Dave Broom had a contact who lived north of Zimbabwe in Zambia (formerly Northern Rhodesia). Vijay was an Indian Christian businessman living in Lusaka, the capital. He was the chairman of 32 companies and was a “prayer partner” with President Kenneth Kaunda who had been leading Zambia since independence. Zambia had been an African-led socialist nation since the British granted in independence in the 1964. It had been a major staging base for Marxist guerrillas into Rhodesia from the mid-60s until 1979. Its main industries had been white-run agriculture and mining. It was sparsely populated compared to Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) under white minority rule. So, by 1986 there were few whites left and the economy was in tatters. What little government there was depended on bribery. The roads were in terrible condition. The main highways were paved, but there was no apron to pull off the side of the road in case of a breakdown. You could break your axle if you pulled off the pavement. There were bandits everywhere and roadblocks aplenty. Sometimes these were police roadblocks, but they were bandits with badges. You had to be prepared to pay bribes to pass through.
There were many opportunities for ministry and Vijay had been trying to recruit evangelistic ministries such as Dave Broom’s to appoint representatives who would take up residency in Zambia to promote Christian education for those who responded to their evangelistic events. Dave suggested that Vijay would be eager to help establish and fund our ministry efforts in Zambia. We decided to drive to Lusaka and investigate the prospects for us there since it was becoming increasingly obvious that our days in Zimbabwe were over.
So, we loaded up the car with a month’s supply of baby food. Dave cautioned us that none was available in Zambia. Indeed, when we visited a grocery store in Lusaka there was nothing at all on any of the shelves except for some suspicious looking cucumbers—and not many of them! Pegi and I put 6-month old Abi in her carseat and began our exploratory journey that we expected to take about three weeks.
We arrived at the border to clear immigration as visitors. We had gotten visas at the Zambia embassy in Harare, so our paperwork was in order. We had crossed the border between Zimbabwe and South Africa 12 times in the last three years, so had some idea of what to expect from immigration and customs bureaucrats in southern Africa. As we left the Zimbabwe side and approached the Zambian border post, we were shocked out its condition. It was in bad repair. It seemed that no one had done any maintenance on it in at least 20 years. The main office was a shambles with three or four men in worn and filthy uniforms. The place was shabby with worn out furniture. The “officials” were sullen and reluctant to help us. It seemed that we were their only ones seeking entry and they were clearly surprised that we were white. Apparently, few Europeans (whites) frequented their border post. After all, why would someone really want to visit Zambia. It was poor, depressed, and there seemed to be a pall of gloom in the air.
Nevertheless, the border guards were hesitant to give us passage. They told us that cholera was a problem and that we needed to be vaccinated. We showed them proof that Pegi and I had been vaccinated, but they wanted to inject Abi with a big ugly syringe. Anticipating this before leaving Harare, a doctor had advised us that since Abi was nursing, she shared Pegi’s immunity. We refused the vaccination. The officials weren’t happy, but put away the big ugly syringe.
Then they wanted to do a customs inspection and asked us to open our trunk. In it were a couple of suitcases with clothes and that carton of baby food that we had purchased in South Africa. They wanted to know if we were smuggling in baby food to sell in Zambia. I explained that the food was for Abi as we expected to stay in Zambia for 3-4 weeks. They finally gave up when it became obvious that we were not going to offer them a bribe. They made us pay an entry fee of $2 per person and sent us on our way. $2 was probably equal to a week’s pay.
The road to Lusaka was lonely. It had a fresh coat of blacktop, but that pavement had a drop off of about a half a foot. That meant that if you pulled off the road, it was like going down a step. You could pull off the road, but you could damage your undercarriage if you tried to get back on. Traffic was scarce and the only stops we made were at checkpoints. We had been warned that some roadblocks were not police, but bandits posing as police. Police and bandits expected bribes to get through and so we had to stop several times for “inspections.”
We were driving a used Peugeot 504 that we purchased for R3600 (about $2200 at the time) from a retired KLM pilot in South Africa. It had South African registration and plates. This was before black majority rule in South Africa and apartheid was still a huge issue. Nevertheless, we got through the checkpoints without paying bribes or being hassled too much.
