Tag: Attic Theatre

Life Changing African Adventure: Judge at National Drama Festival in Zimbabwe

THIS IS A REPRINT OF A STORY FROM OCTOBER 2016. START OF A NEW SERIES CALLED AFRICAN ADVENTURES.

National Flag and Symbol of Zimbabwe

THE START

In 2012, I accepted an offer to take a temporary job in Africa. At the time I did not know that this opportunity would quite literally change the entire fabric of my life. This trip would be so much more than just an adventure but in fact would be an overwhelming experience that would lead me to change the entire direction and focus of my life.

In 2011, my life was kind of falling apart. A three-year relationship with a woman who I loved very much had ended. I was still reeling from the aftermath of the world-wide economic downtown that had closed my real estate investment business and was forcing my house toward foreclosure. To cover the expenses of running my suddenly upside-down house, I was renting out every extra bedroom that I had to college students who went to school at the close-by University of Southern California. My only other income at the time was running a small non-profit theatre where I served as Producing Artistic Director. Theatre is one of the great passions of my life, but after 25 years leading a small non-profit arts group, I was exhausted and burned out.

I desperately needed a break, or as one friend put it best – “I needed an escape from my own life”. Yet, there was no lifeline nor escape. As my house edged ever closer to foreclosure, my despair grew, and my options were shrinking fast. It was at that moment that one morning an email arrived in my inbox. It was an email that I had been expecting, but I was not really sure how I felt about it. I had been communicating about a possible gig job with an arts group in Zimbabwe. One of my former theatre students when I taught at Pepperdine University in Malibu, CA., was from Zimbabwe, and her mother was a volunteer administrator for this organization. My former student had put us together and on a lark, I had applied to work for them.

Harare, Zimbabwe – Capitol city of Zimbabwe

THE JOB

The job was to be the Judge or Adjudicator for a national drama festival that takes place in Zimbabwe every year. The drama festival was part of an even larger series of arts festivals run by a group known as the National Institute of Allied Arts. The National Institute of Allied Arts is a 100-year-old volunteer organization founded by the British colonials to instill public speaking, drama, music, literature and visual arts into the white children of Zimbabwe. But over time and with the change of governments and Zimbabwe getting its freedom in 1980, the organization become one of the first to open its doors to all the children of Zim. Every year about 30 thousand+ children take part in 4 festivals a year in music, visual arts, literature and drama.

If hired I would be the first American to adjudicate their national drama festival. The job would take about 2 to 3 weeks and the adjudicator would see about 15000 children perform in various theatre and public speaking categories. The job paid a small salary and promised all living expenses would be covered. The catch was the adjudicator had to figure out a way to get to Zimbabwe and pay for it themselves. But who ever came as a reward, they would be given a two-week tour around Zimbabwe. They would see places with names that I had never heard but would soon become very familiar with in the coming weeks and years. Places like Harare, the capital city, Kwekwe, Gweru, Great Zim, Matopos National Park, Vic Falls, Bulawayo, and so many more.

The email offered me the job and seeing this as the escape that I needed and desperately wanted, I quickly said yes. The Festival would be in June and so the plans began in earnest. Being broke and not having the money to pay for the trip, I lied and told them I did. I swiftly started a campaign to raise the money. I wrote a small grant through my theatre, held a garage sale, and ran a Kickstarter fundraising campaign. Plus I also got 500 dollars from the US Embassy in Zimbabwe, but more on that later. In a matter of 3 weeks, I raised the 1500 dollars needed for the flight.

Zimbabwe here I come!!!

With the help of another friend, I managed to get a small guest teaching job in Rome, Italy for a week on the way back from Zimbabwe. I would spend a week there and then have two weeks of traveling very cheaply in Europe. Upon my return to the US, I would still be broke but maybe not in despair anymore.

LAX in Los Angeles

Wednesday, June 13, 2012, Los Angeles
Still I leave in 4 days. The rush to get everything done. What to pack? How much is too much or too little? The excitement! The fear! Of flying and being away for over two months! The voice of my doctor in my head. Don’t eat that, don’t drink that, wash all your food yourself, sanitize everything, don’t touch anything – really? People live there, what do they do? I am sure that every person who goes out to dinner in a large city in Africa does not ask to wash the vegetables. Next he would have told me not to breathe the air just to be on the safe side.

