Ilha do Sal (Salt Island) hadn’t changed in the five years since our last visit. The two-hour refueling stop off the coast of Africa was still barren sand. We were greeted by the same humorless soldiers and guard dogs. We were locked in the same room in the terminal. The same ceiling fans slowly circulated the hot dry air and the air-conditioning was still not working.
I gazed out the locked and smudged windows at the heat shimmering off the tarmac and the Aeroflot plane parked a few hundred meters from our South African Airways 747. That hadn’t changed either. Of course, in Zimbabwe, that was one of the big changes. Soviet, Chinese, Cuban and North Korean aircraft now frequented the airport in Harare (formerly Salisbury) welcomed by their fellow Marxist, Prime Minister Robert Mugabe.
The reality of what we might face in Zimbabwe troubled me. Yes, Amos had assured us that we would be welcomed in Zimbabwe, but Amos was in Louisville and seemed to have lost any interest in returning to his home. Of course, before leaving the States, we had contacted the Zimbabwe Embassy with regard to our return. I had honestly explained that we originally travelled to Rhodesia to fight against the establishment of the current government, but that I had a change of heart and wanted to return to share the Gospel. There was no point in fabrication. If any of my military records remained, they would find me out. I had been told by the Army Chief of Staff that all records of foreign soldiers would be destroyed, but I couldn’t minister the truth of God if my presence was based on a lie.
The embassy had confirmed that we were “welcome” to travel to Zimbabwe. They suggested that we apply for a “resumption” of our previous residency in Rhodesia. The tone of their reply was very encouraging. Informing us that we would immediately be granted a visitor’s visa at the border, they recommended pursuing the residency application once we were in Africa.
The plane’s air-conditioning was a welcome relief. As I settled into my seat for the final eight hours of our flight, my worries submerged as I drifted back to sleep. The next thing I remember is awakening as the pilot announced that we were approaching the African coast. I awakened Pegi. Her migraine had finally lifted. We made our way to the lavatory to change into fresh clothing for our arrival at Jan Smuts International Airport in Johannesburg.
The 747-400 touched down at 6:00 pm local time on Friday evening on December 2nd, 1983. We cleared customs and checked into the airport Holiday Inn. South Africa was just as we remembered it: the signs in English and Afrikaans, the beautiful blue African sky, the cool evening breeze with fragrances of the local flora, the mix of European, African and Asian foods, and even the odor of the local petrol produced from coal shale. All the odors were fragrant reminders of the Africa we so dearly missed.
We started phoning acquaintances now living in South Africa whom we had known from Rhodesia. Dave and Kinny Phelps came to the hotel to greet us. Kinny’s brother had been a member of parliament in Rhodesia. Over coffee, they invited us to stay in their home during our time in Johannesburg.
During our time at the Phelps’ home, Eugene and Thora Wiseman dropped by. Eugene had “ordained” me into the Rhodesian chaplaincy as pastor of Gatooma Baptist Church in 1978. He was pastoring a small Baptist church in the Johannesburg metro area.
Eugene gave me Bill Dodgen’s telephone number. This was sure to be interesting! I had made an idiot of myself in my dogmatic opposition to Bill’s pentecostal beliefs. Because of the rift between us, Col Wood had moved me from Salisbury to Bulawayo when he retired as Chaplain General to be replaced by Bill Dodgen.
In the intervening years, I had completely flip-flopped on my position with regard to “gifts of the spirit.” I now sought to develop my own spiritual gifts in ministry, especially with regard to healing and dealing with demonic influence. To my surprise, Dodgen had also changed in his ministry. He left the Apostolic denomination and was pastor of a small non-charismatic Baptist church. He was friendly and “cheered” to hear about my new charismatic explorations.
Eugene took us to the train station and utilized his Afrikaans skills to get us ticketed and our bags checked for the almost three day trip. Stan Hannan met us before we boarded and he too assured us that “the doors of ministry in Zimbabwe [were} wide-open” for us. He gave us a list of contacts in Harare as well as a cash gift for the trip.
We said our farewells and climbed aboard the Zimbabwe Railways coach. The brass plates in the coach cars still said “Rhodesia Railways” and there was an “RR” etched in the window glass. Independence had begun the name change process, but there was only so much that could be accomplished in the three years since 1980.
