As we walked down the steps from the Air Rhodesia 707 we caught the scent of flowers in the aftermath of the afternoon rain. The sky was blue as the sun broke through the scattering clouds. This was the freshest air I had ever breathed. In spite of the excitement of actually being so far from home and in a country that was in the midst of a war, I had never felt more at peace.
Of course, the shooting was many miles away in the rural villages of the Tribal Trust Lands (TTLs) or remote farms. We really had no idea what to expect, but we were not at all prepared for the beauty of the rolling hills fronted by green fields. There were a few other cars and small farm trucks on the road that Sunday afternoon as well as locals on bicycles or walking by the side of the road.
For those of you who have never traveled to a country influenced by the British, it is a bit nerve-racking the first time you are a passenger on the other side of the road, especially with oncoming traffic! What made it a bit crazier was that RSM Springer’s car was actually an American import with the steering wheel on the left instead of the right as in most local vehicles. Since I was sitting in the right-side passenger seat, it became my responsibility to advise Harry when it was safe to pass on the two lane asphalt. I wasn’t quite ready to have that much responsibility! Nevertheless, we survived the trip into town.
Salisbury in 1977 was very urban. With numerous office buildings, some as high as 10 or 15 stories, it resembled a medium sized American city, but one that had stopped new construction in the early 60s. The downtown avenues were four or more lanes with parking meters lining them like any typical American city. What was not typical was how spotless and clean everything was. I would later learn that there was no littering problem in Rhodesia. Everything was reclaimed and reused whether it was newspaper used to wrap a loaf of bread or old tires used to make sandals. Everywhere you looked there you saw trees and flowers carefully landscaped to break up the hard edges of the streets and buildings. Salisbury was a beautiful city.
To see a video of Rhodesia from the mid-seventies, spend 10 minutes on each of these links:
Most of the vehicles had been on the road at least since the early 60s, but were sparkling clean without a visible dent. They were mostly smaller vehicles such as the Japanese imports Datsun, Toyota, and Mitsubishi. Of course there were also the British imports Austin, Cooper, and Rover, but almost all of them were at least twelve years old. There were some older Mercedes, Jaguar sedans, small BMWs and the very rare American vehicle such as Harry’s. Most of the trucks were Japanese imports brought in from South Africa. The world had stopped trading with Rhodesia with UN-imposed sanctions in 1964 following its Unilateral Declaration of Independence from Britain.
We were staying at the Jameson Hotel, one of the three major hotels in Salisbury. The Monomatapa Hotel was a 19-story modern building that catered to tourists. It had a beautiful Olympic pool and was a favorite hangout for nightlife. The Meikles was a five-star refurbished older colonial style hotel, very typical of what you would expect in from watching movies about the British empire. The very wealthy stayed there. But we were staying at the Jameson as it had been recommended as the place where Rhodesians stayed when they came to Salisbury. Since we might be in the hotel for a few weeks, we wanted to meet Rhodesians, not tourists or a bunch of stuffy Brit types!
The Jameson turned out to be our favorite place to stay or visit for a meal for all the time we were in Rhodesia and later Zimbabwe. [The hotel grill was called the Sandawana Restaurant.] After Harry dropped us at the entrance, the porter brought our bags up to our room. I didn’t have any Rhodesian currency yet, so I had nothing to tip the porter. I promised I would catch him later and gave him an American $5 bill. Although I was embarrassed that I could only tip him at the going American rate of $5 for one bag, he didn’t seem to mind even though we had several large suitcases and a number of other smaller bags. It was Sunday afternoon, so the banks were closed.
Once I exchanged some American dollars for Rhodesian dollars at an exchange rate of one for one in those days, I discovered that the going rate for a tip in Rhodesia was 5¢ per bag, not $5. No wonder the porter was so happy with the $5 bill I gave him. It was equivalent to carrying 100 bags! Needless to say, this particular porter was at our beck and call for the entire time we stayed at the Jameson. Of course, I continued to tip him appropriately in the local currency, but he was my friend forever!
