Bourgeois Dilemma #6: American Express accepted here

Just about 14 years ago almost to the week, my sweet husband and I had the chance to take two weeks off and travel in South Africa and Zimbabwe, hosted by some dear and very generous friends who were living in Harare at the time. It was a spectacular trip that we remember so fondly. The first leg was in Zimbabwe and was planned to include a sojourn in a remote cabin in the northeast highlands – to mix some fly fishing in with visits to ancient stone paintings and the like.

Our friends offered their vehicle – standard issue range rover, and off we went into the wilderness. MSH at the wheel as in his typically manly fashion he had braved the avis in the Johannesburg airport and had a grip on driving the manual transmission vehicle on the wrong side of the road.

We had one stop before we took off into the woods, to cash some travelers checks in town. Now, if you are quick at math you might have calculated that the year was 1997. And yes, ATM machines were in abundance even in Harare. But my sweet husband was convincing as he prepared his departure checklist that travelers’ checks were de rigueur for global travelers, based on his experience, which was not insignificant. So as we boarded SAA flight 34, MSH had tucked into the inside pocket of his brooks brothers travel blazer our passports, boarding passes, and a slim pleather wallet with about $1,000 in American Express Travelers’ checks.

Parking in downtown Harare at this time was a relatively free form affair that involved finding a parking space minder and paying him to keep watch over the car. MSH pulled in to a spot and made the necessary arrangement, leaving me in the car to add a layer of protection over our belongings and the car itself which stuck out a bit in town.

At the time I had a mere 5 years of new york city under my belt, but I knew better than to look as if I didn’t have full command of the situation so I slid over to the driver’s seat and tried to look as if I would be fully confident pulling out of that parking space at any moment. I kept watch on my erstwhile protector as he made his deals with other parkers and moved about his territory. It was probably a typical day in Harare that morning – fairly bustling. And to say that a blond lady in a big range rover sitting and waiting in the car was a bit high impact might be an understatement.

At one critical moment I noted my parking attendant walking in to an adjacent alley with another fellow and there was just something about their manner that didn’t sit right with me. I kept my eyes peeled as my protector came out and approached my vehicle while his pal circled around to the rear left. This was at a moment in Zimbabwe where it seemed as if the country would be a beacon of hope for sub Saharan Africa, so there was no inherent threat. But, something about their demeanor and their motions set off alarm bells with me so I decided the most prudent thing to do would be to get out of there. This was an impulse easier conceived than executed, as I had not actually been behind the wheel of a car in the land where one needs to drive on the left and shift on the left.

Luckily, i possess an excellent command of the stick shift courtesy of my father who’s idea of teaching his children to drive shift was to ferry his 1980 volkswagon fox (a car which seemed to have an extra ton on it) to a t stop with an incline of about 19% grade and to shout GO FIRST GEAR NOW RIGHT TURN WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU as the gears ground and the car slid perilously backwards down the hill with the motor racing and your sweaty palm sliding off the shift knob while your feet worked the clutch and the gas in a frantic seesaw.

My reptilian brain summoned this skill as I lurched off into the busy downtown street chanting left side left side left side under my breath and trying to acclimate my left hand to the familiar sequence of movements from 1^st gear to 2^nd into 3^rd and then back down. Complicating matters were the relatively high proportion of traffic circles and the local custom of using a form of the game of chicken to enter and exit the circles as opposed to the YIELD that I was reared on. Never mind the fact that I was just driving, concentrating on the mechanics of the car and not so much where I had come from or needed to get back to.

Split screen at this moment would show MSH in the bank cashing his checks. Not a transaction handled at the walk up counter, but an operation involving three offices and a series of stamps at each stop. He might very well have been the last person to cash an American express travelers check at the national bank of Zimbabwe, with its three shiny atm machines in the lobby, but the bank manager and his assistant and the assistants assistant made the most of the transaction, throwing in some extra stamps and signatures for good measure.

Triumphant with his $200 cashed into $Z35,000 (forgive the fact that I don't remember the actual exchange rate and really forgive the fact that I cannot bring myself to dwell on the great tragedy that is Zimbabwe, who's currency no longer exists so horrific its plight as a nation), MSH emerged from the bank to note that the car, with his wife inside, was gone. To this day, I am not entirely sure how high his blood pressure might have spiked but luckily, before he stroked out, I reeled around the corner, threw open the passenger door and shouted GET IN, an order which he promptly obeyed.

And then we were free, flying up the highway paved by money Mugabe had stolen from the people of Zimbabwe to make his commute faster, and off into the mountains. We did enjoy the rock painting cited by the guidebooks en route, and then shortly thereafter, a rhythmic wumpa wumpa wumpa caused me to murmur I think we might have a flat tire.

Up next: fix a flat, African countryside style.