Tourism trade fair in Zimbabwe

Spring and it's Jacaranda season in Harare

Travellers who say they do not want to visit Zimbabwe because their dollars will swell Mugabe's coffers are actually contributing to the detriment of the environment, many of Zimbabwe's tourism providers believe.
"The environment cannot wait for political change. By the time that is achieved much of our pristine wildlife reserves will be gone and once gone it will be forever," said Clive Stockil, member of the board of the Zimbabwe Tourism Authority.
"We need you - those dollars go into conservation. We have got too much in this country that puts us ahead of our competitors in the rest of Africa for us to ignore and not keep focusing our natural attributes."
 Speaking at the 2011 Sanganai/Hlanganani travel and tourism fair held in the Harare capital mid-October, Stockil said: "I genuinely believe that it just takes a few minor changes in terms of governments and global perceptions for this country to get back to being among the prime African destinations."
The Zimbabwe Tourism Authority's (ZTA) annual tourism fair held at the Harare International Conference Centre situated at the Rainbow Towers Hotel, formerly Sheraton Hotel, attracted 746 exhibitors sharing 206 stands, according to Tesa Chikaponya, ZTA executive director destinations marketing.

Ivory in a National Parks strongroom

Leonard Nhidza, head of investigations for the Department of National Parks and Wildlife Management, says that in terms of visitor numbers this year has so far seen an improvement but was still below the numbers of the 1990s.
National Parks' director general Vitalis Chadenga appealed to the international media to apply pressure on the world community to lift the ban on the sale of ivory. "We have 44 tons of elephant ivory and five tons of rhino horn in stock of which we are not allowed to sell: this creates a problem for us."
The parastatal has suffered from lack of funds for years, and wants to be allowed to plough the proceeds of the sale of the stock - which comes from animals that have died naturally he says - back into conservation.

Vitalis Chadenga speaks to the press

Around US$100 million was needed to manage all their resources. "We are only managing to raise only 25% of that," said Chadenga. "Poaching is very severe and we need to work very closely with other law enforcement agencies."
Positive changes are apparent, the most recent being Zimbabwe and Zambia winning the bid to jointly host the 20th General Assembly of the United Nations World Tourism Organization (UNWTO) in 2013 at the Victoria Falls.
She welcomed the arrival of airlines to Zimbabwe including Emirates Airline, due to start operating from Dubai via Lusaka to Harare from February 1st next year. SAA had also increased the size of the airplane operating every Thursday from Johannesburg to Harare.
"This is the first time the UNWTO has had a bid from countries that want to co-host," said Chikaponya. "The nation is excited and rearing to go."

Original article

https://www.eturbonews.com/50470/change-global-perceptions-and-visit-zimbabwe

Operations

Why is it that relatives, friends and the medical profession deem an operation such as a removal of a cyst on an ovary ‘chicken feed’ or ‘a small procedure, hardly worth mentioning in conversation’ or ‘nothing to worry about’ and even ‘a breeze, don’t be hysterical’ yet you have to go through the normal rigmarole of any operative surgery and they expect you to emerge from this fresh faced, cheerful and bouncing with positive energy?

      It is surgery after all, an invasion of the body by small metal objects with pointy fingers at the end and a pulling about of your inner bits. I didn’t think it was easy nor fun, in fact I was terrified from start to finish, no matter how small a performance it may have been for the jolly laughing surgeons and accompanying choir. There were two surgeons, an anaesthetist, six technicians monitoring the laparoscopy machines plus countless others mopping brows and other bodily parts no doubt. Doesn’t sound like a small job to me.

       I know a lot more about the recovery period of course, than of the pre-period. Though at the latter I did manage to pin the anaesthetist down as to if it was true that sometimes the surgeon thought you were unconscious but in reality you weren’t, and that you could actually feel every agonising tug, but unfortunately were rendered paralysed by the copious assortment of drugs that are shovelled in every available orifice one has, so couldn’t call out in pain.

“Hollywood has a lot to answer for,” sighed anaesthetist Mr X wearily, who did his job and shielded the barrage of questions efficiently before slinking off into the great sparking-white squeaky clean arms of the Emirates Hospital.

I know an awful lot more about the operation than I feel comfortable with too, since my gynaecologist, beaming, presented me with a DVD of the entire inner procedure. In graphic colour. [Anyone who wants a copy of this is welcome to email me on tuppy.robertson (at) gmail.com]

Then the next thing I knew they were slapping me about, getting me to wake up. Just two minutes ago they had knocked me unconscious. “Really!” I thought. “What do they want?” In reality it was 1.5 hours ago, incredible all that lost time, what had they been doing?? Anyway, I was told by a haze of faces peering down at me like Exhibit ‘A’ that all was well, it was a clean surgery (I wondered what a dirty one was), I’m in the recovery room, when ready they will move me to my private room.

“Cool.” I said.

I’m no doctor but know that the ovary is far south, yet the biggest pain was in my throat – did they remove a tonsil instead, I asked querulously? No one listened; in fact I was ignored as they put it down to post-operative drivel. But it was so sore I could hardly swallow, and when I did try water it dribbled out everywhere else rather than down the gullet.

