From Rags, to Riches...to Robbed.

After a very uneventful, and rather boring, four-day stay in Bulawayo (Zimbabwe's second-largest city), we were ready for a change. We decided to hop the overnight train to the capital city of Harare, opting for the (presumed) comfort of a sleeper car over the cramped seats of a combi or touring bus. Besides, at $10/person for first-class it was a bargain, compared to the rates at some of the dumpy lodges and hotels we've experience in the country.

The train was to depart at 8pm and arrive in Harare around 9am the next day. (Certainly a much longer ride than the five hours in a bus, but it was much less expensive, we could stretch out, sleep, and save on one night's accommodation.) As soon as we boarded we began to understand the drastic differences in price.

The floor boards in the hallway of our car were rotting out, to the point that someone is gonna fall right through to the tracks in one of the trips very soon. The entire train car reeked of body odor but, sadly, this is fairly common in buses...and just strolling down the streets of Zim. And, the door to the compartment adjacent ours was in such need of some WD40 that it let out a terribly high-pitched screech whenever the door was opened or closed, and that was quite often. The toilet was disgusting, covered in a black film which I would prefer to never know the source of. But, at least we had a private compartment...

Our first-class compartment was filthy. I mean straight up nasty. It appeared as if maintenance and cleanliness were two things that had not yet been imported to the country. Heidi had decided she would sleep sitting up, not wanting to get her clothes, sleep sheet or body infected by whatever lurk on the pleather bench seats/beds. (Luckily, we were offered bedding, which appeared clean, and were able to put a barrier between ourselves and the remnants of previous passengers.) And as for security, our door was initially built with a sturdy lock (which was now broken) and a little slide chain, similar to those found in hotels and apartment buildings. The little knob for the slide was so worn that it didn't stay in place and was replaced with a large screw fastened into the chain. Nice!

After some time the two of us managed to get some sleep, although it was much less comfortable than the trains I have slept in before (in Eastern Europe). When I awoke the next morning I was sick. My head felt stuffy, pounded terribly and I had convinced myself that it was the result of the nasty odors and invisible creepy crawlies throughout the train. Moreover, I really had to make a #2, but would've rather stuck my ass out the window than use that bad excuse for a toilet. Since we had only about 90 minutes to go, I decided to hold it.

Nine o'clock came and went. Our sheets were collected and another railroad employee popped his head in to tell us we were almost there. Looking out the window I saw no evidence of a city of more than 2 million, but rather that of agrarian society. Finally around 11am, after I had concluded I would die, and gave Heidi my final wishes, we started to see piles of garbage, cramped together buildings and masses of people. Thirty minutes later we were disembarking, giving everyone else in the station something to look (or stare) at. (Apparently, the whites of this country don't take the trains or combis as we get stared at like nobody's business every time we do.)

We ran into some kind of rally about human rights at Unity Square, and the place was packed. People were whipped up into a fervor, but broke up fairly quickly when the keynote speaker was whisked away by a small motorcade. After that we grabbed some pizza and hailed a taxi to Greystone, the neighborhood where we would be staying for 2 nights with Idir, our Couchsurfing host.

When we pulled up to the address given us, after the cabbie asked three groups of men where it was, we were sure a cruel joke was being played at our expense. The home was in a small cul-de-sac with only 4 others, each of which were behind large stone fences with very well manicured shrubbery. The taxi driver pressed the button.

I explained to the disembodied voice on the other end that we were looking for Idir. The man stated that he wasn't there, but let us in anyways. Turns out the guy was the property owner and Idir was renting his guest cottage. The gentleman welcomed us and gave me Idir's cell number, which I promptly called while the man stood watch over us. Over the phone, Idir explained that we should make ourselves comfortable and he would be in a little later, as he was at work. The landlord let us in the cottage and we plopped down on the couch and watched the Food Network until our friend returned home.

Idir was extremely charismatic and friendly from the get-go. He showed us around the house and offered to let us use the showers, which we were both in need of after the arduous train journey. While Heidi was washing up we chatted and I learned that he is an Algerian national working, on contract, here for a company called Telecell, helping to update their network. He explained that he had had similar jobs all over the world, particularly throughout Africa. He was fairly young and was ready to get out later that night and show us a night on the town, and we didn't want to be rude...

As he was leaving for an hour or so, we inquired about nearby dining options. There were none. He then offered to drop us off somewhere or let us dig through his cupboards. (His contract was ending, and although he planned to return in about a month, much of the food would go bad, so he offered it to us, if we could prepare it.) We decided to stay there, whipping up a simple salad and some pan-fried potatoes while he darted out to visit a friend.

