A tiny glimpse of my childhood

Like scars that never quite heal, I carry memories of people that made an impact in my life. They may mean nothing to you but they are everything to me.

I met Steif when I was 10, he stopped me to ask for directions and in a way I have followed him since. He taught me the proper way to ride a bicycle, and how to enjoy life. When I was 10, Zimbabwe was a paradise, colorful and throbbing with a rythmn of life. People were happy, well fed and life was worth living. If you were an NGO worker dying to make a difference in a developing country, Zimbabwe was were you wanted to be. The tourism bureau sold it as the land of smiles and sunshine (365 days of sunshine!) and the national parks overpopulated with wild animals sold themselves. Steif was doing research in Zimbabwe living a perfect life in a beautiful colonial home too big for 2 people and spending most weekends on his bike, motorcycle or Alfa Romeo trekking weekend adventures across the African landscape. I spent most of my weekends trying to win his heart, he hated children but I was determined. Eventually he took me along on some of his adventures. I remember one hot Saturday, we spent all day fixing the motorcycle, I don't remember whether we did fix it or not, but I remember being with him eagerly fetching this or that and cowering in fear of reproach each time I touched something I shouldn't have or stepped on an important part. I also remember cleaning up with the hose, cooling ourselves from the hot sun.

Twice a week after school I would count the minutes till the bell rang, then with my oversized backpack I would run all the way to his house praying for two things, one that he would be home from work and two that he would have time for me, the first was not always the case but the second always happened. It would take him time to unwind sometimes but he would always find something for me to keep myself occupied. One day I could help him plant something in the garden, another day we would sit outside and read dutch magazines while he enjoyed a cold beer and I, my glass of orange juice. Another day we went through music tapes listening to Mutukudzi while I helped him translate what Oliver was singing about and before I knew it, it was 2:30 and I had to go home. I would find every excuse not to but eventually I would have to lug my oversized backpack that always chaffed my shoulders and made me sweat and take the longest way home reliving my afternoon. Eventually I got him to share his weekends with me, weekends were important for him because he worked so hard in difficult, remote areas where he taught uneducated mothers how to take good care of their infants, the last thing he wanted was to spend his free time with a high strung 10 year old who never seemed to shut up. Soon enough, there we were cycling to the pool with our bag full of cheese sandwiches, fruit and lots and lots of books. We would spend the whole morning at the pool before the crowds came then head home for lunch and more sunbathing. One weekend we went to Tsindi ruins, a couple of hours drive away, this was exciting for me because I had never rode in the Alfa Romeo. I remember being strapped in the back, feeling the warm breeze on my face and watching the white clouds against a shocking blue sky as they sailed above me from the open sunroof watching Steif's strong hands on the wheel. Then there was the time we went cycling for a whole day! I didn't enjoy that much, was hot and tired and cranky by the time we got home and then I had to go "home."

I remember the sleepovers, I had my own "room" which was a corner of a large bedroom. My bed was a mattress with a canopy of brightly printed material with busy patterns that frightened me at night when I could not sleep. Steif would say goodnight to me then head back out to entertain friends, from my room I could here the laughter and clinking of glasses, soft music in the background, every now and then someone would remind a loud talker there was a child sleeping. I remember the book I spent weeks writing on the weird contraption they called a computer. I had my own floppy disks to save my work and I would print pages and pages on the dot matrix printer. I lost that first effort when the computer crashed but I will never forget the hours I spent "working" knowing Steif was nearby to help fix the printer or edit my latest chapter. I knew that child was me and that thought always comforted me to sleep. The night they had their farewell party, I was allowed to stay as long as I wanted and to also sit with the adults. I was mesmerized by the adult talk the wine, the smoking, the food and the dozens of people who obviously felt the same way I did about Steif. The next morning was the best, everyone nursing a hangover including myself (from a little experimentation) we had our nutella and cheese breakfast outside in the sun, read our papers,and hopped on the cycles for a few hours of swimming. On the way back I gave myself a headache desperately trying to find a way to prolong the weekend and not go home.

My friends have childhood memories of barbies, gi joes, play ovens and of playing street games. I have memories of sun bathing, fixing motorcycles, coffee under the tree, dinner conversations under starlit moonlight, mornings spent swimming at the pool and road trips on weekends. I guess a childhood well spent is not always conventional, not everyone gets a barbie doll but every child should experience love and moments of bliss in their lifetime.