Learning to Love Ireland

by Althea Farren

  It just said ‘ordinary’.

  When we first saw the house we bought in Bulawayo in 1977, it said ‘wow’. We had to have it. It cost a little more than we could afford, but we found that extra bit. There was no hesitation. We both fell in love with it instantly and it nurtured us for twenty years. We added a swimming pool, a borehole, electric gates, sturdy burglar bars, a wall and an enclosed patio. The garden was looking wonderful when we left.

  We didn’t want ‘ordinary’.

  We looked at a number of properties in and around Bunclody. On the outskirts of town, there was an attractive two-storey house with a red roof. But it didn’t have its own entrance. You had to use someone else’s driveway. There was a box-like bungalow falling into disrepair in a quiet cul de sac. A semidetached stone house in a lane off the main street was very pretty, but it had no bath, only a shower. I couldn’t imagine the rest of my life without hot baths.

  I assumed that it was going to be a long haul.

  But I was wrong. It was over very quickly.

  I began to suspect that Larry was letting me run with my fixation until I got the whole irritating thing out of my system (or so he hoped). He wasn’t convinced that it was the right time to buy. We couldn’t afford it. Our lives weren’t stable. I’d been working for only two months.

  I felt resentful. I WANTED my own house, damn it.

  Then the lights began to go out in the United States.

  On 6 September 2008, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac (two US government-sponsored enterprises), were placed into conservatorship run by the Federal Housing Finance Agency. Together they held or guaranteed $5.4 trillion of mortgages. If they had failed, the damage to the US mortgage and housing markets would have been huge. On 15 September, Lehman Brothers, a 158 year-old bank, filed for bankruptcy protection, causing the biggest upheaval experienced on Wall Street in decades. This is considered to be the watershed event that changed the rules of the game for those Wall Street banks that were thought to be ‘too big to fail’.

  The property market worldwide shuddered and ground to a standstill.

  The Celtic tiger slunk back into its lair, as the threatened recession became a reality. The economy began its downhill slide.

  My job was at risk.

  Buying a house would have been a disaster.

  It suddenly became essential for my sanity to get rid of the ghastly, musty lounge suite and those vile orange curtains and cushions. So I approached the manager of our complex again, and this time she said ‘yes’. Perhaps she had decided that we were reasonable tenants.

  We bought a dark brown leather suite, a brown and tan carpet and cream curtains and cushions. The living room was instantly transformed, and I felt much happier. As ever, though, I was struck by the difference between life here and life in Zimbabwe. People there would have been falling over themselves to annex the old furniture. We had to pay €50 to have it removed. I certainly wasn’t complaining – I’d have paid more to see the last of it.

  I had another reason for being so stressed about the furniture. Old friends were coming from Australia to visit us.

  One afternoon, while we were still in Zim, I’d received a phone call from a distraught Nina. Her husband had attracted the attention of Zimbabwe’s Central Intelligence Organisation, or ‘secret police’. ‘We’re in Jo’burg. And I don’t know when we’ll be back. We had a tip-off this morning that the CIO was on its way to arrest and interrogate Ian about foreign currency dealings. As you know, he had government approval for everything, but they’ve obviously done one of their 360°s. With his heart condition and his diabetes, he’d never have survived one of their jail cells. We barely had time to pack a suitcase. Thank God there was a flight to South Africa this morning.’

  They never saw their home in Bulawayo again.

  It was great to hear how happy Nina and Ian were in Australia. It hadn’t taken them long to settle – they were delighted to be with their family again. Teresa and Anthony had moved to Perth some years before, and they’d missed them terribly. Nina spent much of her time now looking after her grandchildren. Ian still played golf as often as possible and had an interest in two or three businesses. They both loved the climate in Perth – it was similar to the type of weather they’d been used to in Bulawayo – and they enjoyed being near the sea. They had a ready-made social circle – over the years many of their friends from Zimbabwe and South Africa had immigrated to Perth. They said they’d never go back to Zimbabwe, even for a visit. Apart from the fact that the CIO might still be interested in Ian, they no longer considered themselves to be Zimbabweans. They were Australians.

