May 2003

Martin

UPON MY RETURN HOME, I learned that Wallace was really struggling at school. His parents had written me a letter. They were so appreciative of my American family’s help that they invited me to come stay with them in Victoria Falls while I waited for more news from the United States.

I was happy to accept. There was nothing to do in Mutare beyond hustling at the market for spare change. Wallace’s parents offered me a place to stay and a job helping them at their bed-and-breakfast. This meant I would have access to phones and the Internet, which would help with securing a scholarship.

It was a two-day journey—the first stop was Harare, then Bulawayo, and finally Victoria Falls. The last leg of the trip was breathtaking as the train barreled up Zimbabwe’s western corridor. It was nighttime when we passed through Hwange National Park, the largest game reserve in the country. I could see the silhouettes of the baobab trees rising above the grasslands in the moonlight and then a sea of red dots that suddenly stood still before disappearing into the night.

“Antelope,” my seatmate said.

We had baboons and other monkeys in Mutare, but we didn’t have antelope or elephants or lions hanging around. I didn’t blame these majestic animals for staying so far away from the cities. I kept on the lookout all night, hoping to spot one. No luck. Perhaps the sound of the engine scared them off.

The sun had begun its rise as we pulled alongside the Zambezi River, which feeds the falls. Locally, we call them Mosi-oa-Tunya, which means “the smoke that thunders.” I saw the spray rising in the distance, a shimmering fog, and truly understood.

I recognized Wallace’s parents, Tecla and Phanuel, immediately. I saw Wallace in each of them. They were waiting for me at the station, and their accents were familiar, as they come from the Eastern Highlands, like my family. I felt immediately at ease. We drove back to their house, which reminded me of the picture Caitlin sent me of hers. I was astonished by how humble Wallace’s parents were, as it was clear they had great wealth.

Tecla showed me my room and the bathroom.

“I’ll make sure to bathe early so as not to disturb you,” I said.

“That’s not necessary,” Tecla said. “We have our own bathroom—this is for your use.”

She then invited me downstairs for breakfast. I took my seat and was stunned when a maid entered the room with a platter of scrambled eggs.

I said hello, and she bowed her head at me as she served me.

I’d never been served by someone in this manner. It made me think of my own mother, who had started doing this work in Mutare. I wanted to say, “I’m happy to serve myself,” but I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I kept quiet.

She disappeared back into the kitchen and returned with cereal, tea, and orange juice, which I had never tasted before. It remains my favorite drink to this day.

Tecla and Phanuel filled me in on Wallace’s news. I did not know that he had moved in with Caitlin’s family for a while, or that Anne and Rich had helped him find a new apartment with a much nicer roommate to finish his freshman year with.

“Anne treats Wallace like her own son,” Tecla said. “We’ll never know how to repay her kindness.”

“I feel the same,” I said. “This family is the reason I’m sitting here with you.”

Phanuel asked about my own college news, and I told them I was still waiting for a scholarship.

“Anne and I speak often,” Tecla said. “She’s determined to find one.”

“And from what she tells us, so are you,” Phanuel said.

I was determined—and I really had to be, as I had not made any other alternative plans. Optimism was key. If I doubted now, even for a moment, I would never get to the United States.

We finished eating and I went to unpack. I had only brought a few things: the three shirts Caitlin had sent me over the years, my dungarees, cargo shorts, and Fila sneakers. As I hung things up in my closet, I saw that every item of clothing I owned came from Caitlin. Somehow, they gave me hope. I showered, and then changed into fresh clothes. Tecla was waiting for me downstairs to take me to the falls.

As we approached the national park, I heard a dull roar—it sounded like an army of angels clapping. We pulled into the parking lot, which was thronged with mostly white tourists. From there, we walked down a dirt path to the first viewpoint. The ground beneath my feet trembled so much, I could feel the vibration in my teeth. Soon, a damp spray was enveloping me. It moistened my skin and turned trapped sunlight into soft rainbows. The vegetation became more lush and vibrant green as we neared the first gorge. The sound was deafening by the time we reached the cliff’s edge and I finally saw why: The cascade of water was so vast and mighty, I thought, the angels were not only clapping—they were giving a standing and stomping ovation for a spectacle only God could have created.

From there, Tecla took me to the bed-and-breakfast a kilometer away and introduced me to the staff as the new receptionist. My job was to greet and check guests in, and then help with any travel requests.

My first day, I met two Americans, four Australians, and a group of people from the United Kingdom who had arrived on a tour bus. Victoria Falls is a must-see stop on any Zimbabwe package tour. Tourists would stay for two days before heading down to Hwange. I’d never seen so many white people in my life—I told everyone I met about Caitlin.

At the bed-and-breakfast there was a computer connected to the Internet, so I was able to communicate with Caitlin and Anne frequently, though there wasn’t much news. Waiting was quite painful.

In the meantime, I read an ad in the newspaper about a pre-departure orientation for Zimbabwean students who were planning to study in America. It was taking place at the US embassy in early June.

I called the number listed and spoke to a woman called Rebecca Mano. I told her I was very interested in the orientation but wasn’t sure if I’d be going to college that September, as I was still awaiting a scholarship.