After we unpacked, we went for a short walk in the park a couple of blocks from the hotel. The park was about two square city blocks and composed of meticulously manicured grass, carefully planted gardens which were filled with flowers and bushes, and overshadowed with dozens of trees. We especially liked the Jacaranda trees with their purple-blossomed branches. People were out walking in the cool post-shower air. This was the start of rainy season which typically meant that there were gentle showers in the morning and again in the afternoon. I wouldn’t be exaggerating to say that we were totally enchanted.
Returning to our hotel room, we opted for a short afternoon nap as jet lag and all the excitement had exhausted us. It was about 4:30 when we laid down, thinking that we would head downstairs to one of the hotel restaurants at about 6:00.
We awakened at 10:00 pm. Obviously, we had missed dinner. It was Sunday, and the whole city was ready for bed by now. So, I called room service. Unfortunately, they had locked everything away for the night. All that we could get was some hot tea with milk and a couple of scoops of vanilla ice cream. We took what we could get. My porter buddy was happy to deliver it to me no matter how late it was! I placed a wake-up call for 5:00 am. I intended to be the first person at the restaurant for breakfast.
The next morning I went for a quick jog. I hadn’t been able to exercise in the last few days and didn’t want to show up at the recruiting office all out of shape. My running shoes got pretty muddy from the field that I found to run in. In a hurry to shower and get to breakfast, I left the shoes behind the bathroom door to clean later.
Pegi was waiting for the porter to bring her a hairdryer. We had left our personal appliances behind since we knew they would burn up in the 220 voltage. Because of the trade sanctions and the scarcity of foreign exchange to purchase imports, the Jameson had only one hairdryer per floor.
I called room service for Pegi so that she could eat while I went down to the restaurant. We were both hungry and desperate for coffee, so I ordered her a full breakfast with two scrambled eggs, 2 strips of bacon, a bowl of fruit and a pot of coffee.
Seating myself in the hotel grill, I was able to help myself to a bowl of fruit: guava, mango, grapes, watermelon, cantaloupe, and grenadilla (passion fruit). A waiter brought me a pitcher of coffee with real cream which I also liberally splashed over my bowl of fruit. My waiter returned to get my breakfast order. He was a pleasant looking African man with an engaging smile and a twinkle in his eye. Maybe he had heard about the crazy American who was tipping at 100 times the going rate? His English was very good, with an accent that I would soon come to appreciate that was part British, part Afrikaans, and uniquely African. He called me “boss” which was the equivalent of “sir.”
What can I get you to eat, boss?
Do you have a menu?
No, boss. You just tell me what you want and I will get it for you.
Oh, okay! Well, I would like two scrambled eggs, bacon, two slices of toast and keep the coffee coming.
With a quizzical look on his face, he looked at the other side of my table and asked:
Two eggs boss?
Yes, I am pretty hungry and would normally have more eggs, but two eggs should be enough, especially with all this fruit. I don’t want to stuff myself.
Two boss? Are you sure?
Yes, I am sure. Two will be enough.
Looking around at the handful of people who were at the grill so early, he said,
Okay boss. Two eggs!
About 10 minutes later, as I was finishing my second bowl of fruit, he returned with an entire plate of eggs—must have been four or five, with a side dish of about four strips of bacon and another plate with six slices of toast.
He placed them in front of me and then set an identical order of eggs, bacon and toast across from me. Looking around the room with a look of concern, he smiled and withdrew.
You see in Africa, “two” means two servings. When you order eggs, you don’t American style by the number eggs, but the number of plates. I suddenly realized that when he had been looking across the table and around the room, he believed I was expecting someone else to join me. He understood me to be ordering eggs for two and was probably expecting to see my wife.
I did manage to make a dent in all the portions he set before me. I was embarrassed enough at my mistake. I couldn’t leave the second order untouched. It was a good thing I had gone for a run that morning to ramp up my metabolism to burn calories!
As I came back to our room where Pegi had just finished with the communal hair dryer, room service arrived with her breakfast. Yes, you guessed it. There were two servings of eggs, bacon, fruit and coffee. I had a little of the coffee, but I didn’t have room for anything else. And I had an 8:00 appointment with Major Lamprecht at the recruiting office. I would have to get my running shoes cleaned off later for an afternoon run or I might be too big for the Rhodesian Army! (Later that afternoon, I discovered that our porter had cleaned the shoes for me, washed and ironed my shoelaces!)
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