Scuba Diving and More Death. This is More Than Serious.

The clouds are back at last, but only a mm of rain. At least it is cooler.

Please forgive me, I'm going to meander for a little bit. It may contradict the chaotic world we found ourselves in at the turn of the millennium. A time of sleepless nights, fear and uncertainty. Families torn apart.

That was where I had reached in my previous blogs, that is, the farm invasions, vandalism, beatings and first farm murders occurring in early 2000. But once again, the sequence of events has triggered a forgotten memory. On recalling that memory, it has put me in a place later that was so well stamped in my memory due to the third farmer's murder. Let me take you through it. 

The Ethel Mine quarry at Mutorashanga where we did our practical dives

“One memory prompts another one. All memories, good or bad, are important because they are the stitches in the fabric that holds our past.” - Peter McSporran

The memory I had subconsciously forgotten was that sometime in 1999, Wendy and Joe Whaley, Tinks Bezuidenhout, and my future sister-in-law, Lorriane Cary, were convinced, I think, perhaps on Wendy's urging, that we should all learn how to scuba dive. For what reason, goodness knows, we all lived in a landlocked country with most of the dams and rivers home to crocodiles. These reptiles are much more aggressive than sharks, always on the lookout for an easy meal. I always considered the spear gun fraternity in Zimbabwe as crazy; I had no ambition to join their fraternity under the water in Zimbabwe, with or without oxygen. It was, however, something different and handy to have if we were to continue visiting the Mozambique coast, where we all snorkelled at one time or another. Remember, this was just before the land invasions, so we still had hope for our future in Zimbabwe. We completed some theory in the classroom and basic training in the Mount Pleasant pool. No problem there, but you should know that although I have been a swimmer throughout my life, the buoyancy of the wetsuit I found to be a huge relief. I am not the strongest of swimmers, more a brick than a cork. We then headed to a large disused quarry, the old Ethel Mine, in the Mutorashanga area, to put our newfound skills into practice. To my surprise, even chagrin, I found my fears of drowning were probably unfounded, as I had to add multiple weights, not just in my belt, but in my diving jacket pockets to get my body to submerge. I put my buoyancy down to the wetsuit, while my fellow learner divers probably rightly attributed it to my rather large ‘Rhodesian Front’, that is; my beer belly. So the quarry was easy, a breeze, although the water was very murky and looked green from above the surface due to the mineral content. But then we were told that we would do our final course dive in the Chinhoyi Caves, which raised our consternation levels, especially amongst the lady divers. Despite our nerves, we men put on a brave face. We, the white people of Zimbabwe knew them as the Chinhoyi Caves, while the traditional local name was ‘Chirorodziva’, the place of the fallen as this was where the Angoni tribe and others tossed their enemies, dead or alive. There is a forty-five metre drop from ground level to the surface of the pool. It is also called the ‘Wonder’ pool because of the clear water in the large collapsed cavern, which is some forty-three by eighty metres. People have drowned trying to find the deepest part of the caves, with many branches leading off into its dark depths.

The crystal clear water at the entrance to the "Sleeping Pool' which has a massive cavern hidden below it.

 LuLu (Lorraine), on entering the water in the cave, was like a multi-armed turbo-charged octopus. She complained of ear problems, being unable to keep her balance, and any motion forward resulted in somersaults. Hence, the multilimb cartwheels she produced amused us learners but dismayed the instructor. Meanwhile, Tinks, oblivious to any danger, was happy to let herself sink out of sight into the depths of the cave while our instructor, Mike Donald, was dealing with Lorraine. What a shambles. Mike was a very mild guy, but that day his patience was well tested. After retrieving both Lulu and Tinks to the edge of the pool, they received a very severe warning: any more antics and they would have to leave the course as failures. With that threat, they calmed down. I think there were probably another six people on the course, along with Mike’s wife Shirley, all couples, all of whom were much better behaved than we farmers were, and so we set off down into the depths of the caves. Things were going well until we found ourselves well under the rock with no air or daylight above our heads. I swam along, guzzling air. I was about to find out I was the one who guzzled the most when I suddenly saw a face mask sink past me. Startled, I looked up to see one of the ladies with both her face mask and mouthpiece removed, gasping for air and heading up towards the non-existent surface. She was in full panic mode. Mike swam to the rescue and, with the help of her partner, swam to a place where they could surface for breath. Needless to say, she, there and then decided scuba diving was not for her. The caves brought the dimension of claustrophobia, likely in open water, she would have had no problem: Tinks, the Whaleys, Lulu and I all passed the course somehow.