There are certainly concerns about health issues, I get that. Drink bottled water, be careful what you eat, be observant of the things around you. But if we are all that cautious, we would never leave our home. As Ben Franklin said – “all things in moderation.” I find that to still be one of the best pieces of advice every given. Try everything, do everything – just be reasonable about it.

I rented my own personal room out at my house. So even if I want to come back – I have to sleep on the couch. So, I might as well just stay overseas, right.
I am packing for two different hemispheres, and it is crazy. Winter in one place – seems mild in Zimbabwe. Pleasant days, chilly nights. It will be blazing hot in Rome in mid-July. You need to bring enough, but you want to travel light. Ahh, adventures in packing. And of course, it never fails no matter how organized you are when you are somewhere over the Atlantic, you remember that “most important” item aside from your passport that you left behind.
I leave in 4 days. The adventure begins. Whether I am ready or not. The plane leaves in 4 days. I am on it!!

“A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.” – John Steinbeck

Delayed passengers inside Terminal 7 at Los Angeles International Airport line up to go through TSA security check following a false alarm event in Los Angeles, California U.S August 28, 2016. REUTERS/Bob Riha Jr

Monday, June 18, 2012, DAY 0. Los Angeles.

I take off in 3 hours. After 8 months of work and luck and reaching out, it is about to happen. I take a red eye to DC. to meet my plane to Addis Abeba, Ethiopia. Than on from there to Harare. There are no words to describe how I feel at the moment. Excitement, fear, apprehension, joy all mixed up together. Here is praying for a safe journey to Harare. If you have good thoughts, please send them along.

My way to Zimbabwe – Ethiopian Airlines

“The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.” – G. K. Chesterton ]

Next update from DC on Day 1. Cheers –

Starstruck: Mel Gibson and My Cat’s Unexpected Meeting

The true real life encounter of my cat with Mel Gibson.
Part of a new series about my real life in Hollywood-
Up In The Attic.

In a bygone era, I was the proud owner of a quaint theatre nestled in the heart of Hollywood—the Attic Theatre. My partner, Denise Reagan Wiesenmeyer, and I ran this cozy establishment, complete with a 50-seat auditorium, a small company of actors, administrative offices, and a rear dance studio that we leased out for classes and rehearsals.

Our theatre found its home in an aging edifice on Santa Monica Blvd. The building itself had witnessed decades of history as it was right in the middle of film soundstages, lighting and equipment companies, small production companies and the industrial part of the film business. I knew little of its early days, except for a fascinating tidbit: during World War II, the building had housed a parachute factory. Back then, parachutes were a novelty and considered a military weapon, and the building stood under military watch as these life-saving contraptions were meticulously packed.

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The building’s owner, an elderly gentleman, treated it as a mere revenue stream. Maintenance was an afterthought, and the structure bore the scars of neglect. I acquired the theatre from a man named Bill Sorrell, who, along with the Swayze brothers—Patrick and Donnie—had birthed the Attic Theatre. The Swayze siblings, fresh from Texas, had ventured to Hollywood with their wives, eager to make their mark in the film industry. Their fateful collaboration with Bill Sorrell gave rise to the Attic Theatre.

Perched on the second floor of the ancient building, the Attic Theatre became our creative haven. Denise and I assumed control in 1987, launching a vibrant repertoire of plays. By 1990, we had also taken over abandoned office space within the same structure and fashioned a humble four-room apartment complete with a kitchen. It lacked opulence but offered proximity to our artistic endeavors.

The old building 2016. The Attic was on the second floor left side. Building was shut down in 2001 and we moved to Culver City area.

As struggling artists, our lives revolved around the theater. We juggled outside jobs to make ends meet, but the Attic was our sanctuary—a realm where autonomy reigned supreme. No one dictated our choices; we were masters of our own destiny.

Our little theatre somehow defied the odds. Despite our shoestring budget and the building’s faded grandeur, the Attic Theatre thrived. We churned out good plays and sometimes even great productions. We were earning a reputation as a haven for artists—a place where creativity blossomed, and dreams took flight.

