Two hours in Zimbabwe

Borders are funny places. I thought it was a joke when I was informed mid-fight that our plane was destined for Harare, Zimbabwe before going to Mozambique. It did not quite bother me that I would spend a few hours inside the country recently made famous by mad Mugabe. Still, a little warning would have been nice.One time I went to Spain for twenty minutes. I was in Northern Portugal, near the border, where I took a ferry across the river, walked around for a few minutes and then returned to Portugal. There was very little to do in that part of the city so my professor decided to return our class to our country of origin. How arbitrary, I thought, to move across a miniscule body of water where everything looks, sounds and smells the same to call it different. Another nation. A new world.Anyway, I was coming from Kenya, trying to reach Mozambique, when the pilot announced our stop in Harare. This was funny since when purchasing said ticket in Zanzibar, I was promised that after inconveniently flying to Nairobi, I would be taken directly to the capital of Mozambique, not Zimbabwe. Our plane landed in Harare and even though I never exited the aircraft, it was strange to stop in and stare at a land I had no intention of staying in nor returning to. The un-crowded airport contained one “Air Zimbabwe” plane and a sign that said “Welcome to Zimbabwe.” The few passengers destined for Harare disembarked while the remaining riders waited for Kenya Airways to refuel. From the small Plexiglas window I watched porters unload baggage, while others loaded heavy sacks of snow peas into the cargo hold. Later, Zimbabwean airport employees entered the plane to vacuum the air craft and restock in-flight snacks. The familiar sounds of Swahili were replaced with the intriguing melody of what I assumed was Shona as airport workers chatted amongst themselves and cleaned the plane. When the clean-up finished, the local employees exited the aircraft, and on came the new passengers who would join us to Mozambique. And then, as simply as we had entered Zimbabwe, we took flight and exited. What a weird diversion into a space so close to the others I had been in, yet so isolated, so badly bordered by unfortunate politics, so far from where I intended to be. Now I am in Maputo trying to figure out how this is not Brazil or Portugal. Is it only because it exists within the confines of Mozambique, within the edges of the African continent? Is that what defines us? This reminds me of crossing the Tijuana border. Two parallel worlds divided by languages and bureaucracy. Borders lie along identical land masses, with an intention to trick one into seeing something different. Somewhere else. Borders, essas fronteiras, are funky spaces where one is almost compelled to believe it. .