When he returned it was time to go. He brought us to a place called Lime, which was similar to nightclubs back home. He continued his generosity by paying our cover before I knew what was going on. And, he even got the first (and later, second) round of drinks. He then took off for a company Christmas party, leaving Heidi and I at the club for about 90 minutes, where we just chatted and people-watched as the DJ played hits from the 90s and machine-generated fog filled the room. Upon his return we took off for a disco down the road.

As we waited in line to pay the $10 cover Idir received a call from a friend. There was a happening private party right next to the Chinese Embassy, and we should go there. Thank God! The last thing I wanted to do was pay $20 to get on a dance floor with a bunch of 19-year-olds. That being said, the people watching outside was a trip and a stark contract to the street scenes of central Bulawayo or Harare. Here kids, black and white alike, were decked out in the latest designer fashions, pulling up in imported European rides that were thumping like my Cadillac back at Henry High. Good times...

Some guards outside the party directed us where to park our car on the lawn, blocking in a dozen others in the process. The party was complete with a DJ and throngs of beautiful people from all over Europe, Africa and India. This was certainly a party for children of diplomats and other movers-and-shakers here in Zim. It was a wild sight, but it wasn't our scene. While Heidi and I stayed close, refusing to mingle with the strange crowd, Idir did the same with his Egyptian buddy. After an hour or so he was ready to go, and so were we. He offered to take us back to the disco we left, but we were spent and all of us headed home for the night.

The next day Idir invited us to lunch with some of his friends. A fellow Algerian was preparing couscous hand-rolled by Idir's mother in Algeria. How could we refuse? We offered to get a bottle of wine for the hosts but Idir refused, as he had a box of soda, beer, wine and liquor which he was already bringing. (Basically, he was cleaning out all drinks from his house, as he was returning to Algeria the following day.)

For lunch we were also joined by a couple of French girls (working at their embassy), a young German woman (in country with an NGO), the Egyptian buddy from the night before, the host, and Momma Rose and her family. Momma Rose is an old Irish lass who spent 30 years in Zimbabwe, before leaving for Italy with her husband when the political situation started to get hot. She was accompanied by her daughter (who recently moved back to Zim, from NYC, to get cheap labor to help raise her son) and her grandson. They were all a trip and seemed to have the mentality that the locals are a bit sub-human to themselves. Rose stated that she never exploited any blacks during her time in-country, but the way they both referred to their helpers was just a little jarring for me.

Together, we shared a wonderful meal of couscous, which was covered in a meaty broth to add some flavor. The conversation was wide-ranging and, at times, interesting but I couldn't help but feel out of place. The French gals seemed a bit self-righteous and Momma Rose's crew a little bigoted. Thankfully, the three North African men were all very engaging, friendly and intelligent. I must say it was a very strange mix of people, but they were all there for a good reason: to bid Idir adieu.

The next morning Idir was leaving very early, allowing us to sleep in and leave at our leisure. As we retired that night we said our farewells, and he even gave us 6,800 Kenyan Shillings (about $80), stating he wouldn't be using it and we should. We explained that we wanted to do more to show our gratitude, but he declined anything else, stating that is not the purpose of Couchsurfing, and suggesting he might hit us up for a place to crash in America someday.

Around 11am (the next day) we ambled out of the gates of our temporary home, with Idir's dog chasing us down the long drive. (She had become quite attached to Heidi, and the opposite was true as well.) We had about an hour walk to the nearest bus stand, where we would take a combi into central Harare and find a budget place to crash. As Heidi's back was hurting, I carried both bags for half the distance. As we were getting fairly close to the main road a little VW Golf pulled up and the driver asked if we wanted a lift.

Exhausted and sweaty I quickly accepted. Being a fairly small ride, the driver stated that we could put the bags in the trunk. After loading them in we hopped in the car.

As we headed down the road the driver engaged us with conversation about Wikileaks, what we thought of Zimbabwe and other rather inconsequential topics. I explained that we really liked the people and felt very safe here. After a short ride he pulled off the road and stated we could catch a bus at the corner. We thanked him for his kindness and I tried to give him some money for gas, but he repeatedly refused. We hopped out and as I opened the trunk the car sped away...with our bags still inside!