  Was I Irish or Zimbabwean? I wasn’t sure.

  When I thought about Zimbabwe and Bulawayo, I felt desolate.

  On my drives to and from work, I tried to dispel my sadness, confusion and loneliness by listening to the radio. After a while, I was able to identify the voices of the different newscasters, reporters and politicians. Soon I could distinguish between a Wexford accent and a Dublin one. The radio was more intimate and friendly than television – those voices seemed to be addressing me directly.

  ‘Solitude’, our farm in Southern Rhodesia, was 33 miles from the nearest village. There was no electricity and no telephone. We did have a wireless, though – an old-fashioned contrivance that had to be attached to a battery. Since there was no spare, our father would ‘borrow’ the battery from the tractor. Our wireless was used only for the BBC evening news in the late 1940s and early 1950s.

  After we moved to Marandellas in the late 1950s, the BBC ritual continued in modified form. When we’d gathered in the dining room for lunch or dinner (meals were always on time), my father would fiddle with the dials and we would hear those infuriating pips followed by the words: ‘This is London calling... Here is the news...’

  We had to be on our best behaviour during the news. There were to be no interruptions. So we ate silently, while the important things we wanted to say were thwarted by that irritating plummy voice that droned on and on about the most boring subjects imaginable.

  As boarders at school in Salisbury in the sixties, we didn’t have much to do with the radio during the week. At weekends, though, it was a different story. On Saturday mornings we listened to our local Lyons Maid Hits of the Week – the top ten in the country – with Martin Locke. We were even more passionate about the hit parade on Lourenco Marques (LM) Radio. This privately-owned radio station broadcasting from Mozambique was much livelier than the South African Broadcasting Corporation. It played a major role in promoting South African artists and their music, and broadcast the top twenty on Sunday nights when we were supposed to be asleep. There was a delicious feeling of excitement and anticipation each Sunday, as we prepared to break the rules. The aerial would be stuck out of a window. The owner of the radio would have her finger on the volume dial throughout the show. Those of us in beds near the door had perfected the trick of tuning in to the music with one ear, while the other ear tracked the footsteps of the teacher on duty like an alien’s antennae. If she caught us, she would confiscate the radio, and return it only on the last day of term.

  The years fly by and it’s 1974. Pregnant with Brian, I’m a hippo reclining in the sunshine. There are so many interesting programmes on the Rhodesian Broadcasting Corporation: music, talk shows and serials. I’m knitting a few simple garments for our new baby and this requires frequent consultation of the patterns, since I’m a novice. The radio is a pleasant, uncritical companion.

  Now it’s 1980, and we’re glued to the radio in the art room at Gifford High School. Who has won the election? The entire school is holding its breath. Within minutes, we’ll hear an announcement that may change the course of our lives. If Bishop Abel Muzorewa wins (as we expect he will), then we can hope for a peaceful transition from white to black rule in Zimbabwe-Rhodesia. Of course we know we’re going to have to drop the ‘Rhodesia’, but we can live with that. If Joshua Nkomo wins, then we’re expecting a bumpier ride. But we don’t thin
k this will happen – he’ll probably take all the seats here in Matabeleland, but Mashonaland and the other provinces are likely to go with Muzorewa...

  The announcement is made. The three of us stare at one another in disbelief, and move closer to the radio. Someone has made a mistake. The announcement is repeated. It’s not possible. Something’s gone wrong... Yes, we’ve heard of Robert Mugabe. He’s a vicious terrorist, a dedicated communist who hates whites...

  The years pass. 1986, 1990, 1994... Robert Mugabe is an intelligent man – impressively so... He’s proving to be a respected leader... He appears willing to forget the past... We’ve heard unsettling rumours about massacres in the bush, and we know that he’s neutralised the threat of the opposition – Joshua Nkomo and ZAPU – but... His speeches are frequently broadcast and televised – we all remark on his excellent command of English...

  In February 2000 he loses a referendum, (the first time he has lost a poll since he came to power twenty years ago). Swiftly he exacts retribution, a deadly scorpion lashing its tail... Within days, he orders the invasion of white-owned farms by ‘war veterans’. Zimbabwe begins the downward spiral that will see its economy ruined and its people impoverished.

