The afternoon that Mike and I had arrived in Harare, and checked into crab lice central, we went exploring the nearby area of Harare. The streets were dusty but commerce flourished everywhere. As we wandered back towards the hostel, we came to a street on the right, that had great big houses, and bougainvilla everywhere, and flower gardens, and even some topiary. I said, “Look at these houses and all the flowers. This must be where the rich folk live. Let’s walk down there.” And we turned. I had not taken 5 steps before something slammed into me from behind, and Mike and I fell into the street. It was a man in a business suit, and he got up, brushing off his suit hurriedly, and reached down for my hand, pulling me up. “Get UP!” he cried, “Hurry, get up! You must run!” And he pointed over my shoulder, where I saw half a dozen soldiers with rifles aimed in my direction, running towards us, about half a block away. The man kept my hand, and pulled me across the street, into a gigantic marketplace, and we wove and dodged in and out aisles for 5 minutes before he stopped. We were panting. “That was the street where President Mugabe lives. The soldiers have standing orders to shoot anybody who walks up it.” he gasped. “I could see that you did not know that. I hope that I didn’t hurt you.”

“No, Father, I am ok.” I said, and smiled at him. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You must not go back that way,” he said, “The soldiers will be looking for you.”

“I won’t, Thank you again.”

I looked around me. We were in the woodcarving part of the market. All around me were carved things. Lamps, and canes, and tables and chairs. Busts and chess sets. All of exotic looking wood.There were some men who were working on carving something there in the market. A whole forest of trees, of carved stuff for tourists.

 Poor forests