 “Early days yet!” said the Croatian nurse breezing into the room super-efficiently. “You have some ice, yes?” which arrived in such huge icebergs I couldn’t put into my mouth no matter how hard I tried. Had to wait for it to melt. By then I had nodded off again.

You know, a hospital is possibly the only place where you can get away without worrying about the niceties of speech, just get down to the nitty gritty, and the nursing professionals get away with it.

“Have you made gas today?” asks a Filipino nurse. Wonder how she would ask Sheikha **** that question. I suspect it is fairly standard questioning from the nursing profession after most types of surgery. None of that stiff-upper British politeness here. My sister always asks: “Have you been?” if I’m looking particularly peaky on an evening. Apart from the language barrier problems we experience in Dubai’s multicultural society, I suppose it is difficult to euphemise when asking if you have farted or not. How do they ask in England?

Anyhow, I replied somewhat imperiously: “Does it matter?” Of course it matters, I discover later: if you don’t get rid of the gas I gather you will resemble a Zeppelin before too long. After all, I had just had four holes punched through my abdomen (it was to be fair, a keyhole procedure and I think the cuts were small, can’t see them yet over the fat stomach) and the body isn’t a vacuum under these circumstances.

When the dreadful pain relieving drug tramadol wore off (made me feel like a zombie) there was scope to let the mind meander about idiotically, which it did.

“Nurse, there’s an air bubble in my intravenous tube!” I’m panicked as in one episode of Scrubs I think it was, some patient starts to foam at the mouth then convulses and it is stated by a dweebie looking intern (of course), that this is due to bubbles in the intravenous tube.

“Oh – is OK!” the Thai nurse smiles brightly, and squashes the tube so the bubble reaches further towards my skin and the opening into my vein on my hand. “Is small one.”

 I think it would be advantageous to know all the ins and outs pre-operation, but there are so many small details the medical professionals wouldn’t even dream about passing on.

“You athlete?” Chinese twin nurses ask. (Well they looked the same, presumed they were twins.)

 “….er  not exactly, but I do run maybe twice a week and swim three days a week, but I wouldn’t call myself an athlete.”

 “Must be why your pulse rate so slow,” they surmise. OMG I’m dying. And BP 107 over 70? What does that mean? “Your blood pressure low but is OK,” they harmonise and giggle. Why do they giggle like that?

Rang the nurse bell to say “I’m hungry” - haven’t eaten for 24 hours. They didn’t tell me beforehand I was on a liquid diet, they just avoided bringing anything at all apart from chamomile tea. The biscuits that came with it (given I suspect as a decoy to avert me off the thought of food) were so “light” I masticated them to cement line my teeth which took an hour to clean off with the tongue and so again kept my mind off food. Ordered bangers and mash, (well she did ask what did I want, and that sounded a good option, no menu per se) but got damn tasty watery vegetable soup and full of salt, praise be. None of this hysteria about salt in food here.

 Most frustrating aspect? Having slept all day on some god-awful sleep-inducing drug I’m bright eyed and bushy tailed, yet unable to go anywhere nor do anything, least of all sleep. At 2.30am have read half my book, and needing a change of direction aimed the TV controls - yes - at the TV. No channels, apart from Little Britain. I’d rather watch the wall than suffer that utter filth. Am glad though to have summoned an Indian nurse this time (it’s like the United Nations in here), as they know a thing or two about fiddling with wires, as HRH the Duke of Edinburgh once observed. She manages to find the very first episode of Blackadder and a series of ‘Allo ‘Allo. What a pleasure! Only I forgot I shouldn’t really laugh, but the drugs coursing through my veins are covering up any pain I could be feeling. Hooray for drugs!

I was warned about the referred pain in my shoulders, something I would never have thought normal. “After keyhole surgery, you may have some pain in your abdomen and in the tips of your shoulders. The pain in your shoulders is known as referred pain and usually improves within 48 hours.” Why is it there? It’s most odd.

So roll on next Monday for the next bout of pain – the stitch removal. Could someone tell me why they don’t use dissolveable stitches?

Petra Jordan

Jordan’s ancient pink city of Petra carved out of dusky sandstone rocks is simply a joy to behold. There is nothing quite like it, and nothing really prepares you for it. The only way to understand Jordan’s most valuable natural treasure is to go there and see it for yourself.

The city’s imposing facades featuring large columns, tombs, carved figures and square blocks cut into the rocks in 6th Century BC by the Nabataean Arab people, takes away the breath of even hardened travellers. Set on the edge of Wadi Araba, the 264-square kilometre designated “archaeological park” of rugged sandstone cliffs changes moods depending on the time of day. The rocks range in colour from red to orange to pink to golden hues with slashes of white, grey and black randomly interspersed.