  The radio is the most accessible source of information and the only affordable one for most. It’s largely propaganda now. If you live in one of the remote country areas, you may wonder why the predicted invasion by Britain hasn’t yet taken place. You’ll be disgusted by Britain’s ‘neo-colonial and imperialist intentions’. You’ll feel threatened by the ‘western sabotage’ that is responsible for the collapse of your country’s once-thriving economy. As for Morgan Tsvangirai, he is ‘a sell-out and a puppet of imperialists who are bent on reversing the gains of independence’. Come to think of it, he’s probably responsible for the cholera outbreak... After all, as Grace Mugabe, First Lady of Zimbabwe, stated on ZTV News (7 May 2008) ‘the MDC was founded by the West and lures people into voting for them by supplying them with scarce commodities... supporting the MDC is letting go of a God-given gift...’ Perhaps AIDS has something to do with Tsvangirai as well, although you’ll be aware that it’s the Americans who are responsible for introducing the disease to Africa...

  The Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation is state-owned, and so are all but one of the daily newspapers. Mugabe cleverly manipulates the media under his control with the express purpose of influencing and directing people’s opinions and actions through disinformation.

  More than twenty years after independence, Mugabe has taken to blaming Tony Blair and George W Bush for all our financial and economic troubles. Such pronouncements as ‘Keep your England and I’ll keep my Zimbabwe...’ or ‘Never, never, never again shall Zimbabwe be a colony...’ are guaranteed to do terrible things to our blood pressure and stress levels. We can no longer bear to turn on a radio or watch ZTV.

  Avoiding the radio was an entrenched mindset, and it was months before we thought of turning it on in Ireland. It simply didn’t occur to us that we might be missing out. We’d forgotten what ‘normality’ entailed. When we finally started to listen, a host of voices suddenly entered our lives, presenting a cross-section of opinions on news, current affairs, the economy, the weather, culture, sport and every conceivable subject known to man.

  First thing in the morning, we’d awaken to Newstalk’s ‘Breakfast Show’. Then on the way to work, I’d listen to RTÉ Radio 1’s ‘Morning Ireland’. On the way home, I’d be entertained by ‘Drivetime with Mary Wilson’. Journeys to and from work were always stimulating.

  I’d find myself smiling as I listened to the description of an ostentatious gravestone that was so large that a special crane was hired to lift it into position. There’d been complaints that it not only dwarfed adjacent graves but even posed a potential safety risk.

  On another occasion, listeners were invited to describe the size of potholes they’d encountered. We knew that potholes on Zimbabwe’s roads were much bigger and that there were more of them...

  Two guys are travelling along the Gwanda road in their twin cab. One of the potholes they approach looks even bigger than the rest. The passenger says to the driver, ‘Shit, Gavin, there’s a rabbit in there – but it’s so deep, you can only see his ears.’

  The driver slows down and peers through the window. ‘It’s not a rabbit, man. It’s a bloody giraffe...’

  I loved Joseph O’Connor’s humorous verses on life and living in Ireland, and thought an eloquent tribute he composed for his step-mother’s birthday was remarkable. I laughed at his discourses on the use of the word ‘like’ and on the expression ‘going forward’, used so often by politicians, economists and sports commentators. It was useful to be able to anticipate road conditions, to know where road works were and when an accident had caused a temporary diversion.

  In October, ‘Drivetime’ ran one of its regular competitions. Entrants had to imagine that they were the newly-elected president of the United States. They were to pay tribute in their acceptance speech to the losing candidate in no more than 40 words. They could be either Barack Obama or John McCain... The prize was a trip for two to Orlando.

  Just for a laugh, I asked Larry to give it a go. He entered the following:

  From John McCain:

  Friends, and you, too, young Barak Obama, this is it! We shot the moose, we bagged the polar bears, we clubbed the fucking seals to death and now we’ve won the White House. There must be a God out there.

  From Barack Obama:

  Fellow Americans, thank you for electing me your President. I will always be in your debt – and in yours, John, and yours, too, Sarah. I couldn’t have done it without you. You have truly served your country. God bless America.