As we settled in our train cabin, we “wondered” how strange and how sad was all of this! All of our Rhodesian friends seemed to be prospering in South Africa, but their new lives were dim reflections of “their” Rhodesia. They were uniformly encouraging of our return. Nevertheless, it was a melancholy sendoff as they knew that there was no longer a place for them in their own homeland.
As the train began the long trip through Bophutaswana on its way to Botswana, we watched the African countryside flash by. As we slowed to passed through the train stations of the rural countryside, various “hawkers” would approach our windows offering us fruit, sandwiches and drinks. The food and drink on the train was excellent, but we happily availed ourselves of the periodic refreshment, especially as we were reacquainting ourselves with the always smiling, local populations. It was beginning to sink in that we were really back in Africa!
We were still fighting off jet lag, so as evening approached, we were happy for the porter to turn down our bunk beds. It was hot, especially as we moved north towards Botwana and the border of the Kalahari desert.
We had checked most of our bags into the porter’s coach
keeping just two suitcases with our cooler clothes in the cabin. When I opened our cases, I was surprised to see that Eugene’s conversation with the porter in Afrikaans had left us with our heavier winter clothes in our cabin! We had nothing cool to change into, not even a change of underclothes. We were destined to spend two and a half days in the same clothes.
We had an uncomfortable night trying to sleep in the very short bunk beds. I am 6’2 and Pegi is 5’7--both too tall to be able to stretch out! In addition, we found that opening the cabin windows allowed in diesel fumes from the locomotive along with our fresh air. Ah, the adventure of it all!
We were visited in turn by customs officers from Bophutaswana, Botswana, and finally entered Zimbabwe on Friday, December 9th. The train stopped in Bulawayo for a few hours. We decided to take a stroll around downtown and found an outdoor restaurant to have our first cup of tea in Zimbabwe.
When we had lived in Bulawayo in 1978, it was lonely. The once bustling trading center of Rhodesia had already experienced an exodus of residents. But, we were troubled with how much more deserted it was now. There were few, if any whites on the streets and the once “manicured” city park and gardens were showing signs of neglect. It was depressing and frankly, just a tiny bit frightening.
Upon exiting the train station, we passed a crippled African who was panhandling. I felt guilty about not stopping to drop a few coins in his can and pray for him. So, on our way back, we looked for him, but he was gone. I had missed my first opportunity to reach out and help someone in Zimbabwe. I made a silent promise to myself that I would not be so preoccupied that I would pass up such an opportunity again.
The next morning our train pulled into Harare at about 9:00. The customs officer had forgotten to clear our luggage when we stopped in Bulawayo. I would have to take a taxi to the airport to clear customs since there was no customs officer at the Harare train station. So, I sent Pegi ahead in a taxi with our two bags of winter clothes to the Jameson Hotel. I climbed in another taxi for the 30 minute ride to the airport. We had to hurry as the train station would close until Monday within the hour! I cleared customs at the airport, returning to the baggage car just a few minutes before 10:00. By this time, all the bags had been unloaded. Ours were not there! Apparently, during one of the car and engine changes in Bulawayo, the baggage car with our luggage had been connected to a train that would not arrive until Monday morning!
When I finally got to the Jameson, Pegi was already showering in anticipation of my arrival with our first change of clothes in three days. The only thing we could do was get dressed in our travel-weary clothes and hit the stores before the closed at noon. We hustled over to Greaterman’s, a department store and purchased several changes of clothes to get us through the weekend.
The sales clerk at Greaterman’s was an African Christian. Hearing our story of our arrival, she personally welcomed us to Zimbabwe as missionaries and invited us to visit the church she attended. Well, so far so good!
After changing into our new clothes, we treated ourselves to lunch at the Sandawana Room Grill in the Jameson. The Sandawana Room had been the location of my first meal in Rhodesia and a weekend favorite during our Rhodesian days. It would remain our favorite place for the rest of our time in Zimbabwe. For us, the Jameson was home in Africa.
Next: “Kalanyoni” -- The Call of the Bird
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