JOURNALIST GINNY STEIN WAS PRETENDING TO FILM WILDLIFE, BUT FOUND HER UNDERCOVER SAFARI THROUGH ZIMBABWEAN POLITICS FAR MORE TERRIFYING. CARTOONS BY BILL LEAK AND JOHN DITCHBURN 

Wednesday, July 16, 2008 – “I am in hiding. They are looking for me.” That message from Mischek Kagurabadza arrived on my mobile phone not long after he was elected to the Zimbabwean parliament.

Kagurabadza was once the mayor of Mutare, Zimbabwe’s third largest city and a stronghold for the Opposition’s Movement for Democratic Change.

He knows what happens when you stand up against Robert Mugabe and his ruling ZANU-PF thugs. The Mutare council had been in the government’s sights for years. Unable to exert control over it, in 2005, the government sacked it.

Undeterred, Kagurabadza stood for the national assembly at this year’s March general election. In Mutare, the Opposition Movement for Democratic Reform had a clean sweep. But like all other elected MPs, Kagurabadza was not only prevented from taking office, he lives not knowing if he will survive the day.

In our most recent phone call, he said he was fine, but on the run. His bag is always packed. Every few nights he moves on, to keep ahead of his pursuers. He’s heard that they want to charge him with treason, for allegedly promoting violence. In a nation that pays only lip service to the rule of law, going to the police is not an option. “The most probable thing… if they get hold of me is to detain me and maybe charge me and imprison me for a period of at least two years,” Kagurabadza told a colleague just before Mugabe reinstalled himself as president. But it wasn’t imprisonment Kagurabadza feared as much as simply disappearing – the fate of scores of Mugabe’s opponent.

This life on the edge is being played out across Zimbabwe by tens of thousands of people. It’s not just elected officials, but ordinary Zimbabweans who are singled out for not supporting the ruling party. When I first contemplated entering Zimbabwe in 2005 I had two main concerns; the logistics of working and how to do it safely.

What to pack for a nation with nothing? And who could I trust? Based in Thailand, I tried to imagine what was most needed, knowing I would have to carry everything across the border myself. Luckily, a colleague who had recently arrived in Bangkok had been based in Harare in the days when foreign journalists were still tolerated.

There is camaraderie among those who have covered this difficult country and a willingness to share information. There’s also an understanding of the dangers of getting it wrong. But once inside, knowing who to trust is another matter. The state media is controlled by ruling party loyalists. My Bangkok colleague, to whom I am forever  grateful, put me in touch with “Dee” a Zimbabwean who he described as brave enough to work with a foreign journalist and a wonderful companion.

Since we met almost four years ago, Dee and I have spent months on the road in Zimbabwe and in South Africa. As the situation has worsened in his country, his resolve has strengthened. “There are some people who are in politics right now; I happen to be working with the media and that’s my way for fighting for change in Zimbabwe,” Dee said recently.

Our first meeting was at the Zimbabwean border after I had crossed over on foot from South Africa. I had no idea what Dee looked like and no way of contacting him. I carried paperwork identifying myself as a wildlife documentary maker scouting for locations. I had letters from “my company” printed in Bangkok, requesting I carry a satellite phone for security reasons.

The rest of my gear was broken into smaller pieces through my bags and esky of food and water. With all these preparations, the result of a briefing with SBS’s security consultant, no one took any notice. Visas are bought in hard currency, in US dollars, and the only issue was whether I needed change.

It was a nervous three-hour wait until Dee appeared – on foot. The car had fallen through. Avis had cars to rent, but no petrol. Dee had travelled from the southern city of Bulawayo by packed mini-bus, the sardine-tin death traps I had always tried to avoid. My consolation was that it would only be a seven-hour trip at night, making me less conspicuous and if I fell asleep there would be no danger of falling over. My first two days in Zimbabwe were spent walking Bulawayo’s streets trying to find a petrol smuggler; otherwise we were going nowhere. Finding jerry cansto hold the petrol was the next challenge and it took another day to find them.

Daily survival is a grind. With no petrol and very little transport, there were so many people walking the streets we did not stand out. This was at the height of Operation Murambatsvina, or Clean up the Filth, an insidious campaign that destroyed the lives of many. In an orchestrated attack, the government razed the homes of tens of thousands of people and forced thousands more to knock down their own four walls. People pushing carts with salvaged belongings were common. This was my introduction to Zimbabwe. Each time I have returned, the situation has changed, but never for the better.

Unlike 2005, on my last trip petrol was plentiful but only if you had hard currency. US dollars used to be the currency of choice, now almost anything is acceptable, even Mozambique Meticais, the currency Zimbabweans used to mock when the Zimbabwean dollar was equal to that of the United States. With inflation so high, the value of the dollar changes by the hour. A loaf of bread, for those who can afford it, costs billions. Last year I returned to Bulawayo to report on the government’s policy of applying price controls in a bizarre attempt to curb inflation. In a matter of days, shops were stripped bare.

Most remain that way as no one can afford to restock. Dee lives in Harare, but knows Bulawayo well, and took me from empty shop to empty shop. Bata shoes, made in Zimbabwe, have shod Zimbabweans for decades. The shops were empty, except for five shop  assistants, three pairs of shoelaces and a pair of football boots. “People keep showing up for work in the hope their jobs will still be there, despite what’s happening,” Dee explained.

Across Zimbabwe these were desperate days of endless queuing for what little remained of the subsidised staples of life: maize meal, cooking oil, bread and milk. But the queues are no more. Food is no longer subsidised. Only those with foreign currency can afford to buy.  We filmed using a hidden camera; just holding a camera arouses suspicion. Zimbabwe does not want the world to know what is happening inside its borders.

But despite the dangers there are many Zimbabweans prepared to defy the state, such as the Bulawayo councillor who showed me around his city. Filming with a camera hidden in a backpack, a fight broke out outside a shop selling subsidised maize meal. An attempt had been made to pickpocket someone in the crowd. Distracted, I did not notice someone had chosen the same moment to do exactly the same to me, opening the zip on my backpack, revealing the camera. Fortunately, someone jumped in to prevent my camera being stolen and my cover being blown.

As the Mugabe regime cracks down harder on the media, organisations are increasingly worried about sending staff into the country. In some cases, it’s a matter of once arrested, twice shy. Others decide the insurance risks are too high. A senior Australian diplomat warned me against returning to Zimbabwe for the most recent presidential vote and Kagurabadza said the situation was simply too dangerous to be seen with me. My previous stories were linked to two leading South African newspapers, The Sowetan and Times Online.

I would have a hard time pretending I was a wildlife documentary maker or a visiting member of a church if I was caught this time. “We would try, but there would be very little we could do to help you,” the diplomat said. Deciding how to cover what would ultimately become a one-horse race for president came down to a decision made between Dee and myself. Dee believed it would be safer for him if he went alone. It was something he had to do.

Ginny Stein is a freelance videojournalist who has just moved to New York. She has won two Walkley awards.
Bill Leak is a cartoonist with The Australian.
John Ditchburn is a cartoonist for the Ballarat Courier.