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Zimbabwe diary: Monday - a narrow escape
The Economist
September 17, 2007

http://www.economist.com/displaystory.cfm?story_id=9821376&pub=170907&fsrc=RSS#monday

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I am once again landing in Harare, after a short flight from Johannesburg. Zimbabwe-s capital is closer to home than Cape Town is, but it is another world. The government does not like foreign journalists much, especially those working for a British publication, and getting accredited is no longer possible. So I have never been able to report legally from Zimbabwe, and for immigration purposes, I am there as a lonely "tourist", or on "business". My first visit to Zimbabwe was in 2005, during the government-s Operation Murambatsvina, an urban "clean-up" exercise that destroyed the homes or businesses of about 700,000 people. I wish I had known Zimbabwe when it was still considered a success story. As usual, I have made sure I do not carry anything that would give me away: no laptop, no business or press cards, no notebook. Still, it is easy to get into Zimbabwe. Unmotivated immigration officials collect the $30 visa fee and usually ask no questions. The several daily flights to Harare are very busy, so I don-t stand out in any way. This time I have decided to come on "business". To my surprise, I am asked who my business contact in Harare is. I make up some story about exploring investment opportunities and having no contact yet. The bored official waves me through. I pick up my rental car and drive the short distance towards Harare to meet a local contact who works with me when I-m in town. He risks losing his job and worse if caught with me, but working with foreign journalists provides much-needed extra income.

My local contact - I will call him John - can tell me what is safe and what isn-t, and identifies people I can interview. Informants have become common, especially as the ruling party, Zanu PF is tightening its grip ahead of next year-s election, and it is hard to know for sure whom I can trust. It is easy enough to blend in Harare, but rural areas, where the ruling party-s control is far stronger, are riskier. There, I stand out as a sore thumb, a stranger sniffing around small towns where everyone knows everyone. John tells me we thus cannot sleep there safely, so we will have to drive back to Harare every evening. Ironically, rural areas where the ruling party-s authority is not contested tend to be more relaxed than rural areas where the opposition is still active. In a Zanu PF stronghold, we navigate the many roadblocks with no problem. We also check out shops and talk to one of the few white commercial farmers who has managed to hang on to part of his land. He grows crops for export, like citrus and tobacco. He is one of roughly 350 commercial farmers thought to be left, from 4,500 before the government started redistributing land in 2000. He says he has so far managed to hang on by staying out of politics, maintaining good relations with local officials, and sheer doggedness. He explains that he has gone to court not to fight land redistribution itself, but to try to reclaim equipment and houses that the top government official and a few war veterans who have been given the heart of his farm were not allowed to grab. The farm no longer makes money, but cheap government loans and heavily subsidised diesel help to keep him going. He also plants and harvests on neighbouring farms, which have been reallocated to black owners, and gets half the crop.

But as we drive into a small town east of Harare, the mood changes. The much-feared youth militias are patrolling the streets, and lonely men are loitering. We are supposed to meet one of John-s contacts, whom he has known for years, at the local hotel. He works with farm workers, hundreds of thousands of whom have lost their jobs with the collapse of commercial agriculture. He is supposed to tell me how they are faring in this area, and to introduce me to a few of them. We wait in the hotel parking lot, in plain view. The contact is late, he does not pick up his phone, and night has fallen. I feel increasingly uncomfortable. Something is wrong. After a while, we decide that hanging out in the hotel parking lot, which looks out on the main street, is probably not a great idea, and we go and look for petrol. John finally reaches his contact, who says he will be at the hotel in 20 minutes. I suggest we skip the meeting, drive back to Harare and call him from the road. But John wants to check the hotel-s bar once more. He goes in alone, while I turn the car around, turn off the lights and keep the engine running. This feels like a cheap spy movie. A few minutes later, John walks back quickly, jumps in the car, and tells me to rush off. His trusted contact had arrived, but with five security men. John is shocked. But who knows what kind of pressure his contact is under? Human rights organisations have been denouncing beatings, arbitrary arrests and rapes for years.

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