The unexpected complication was related to the electrical system in our car. In the middle of a downpour, our windshield wipers stopped working, followed by our A/C, radio/CD player and interior lights. It was daytime so we didn’t need headlights and we drove miles at a time without encountering another vehicle. But I was worried that if we turned off the engine, we might not be able to start it again. The car was diesel powered, so it was realistic to leave the engine running.
We reached the outskirts of Lusaka but we had no map of the city. I left the car running as I used the public phone at a petrol stop to call Vijay for directions to his home. I explained that we were having trouble with our car. He replied that he would come and meet us so we could follow him back to his house. He arrived a few minutes later in a shiny new Mercedes sedan—one of five that that he had for his personal use. Leaving our car running, he had one of his employees take our car to have it repaired for us. [Two days later it was returned to us with a new alternator and a repair made to the driver’s seat. It kept collapsing backwards on me and I had used suitcases to keep it upright.]
As we entered the gate to his property, the five Mercedes sitting in his driveway were matched by the beautiful two story home that sat on about an acre of carefully planted gardens. We were shown into a expensively furnished home. As we sat down for a snack and tea, servants took our suitcases out to the pool house where we would be staying.
Vijay and his wife were excited to have us visiting and he enthusiastically suggested how we could have unhindered opportunities for ministry. They were part of a tiny Indian community but as evangelical Christians, they had a lonely existence. Vijay met regularly with Christian businessmen and government officials who struggled to attract evangelical missionaries and ministries to plant themselves in Zambia. He had the resources and connections to get us residence visas within a few days and we could develop our ministry however we desired.
There would be no need to prove ourselves to other established ministries as we had struggled in Zimbabwe. It didn’t seem that there was any significant interest in resident ministry. The Zambian Christian community was neglected. The only interest was from outside ministries like Dave Broom’s providing periodic major evangelistic events. These events were great at stimulating interest in Christianity, but didn’t provide guidance living a God-centered life. The evangelist “rock stars” drew crowds, but there was no system of followup, growth and discipleship.
Vijay was eager to facilitate and support our ministry. He realized that we needed a home first of all—a place to raise Abi and to share a place in the community. In the coming days he would take us to look at homes in the community that he owned or could lease for us. But, we were exhausted from the trip. After a luscious Indian-style dinner, we retired to the richly furnished and appointed pool-house for the night. It seemed like a dream compared to the struggles we had in Zimbabwe.
The next morning after a lavish breakfast, the shine of promise began to show some tarnish. There had been a fresh pitcher of water in the bathroom. I had considered that thoughtful. It was at breakfast that we were cautioned, “Only drink the water in the pitcher. Never drink the tap water because of cholera!” Yipes! Pegi and I had brushed our teeth and rinsed with tap water. I didn’t remember swallowing — I hoped!
Vijay wanted to give us a local tour to see what life was like, so Pegi, Abi and I climbed in his Mercedes. As we exited, I noticed that there was a wall about 12 feet high all around the property. Such things were common in southern Africa as a protection from petty thieves. This wall had several inches of broken glass on the top. That was kind of ominous! The front gate was made of sheet metal and there was a full-time guard stationed there.
It seemed as if Lusaka itself was deserted. We visited a grocery store to find it essentially empty except for some very stale brown bread and a few pitiful cucumbers. The butcher’s section had a full staff, but no meat! Vijay then took us to an Indian-owned bodega that had a wide variety of products, including many that were not available in Zimbabwe. They were imported primarily from South Africa. Okay, so we could find the items we needed in small quantities at high prices.