The steps leading down to the 'Silent Pool." Not so easy on the way out with your diving kit and tanks. .

The following year, a few months after the land invasions began, my girlfriend at the time, Sharna Farquhar, decided to pursue her PADI licence. After completing the Open Water course, she convinced me, a poor swimmer, to take the Advanced Course. Yes, by fifty, I was already an old fool. We did this together, which entailed some extra tasks like underwater navigation, rescue and night dives. This time, it was Mike’s brother, Allan Donald, who was our instructor, not quite as relaxed as Mike was in his instruction. Our final task on that course was a night dive, and what better place than the Chinhoyi Caves? It was an exciting experience, especially trying to follow the glow stick of the person in front of us through the dark passages. I can assure you that most of us stayed within touching distance, let alone sight. I have no idea where we went, but we did swim into several different caverns, all with no surface, just rock. Once again, I somehow passed; Sharna breezed it. Sadly, Allan Donald drowned a few years later in a diving accident in Mozambique. Nobody seems to know for sure what happened, as he was a highly experienced diver

Diving in the Chinhoyi Cave

In April of that year, during the invasions, Sharna convinced me we should take a break, and why not include diving? She found an all-inclusive diving holiday in the Comoros. I discovered that there was only one holiday hotel on the islands at that time that offered all-inclusive holidays, frequented mostly by Zimbabweans and South Africans. It certainly was not the tranquil island retreat I had envisaged. As we were there for the diving, that's what we did, at least once a day. Many of the dives were wreck dives, as we were to learn, and we witnessed the inshore coral reefs being destroyed by dynamite fishermen. Every night, we would hear explosions and then see vast numbers of local ladies scouring the coral for the dead fish at low tide. There was little coral left and even less fish. Further offshore and in wrecks, the conditions were better, and the diving more interesting. 

Now I come to the bit on why I remembered the diving courses and this holiday so well. On arrival at the hotel, I was happy to see many of the Riley clan, Norton farmers, there with their children, taking a break like us from the madness taking place at home. They farmed across the Darwendale dam from me, so I knew all of them well. In the evening, over a beer, we would discuss the horrific events in Zimbabwe being shown on the BBC and CNN on our hotel TVs. I recall Paul and Liz Retzlaf on the BBC, which reminds me that it was early April when I was trying to fix a date of my time in the Comoros. Paul explained how his workers came to his rescue and suffered severely for it. This happened in several incidents, and somehow this made all farmworkers enemies of the state, coupled with a presumed or actual allegiance to the Movement of Democratic Change (MDC). We all felt guilty about our absence. The one family person noticeable in his absence was Alan Dunn and his wife, Sherry, nee Riley, and their three daughters. They had stayed at home. I knew Alan well, from shows and cattle sales. Tragically, in early May that year, Alan was brutally murdered by politically motivated thugs and the next time I saw the Riley family was at the Presbyterian church in Highlands at Alan's funeral.

Allan Dunn was murdered by the so-called War Vets. Loved by his family and highly respected by his fellow farmers and his farm workers.

Alan was the first Saler breeder in Zimbabwe, and while he espoused the benefits of the Saler breed, I would tease him in return about bringing hairy, large cattle to the subtropics. As it turned out, Alan was also an active member of the MDC. He had therefore become a prime target for the thugs or war vets, as they preferred to be called. Sure enough, after an absence on the farm for a couple of weeks, on his return one Sunday to pay his labour and collect his daughters' clothes for school, they came for him, attacking him in his carport while Shelley and his daughters fled out of the house on hearing his screams of pain as the war vets pounded him with cement blocks. He survived the attack but died the next day from his injuries in the hospital. Another friend murdered, another widow and young family without a breadwinner. The Government tried to claim it was criminals, but the farmworkers were clear that it was ZANU(PF) thugs and had tried to warn Alan of their presence on the farm. It was reported in the overseas press that his death brought the total to nineteen since the beginning of the farm invasions, including MDC members, farm workers and farmers.

A few days later, another Harare South farmer, John Weeks, was shot and died from his wounds. These deaths were used as threats for more dire things to follow if we did not leave the farms, and yet we hung on. 

Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.