  We’d generously forgiven Obama for ruining Hillary’s presidential bid, and were hoping that he would make it all the way to the White House.

  In January I had one of my skin cancer appointments at St Vincent’s in Dublin, so we decided to spend the morning at the National Gallery. I’d been fascinated to hear about the Vaughan Bequest of watercolours by JMW Turner – the exhibition was on view for the month of January only. Why only in January? The lady being interviewed on RTÉ Radio 1 explained that Henry Vaughan was very concerned about the precious watercolours fading. So much so, that he’d stipulated that the collections he bequeathed to the National Galleries of Ireland and Scotland should be publicly exhibited for one month of the year only. And January was ‘perhaps the most sunless of the whole twelve’.

  This was our second visit to the gallery. The Turner collection was fascinating and beautifully displayed. I particularly liked his ‘Beech Trees at Norbury Park’.

  The strong faces in Sean Keating’s paintings had intrigued us on our first visit. Most of all, I wanted to see Paul Henry’s ‘A Connemara Village’ again. The lighting in this painting was amazing. We enjoyed William Orpen’s sense of humour and the elegance of William Leech’s work. His first wife, Elizabeth Saurine, who modelled for him, had a lovely face and a beautiful neck. She reminded me of Audrey Hepburn.

  I stood at the open door of Hugh and Helen’s house above Buncrana and looked out into the night.

  This was the first time I’d seen snow falling. It was drifting gently down onto a bush nearby, the beam of light from the doorway illuminating each silent flake.

  I’d seen snow in the African dawn as a white cap on the distant Drakensberg Mountains. And in my imagination, I’d heard:

  ‘...the sweep

  Of easy wind and downy flake...’

  The following morning, the scenery had been transformed. Each of the little buildings below Hugh’s house had a white roof. Lough Swilly looked darker than usual against its backdrop of snowy hills. Two mounds of frozen candyfloss stood in the driveway where the cars had been the previous day. When Hugh and Helen drove us down to Derry later that morning to catch the train, I was entranced by Donegal’s Christmas card beauty.

  Several weeks later, snow was slamming viciously against my windscreen. Huge whit
e flakes, plastering themselves over the glass, seemed intent on forcing their way into the car.

  The presenter on South East Radio was talking about his little son’s excitement when he’d awakened that morning to his first snow. People in Leinster, he said, had seldom seen snow like this.

  Yeah, great. I needed to get to Enniscorthy by 9 a.m.

  On the other side of Ferns the weather improved, and I began to think that I might actually make it. The windscreen wipers were now easily sweeping aside the few languid flakes being blown against the glass, and soon I was looking out at a beautiful landscape. On the sides of the road the trees had been dusted with snow and the fields beyond were downy white carpets. The cars coming towards me looked like moving Christmas cakes with their icing gradually slipping off.

  In Donegal I had been extravagantly vocal in expressing my enchantment with snow. Now, here I was, oblivious to ‘snowy summits old in story’; concerned only about the mundane necessity of getting from A to B. I’d learned that snow has more than one persona.

  The weather warnings for County Wexford had become consistently dire.

  Strong winds from Siberia and the Arctic were sweeping across the UK, bringing snow and sleet. Ireland was next in line, and Leinster and Munster were to bear the brunt of it. On RTÉ’s weather map, the red warning triangles with their exclamation marks were strung along my road.

  I had no problem getting to work, but as Monday morning wore on, the clouds grew dark and heavy snow began to fall. Our car was covered in a white tarpaulin very quickly. I began to feel anxious. How would I get home in this blizzard?

  ‘Go now,’ Fintan said kindly. ‘And don’t come in tomorrow if it’s like this...’

  Cars were jammed bumper to bumper. Children from the school just round the corner milled about excitedly, throwing snowballs at one another and at the odd car. We inched along, a few centimetres per minute. I realised that this would give me practice before I hit the big time. You didn’t have traction initially, I discovered, when you accelerate from a stationary position in heavy snow. You slipped and slid a bit, before you got going.