Linking the outside world to Petra is the As-Siq, a 1.2 kilometre long narrow sandstone gorge through which horse-drawn carriage drivers speed through at a thunderous rate, while their tourist cargo wince as the cliffs on either side of the gorge loom some 80m above them. Walkers are surprisingly unscathed here, and have the benefit of slowly savouring the moment when the incredible Al-Khazneh – The Treasury - reveals itself at the end of a bend in the Al-Siq.

Feeling like Harrison Ford, the broad brimmed hat on my head possibly being the only resemblance, we simply gaped at the massive façade of The Treasury, one of the most elaborate buildings in the ancient city. Its classical Roman influenced architecture featured in the 1989 movie Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade as the exterior of the Holy Temple where the Holy Grail was located. Carved out of the rose-pink rock face in the early 1st century for a Nabataean king’s tomb it dwarfs all, standing at 30m wide and 43m high. Today of course, the shrewd curio sellers touting for business know Harrison Ford as an old mate – some even have his hat, and guess what – it’s for sale. If you believe that, you believe anything.

Supporting Jordan’s jewel are the warm, welcoming inhabitants that live, work and play in the ancient city itself as well as those living in the town of Wadi Musa at the entrance to Al-Siq. Wadi Musa’s 35,000 residents have a fierce pride in Petra in particular and Jordan in general. “Welcome to Jordan” is the most common greeting. Surprisingly this top tourist destination and UNESCO World Heritage Site still hasn’t been spoiled by the indifference of mass tourism where mediocre cuisine and bad service are accepted simply because if you don’t like it, there will be hundreds of others who will fill your place.

The crazy mix of people all have a story to tell, and if you take the time to listen and not be worn down by the constant touting for business you will discover the real Jordan.

There are the carefree, alarmingly handsome Bedouin horsemen that carry weary tourists into and out of the ancient city, dramatically scooping up stragglers with gusto and great humour. That’s the thing about the Bedouin, who have been living in caves surrounding Petra for more than a millennium – they are good humoured rather than annoying provided you too play the game - haggle hard, keep your sense of humour and laugh with them.

“Taxi?” asked the 20-something Bedouin Ameer as he steered his donkey Jack, picking its skinny legs delicately over the crumbling sandstone pebbles. “Air conditioned!” he added, white teeth flashing in a brown face. By the time visitors have walked through Petra’s tomb fronted Street of Facades, past the still utilised 6,000 seat Roman theatre and climbed the 900 steps cut into the rocks leading to the Monastery and back down again, they are grateful for the use of a donkey’s back.

The donkey “taxi” owners have their designated patch in which to operate a business and go no further lest they incur the wrath of another Beduin also trying to make a living. Ameer was born in and still lives in the caves, scorning the new village of neat flat roofed concrete houses with running water and electricity which glistened in the distance, built by the government for the residents of Petra. “My ancestors lived here forever – so too do I,” he said defiantly.

While their constant jostling for business can be annoying some have to be admired for their unique selling points. There’s an old toothless man behind a tiny stall packed with trinkets within the Street of Facades who offers tourists “genuine” ancient Nabataean bones. “Here!” he thrusts out his hand excitedly, as if discovering it for the first time. “This is a genuine 6,000 year old finger bone!” Talking to him reveals a hard life in the ancient city, yet a refusal to move into the government housing and a deep love of Petra.

An undeniably strict tour guide, who had such eloquent English he must have been schooled in Oxford, took us on a scheduled candle-light night tour of the ancient city. He demanded – and received - total silence from the 300 visitors who came to hear him speak about Petra’s magic. We walked from Wadi Musa down the As-Siq gorge to the candle-strewn clearing in front of The Treasury. It was eerie, but enchanting to be among those 300 walking in the dark in silence, the crunching of gravel and swishing of clothing against legs being the only sounds heard apart from one or two rebellious coughs or nervous laughs.


Other tour guides based in Wadi Musa are less fierce - including Aiman Al Hassanat who organises trips further afield to Wadi Rum and Aquaba, even offering tailor made bicycle tours within the region. Mohammad Asri Hamadeen – so knowledgeable about his desert he can drive through it at night without headlights – takes guests to Wadi Rum where remnants of the film set of the original Lawrence of Arabia pierce dramatically into the sky. Asri is deeply passionate about Wadi Rum, its weather-etched rock formations and sweeping landscapes of red sand turning into yellow turning into black.

The carefree horsemen too, like Abraham Naoflh, are happiest when leading seven-day horseback safaris into this desert, delighting all who take part with their desert knowledge sprinkled with charm and mischievous humour.

The town’s hotel managers and staff from the modest three-star Petra Inn to the five-star Taybet Zaman aim to please and make every guest feel welcome. Palestinian Ibrahim Samhouri, owner of the Sandstone Restaurant set among the many open air cafes along Wadi Musa’s main road can arrange “whatever you like”. His excellent food including a specialty dish of “camel lamb” is served with style and a smile. “As you like” and “It’s up to you” are also favourite sayings, because basically it’s your decision what you want to do – the rest can be arranged.

Without its supporting cast, Petra would still be magnificent – but soulless.