The upscale neighborhood where he lived had a number of homes that would be suitable for us, but everything seemed desolate and barren. There were no crowds on the streets, few cars or trucks on the road and a pall of sadness hung over everything. Zambia’s golden days as Northern Rhodesia had ended in the 60s with independence, elections for majority rule and followed by “white flight” to Southern Rhodesia which held on to white minority rule until 1980. Zambia, however, never developed an apartheid-like system with economic sanctions from Britain and the rest of the western world. Zambia’s copper mines had played out, its agricultural system that had been supervised by whites could not adequately supply the needs of the growing under-educated and untrained African populace. Zambian socialism had failed and the only sector of the economy that seemed to function was bribery. If you have seen videos of stark and meaningless life in the Soviet Union of the 1960s . . . well, this was the African version but even more depressing.
Vijay introduced us to one or two black Christians, one of whom was a pastor. He was sad and joyless. There was just nothing to be excited about. It didn’t stimulate our imagination at all. Sure, there were things that we could do, but there just didn't seem to be any energy or interest from Zambians. We were in a forlorn wasteland where everyone seemed to have lost their expectation of a better life.
Returning to Vijay’s home, he said that he would take us to a great Indian restaurant for dinner. We would be able to leave Abi with several of his female household staff. They had already been fawning over her, so we felt comfortable being away from her for a few hours. We knew she would be safe at Vijay’s home with the walls topped with broken glass and an armed guard at the gate. I am not sure that Pegi was quite as sanguine as I was about that! As we drove out the gate Vijay instructed the guard forcefully, “Do not open the gate for anyone except me!” Yeah, maybe I wasn’t so sanguine about this either!
We were welcome, but felt that we would be swallowed up in the starkness of despair. We couldn’t do this on our own! There was no one to engage. I don’t think I could have even gotten an argument started. I was Jewish—there was always something to argue about! But, no one seemed to have any interest in living.
We had seen enough of Zambia. It had nothing that had attracted us to Rhodesia and Zimbabwe—the people. Thanking Vijay for his hospitality, we headed back to Harare. Once we crossed the border, the gray fog lifted from us. We had connected with Zimbabwe and its people. If we couldn’t get permission to stay there we would return to the USA and start over again—this time focusing on building a life for Abi.
We returned to the Broom’s in Harare where we discovered that Patel had called to say that the Minister of Home Affairs was reconsidering our case. We decided that if we don’t get a positive answer by Thursday, that we will leave. We were tired of being messed with over this! We suspected that Patel had used monetary inducements with Minister of Home Affairs before and there is probably some sort of “negotiation” going on that was primarily about his business interests. Maybe he saw helping us as a way to assuage guilt about the things he had to do for his own business.
A few days later, Patel called to say that he expected a positive answer “any day now.” I told him that we had decided to return to the USA.
We began disconnecting from Zimbabwe. We gave our Peugeot to Felix. We found a home for our Cavalier puppy and my 12-string guitar with the Swiss guy who had succeeded me at the Church Growth Support Centre. We began saying goodbye to the Hess, Silk, Taylor and Broom families who had opened up their homes to us.
The day before we left, Nyazema, the Headmaster of the Darwindale boarding school where we had often taught the assembled grandchildren of former freedom fighters of ZANU came to say goodbye. He had been an leader in the insurgent forces that used to raid Rhodesia from Mozambique in 1976 when I had arrived to join the fight against them. He had become a Christian after the war as he founded a school on an old tobacco farm 20 minutes north of Harare. There were 800 boy students and a couple dozen teachers—all participants or descendants of the ZANLA forces under Mugabe. We used to visit them two or three times a month. The last time we were there, they took us outside to show that the largest building on the campus was now named “The Jeff and Pegi Wasserman Block (building)” alongside other buildings named after revolutionary heroes of the wars for black majority rule. This was quite an honor!
The next morning Dave gave us a ride to the Harare airport. We cleared customs and were seated in the departure lounge, I called Patel one last time to thank him for his efforts on our behalf. He said that just that morning he had heard from the Ministry of Home Affairs that the “final decision” had been made on our residence visa. It had been “turned down.”
That was in November of 1986—ten years after our first arrival at that same airport in November of 1976. The first decade of our marriage was over. We said goodbye to Zimbabwe and turned our faces home to Louisville. The next decade would be Abi’s decade to grow up in her birthplace, Louisville.
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