“Tell me your name again?” she said.

“Martin Ganda,” I said.

“I know you!” she responded. “Your pen pal e-mailed me a few months ago!”

“Caitlin?” I asked.

“Yes,” Rebecca said. “She got in touch to see if I could help find Zimbabwean sponsors. I wish we could.”

Caitlin had never told me this, but I didn’t let on.

“Oh yes, of course,” I said. “We’re not giving up.”

“Nor should you,” she added. “I was recently on the phone with Villanova’s office. The recruiter was raving about you. Come to the orientation. This way you’ll be prepared when they do find the money.”

Those words instilled such hope—as if the angels were clapping for me, too.

I asked Tecla if it was okay for me to go to Harare that weekend, to attend the course.

“You must!” she said.

Alois and Sekai once again greeted me warmly.

“When you do go to America, don’t forget everyone here,” Alois said.

“That would be impossible,” I replied.

I’d never been to the American embassy before, but it was like they planted what I’d imagined was a building from New York City or Washington, DC, in the middle of Harare. I walked through the wrought-iron gates and felt like I was suddenly transported to the States. Even the doorknobs were different—big, heavy, and polished. Proud.

I entered the building and walked up to the security guards, who asked me for identification. My name was on a list, and the guard pointed down a long hallway to a room where the orientation was taking place.

I saw a white woman with long blond hair holding a clipboard and asked her where I could find Rebecca Mano.

“Mai Mano,” she said.

I was shocked—I was certain Rebecca was black. When we spoke on the phone, her Shona was impeccable. As I was still reeling, she asked if I got my majeksen—Shona for “vaccination injection.” She spoke my native tongue fluently.

I had just started wandering around the room when Rebecca called everyone to take seats and explained that the orientation was to prepare us for some of the bigger cultural differences between Zimbabwe and America.

“Money is quite different, for starters,” she said. “US bills are all the same size, so make sure you look at the number in the corners,” she explained.

I knew this already. This was going to be a breeze.

But then she handed around coins. They were totally confusing. She said the ten-cent coin was smaller than the five-cent one, but was worth more, and was also called a dime.

I started taking notes.

There were about twenty other students there, all going to the US for the first time. Most were black kids from Harare whose parents were paying for everything, but a few came from far away like me. I was the only one awaiting a scholarship.

Next, Rebecca introduced Freedom, who was already studying in the US.

“Americans are funny about food,” he began. “To start, there’s so much, you won’t believe your eyes. A hamburger is the size of your plate.”

Everyone laughed. This was something we all wanted to see.

“If you have a roommate, you don’t have to offer them any of your food,” he continued. “And if your roommate leaves food in the fridge, you have to ask permission before you eat it.”

We all started laughing again. In Zimbabwe, everyone shares. I wouldn’t eat if you weren’t eating, too. That would be rude.

“I learned this the hard way,” Freedom continued. “My roommate reported me for eating his leftovers.”

One girl raised her hand. “Why?” she asked. “Leftovers means you are full.”

Everyone agreed, including Freedom.

“That’s how we feel here,” he said. “But America is different.”

This was important information. Freedom next talked about clothes. Same deal: Americans don’t share their clothes. For us, there is no mine or yours. I could wake up and my mom would be wearing the T-shirt Caitlin gave me, or my brother would have on the shoes I often wore—it wasn’t a big deal. In Shona, we say the little we have, we share.

Even at Marist everyone shared. Some people would bring cans of fish from home because we didn’t get fish at school. Or they would bring peanut butter. If my peanut butter runs out, I’d say, “I’m getting peanut butter from your jar.” No one cared.

Rebecca introduced another student, who told us about parties and how everyone drinks beer. That was shocking. We didn’t do that at Marist. Our parties were alcohol free—at that point I saw myself as someone who would never drink in my life—I’d had one sip of beer and thought it tasted nasty. Many students at the orientation were already over twenty-one, so this guy said, “Be careful. Buying alcohol for underage US students can get you in serious trouble.”

“What kind?” someone asked.

“You can be arrested and deported,” he said.

I jotted that down, too.

American greetings were another topic.

“If someone asks, ‘How’s it going?’ The answer to that question is, ‘Fine.’” Freedom explained. “No one has time for anything else.”

This was fascinating. We have six different ways of saying hello in Shona, each appropriate for a specific time of the day. “Mangwanani” means “good morning,” and is usually the start of a five-minute conversation, like, “How did you sleep? What are you going to do today?” In the States, Freedom said, people just say “Hi” and keep going.

I’d taken four pages of notes by the time the American ambassador arrived. He told us that he went to Harvard with Edson Zvobgo, the first black Zimbabwean to go to that famous university. “He eventually became a professor in the United States,” the ambassador said. “People often talk about the American dream—Edson had one. And now you do, too.”

By July, I hadn’t heard anything from Caitlin or Anne, and I was starting to get nervous. I sent them a quick note, using all caps, to stay positive. Somehow these large letters helped. I told them I was waiting patiently—which I was truly trying to do—and to please keep me updated on any news. I signed it with a string of Xs and Os, and then MARTIN (2003 UNDERGRADUATE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY STUDENT).