I yelled at the top of my lungs, hoping he had made a mistake and simply forgot, but this was clearly a deliberate act. A nearby security guard ran out to check out the commotion, as another man ran towards us and a group of ladies looked on. Everything was gone. We had our cash, credit cards and passports, but everything else was in the trunk of that God-forsaken Volkswagen.

(Usually we keep the hard drive, camera and mp3 player in a separate bag, which never leaves our side. But that day I told Heidi we should put everything in our backpacks, as the combis are very cramped and more bags just mean more hassle. It was the perfect storm of crapiness for us, and made the criminals' haul slightly more valuable than worthless. Beyond the bags and aforementioned electronics there was little more than stinky clothes, toiletries and anti-malaria medicine.)

On the verge of tears, and pissed at myself for being too trusting (i.e. gullible) we moaped over to a nearby military base, explaining what happened to the two camouflaged kids toting AK-47s. They were of little help, but a guy driving into the base said he would take us to the police station after he got some things from inside.

The police station was little more than a counter with two female constables and a two-way radio. There we filed the report, after which we took a cab to the Central Police Station for an official stamp from the officer-in-charge. From there we went to he US Embassy, knowing full-well that they would likely be of little assistance on a Sunday.

After explaining our predicament to the Zimbabwean guards I was allowed into their little outpost, while Heidi sat under the midday sun. Inside I spoke with an American woman, over the phone, who extended her (rather insincere sounding) sympathies and told us to come back the next day.

The following day a consulate officer gave us some info on getting money wired (from family) and where to get more anti-malaria pills before sending us on our way.

At our budget lodge, on a rundown little street close to central Harare, I told our tale of woe to a group of Zimbabwean men who asked how we were finding the country. Once we got into our room I was scolded by Heidi for doing so. She told me that I need to stop telling everyone our business, instead keeping things simple and polite. Although I am rather trusting of people, in general, perhaps she was right...

A day or two later, when we returned from buying some new (rather expensive, but cheaply made) clothes the manager came to our room and said a man wanted to speak with me about what happened to us a couple of days prior.

The man was a middle-aged black dude with a shaved head and salt-and-pepper beard. He asked me to sit before stating that he was sorry to hear what happened to us, but could help us get our things back. What the hell? Immediately I thought this man was working in cahoots with the thieves who had, somehow, found us and came to extort us for our luggage. My head began to pound as a rush of emotions, from relief to anger to violence, filled my being. The I began the interrogation...

The stranger calmly stated he didn't know these men, but could get the things back via African juju: black magic. He offered to perform a spell on my leg, making it swell to twice its normal size, in order to prove his abilities but I declined, instead continuing with questions in order to determine if this man knew our assailants. During our conversation he made two phone calls to someone (that sounded like a woman), speaking in an unfamiliar tongue which was interjected with English words from our conversation.

The man stated that the criminals would be compelled to bring our things to us, due to the juju, if I performed a spell which he would give to me for $30. After our things came back to us he would require an additional $150. Well, even if he was in cahoots with the bastards I would shell out $180 to get all of our things back. So, I inquired more: how would the criminals know where to bring our things? He explained that, since they dropped us off at the lodge, they would know where to go and the juju would force them to do it. But, they hadn't dropped us here and had no idea where we were staying, I explained. Stunned, the man stopped and thought. He explained that the juju would not work, and apologized before walking away. A woman also staying at the guesthouse, who knew this guy, was listening in and explained that another, more powerful, man would visit her he following day and could, possibly, help us. I shrugged and returned to my room.

I am fairly certain that none of those people were affiliated with the thieves, instead either genuine believers in the powers of juju, or simply con artists looking to make a buck on our misery. Regardless, the whole situation made me (and later Heidi, when I explained everything to her) even more uncomfortable, so we decided to check out the next morning and find another place to stay.

Now we are staying with a wonderful couple, who we got hooked up with via Heidi's friend Lorie (and her friend Michelle). With only a text they invited us into their home, which is already plenty full with two kids of their own, another girl they are caring for, two dogs and a cat. They are teaching at the International School out here and have a lovely home, with a beautifully manicured garden. We are sleeping in the rather basic, but nonetheless fabulous, guesthouse. They have been nothing but very kind, even having us join them for a family dinner last night. Their kindness and generosity, along with that of many other people we have encountered, fills my heart with joy...especially after the dastardly act of a couple of dudes whose actions made me want to hop on a jet plane and go home only a few days earlier. (Had it not been for my wonderful Heidi boo, I probably would've done just that.)