broken-nosed, sports-jersey dad and all his brothers there. One felt this had to be the most perfect magical birthday for their little princess...or else.

It's not uncommon for cakes to have giant sparklers burning on them instead of candles. But 3-year-old Dahlia had to stand in front of the crowd with the giant pink castle cake burning under as many sparklers as it could carry, then behind her they set off bigger ones, spitting and roaring their sparks. And if that wasn't enough to scare us all, they set off another huge display of fireworks behind me and the other guests. One of Eliza's little friends was so traumatized by the party, she was in tears when I brought cupcakes to school for Eliza's birthday. Shaking and crying in the corner, she said: No! No! I don't want to go to a birthday party!

Coming Home, Sort Of

When I first got to San Francisco, I had the usual reverse culture shock. (Or is it just straight culture shock now since most of my life is away from the states?) The stores were mesmerizing. I thought Amman had everything. What it has, I understand more clearly now, is a lot of stuff I don't want. The corner grocer in the Noe Valley neighborhood where Sara and Brandon live was dreamy -- all food you'd want, nothing you don't want. "The perimeter of the usual grocery store," said Sara. Fresh organic produce. Good cheese. Creamy yoghurt. Lots of choices of freshly baked bread. And the baby store wasn't overwhelmingly large; it just had the soft, natural fabrics; the chic designs; the chew toys you can feel confident about AND that the child will actually chew on.

On the streets, there are a mix of people: old and young, gay and straight, preppy, sporty, hippie; Asian, Latino, Black, White. Not that many headscarves, come to think of it, though I did see some. And it's not like there were a lot of African in African dress. But I was impressed by the age range. You don't usually see a lot of hip youngsters at the same place you see mothers pushing baby strollers and retirees doing their coffee/paper/dog-walking thing. Maybe that's just a city thing. You walk. You see everybody, and not just for a brief moment in the car next to you at the red light.

Generally, people are being themselves, openly. The vote's coming up and they have their "propositions" about various local issues, and they talk about them on the radio. Should a teenager have to have their parent's permission to get birth control or an abortion? Ahh. Public discussion and debate. And about things that are important to me.

 

And, I have to confess, it is so refreshing to be around a majority that feels the same way that I do about a lot of things. I am so used to being a minority. Whether it's a non-Muslim in Sudan or Jordan or a Democrat from a red state. Talk about freedom. I could almost be a flag waver if I lived here.