I had taken a brief business trip and Denise, my capable partner, held down the fort while I was away. She was the beating heart of our operation, both a good administrator and a wonderful theatre producer. Upon my return, we convened to discuss the theatre business and that is when she told me that a company by the name of Icon Productions had booked the dance studio for a reading of a screenplay. The name immediately caught my attention because I knew Icon Productions was Mel Gibson’s production company. In the early ’90s, Mel wasn’t just an actor; he was a cinematic force, weaving tales both in front of and behind the camera as a producer and director. I was shocked that such a prestigious outfit would choose our modest theatre. Our place, though well-maintained, was a little low rent for a major film company to use for their reading.

ICON Image

I kept the news from Denise. She idolized Mel Gibson, and I didn’t want to raise her hopes prematurely. But curiosity gnawed at me. Why here?

Days later, the phone rang—a production manager for Icon Productions was on the line. His concern? Parking. The executives attending the reading needed ample space. I inquired about the headcount: around 30. Our parking lot, alas, was a postage stamp—a handful of spots shared among tenants. I explained this to the manager, emphasizing that the spaces weren’t mine to allocate and that the executives would have to park on the street or arrange other alternatives. He assured me that this would not be a problem.

Mel Gibson as he is today.

It was then that I informed Denise that it was Mel Gibson’s company who was renting our space and that he might be there. She became so excited that I thought she was going to faint. Even though the production meeting for Mel Gibson’s company was still two days away, she went back there and immediately started cleaning up the studio to make it look as perfect for Mel Gibson as she could.

The day finally arrived—and my worst fears came true. The Hollywood elite, their luxury cars began arriving and filling the parking lot. Land Rovers, Mercedes, Jaguars—all vying for our meager parking spaces. The other tenants, unaccustomed to this overflow, erupted in protest. I was caught in the crossfire, played reluctant traffic cop, my pleas drowned out by irate voices.

The production manager, seemingly impervious to chaos, stood his ground. Executives, he declared, wouldn’t be relegated to street parking. Our arrangement meant nothing to him. I told him that maybe the cars would be towed by the other businesses. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away. I watched helplessly as the luxury cars multiplied, stacking atop one another while the other businesses’ patrons were relegated to the curb, and the tenants hurled colorful expletives my way.

And there, amidst the parking mayhem, Denise was star-struck. She’d met Mel, her eyes wide as saucers, and guided him upstairs. The plain and unassuming rehearsal studio was now filled with high powered movie execs including Mel Gibson as the executive producer, while production assistants scurried, setting tables, arranging chairs, and stocking coolers with drinks and lunch.

Example of a table read for a film. This was not Mr. Gibson’s read.

The script that they were reading was a new one that they were considering producing as a movie. There were no other movie stars there besides Mel. It was just executives hearing the production assistants read the movie out loud to see what they thought about it.

Occasionally Denise would go to the rehearsal hall to check if they needed anything, but I think it was secretly to see Mel. Down in the parking lot I had morphed from theater manager/owner to an impromptu parking valet, my frustration simmering beneath a veneer of professionalism. Yet, I wanted to keep their business in case they ever come back. Often, I would go upstairs to get keys from the production manager for a certain car to move so the other tenants’ customers could use the space. I was pissed off, but I just wanted to get through the day. They were booked for only four hours, and I managed to hold off the other businesses owners until finally it was over. Than all the executives began to leave and all the luxury cars that had been crammed into our parking lot like sardines, now vanished into the afternoon traffic. Eventually, everyone was gone, and I walked up to the office.  

Denise, her starstruck glow undiminished, wanted to thank Mel personally. So, we wandered back through the theatre, through the backstage, and opened the connecting door to the rehearsal hall.

Now remember we lived at the theatre space, and we had a cat. Our cat was named Squirrel, a beautiful female that we’d had since just after she was born. One day, a few years before, a very tiny kitten had somehow managed to survive extremely busy Santa Monica Blvd and had wandered up the stairs to our theatre and just sat there. Denise did not live with me at the time and so I tried to shoo the cat away, but she wouldn’t leave. So eventually I fed the tiny little kitten, and from then I belonged to her. Cats have a way of just kind of staking their claim on you and that’s what Squirrel did. There’s an old saying about cats that goes “dogs have owners, cats have staff”, and it is very true. Our cat got her name when Denise moved in because of the way she bounced and ran around all over the place like a crazy squirrel out in your front yard.

Mel Gibson as he looked at the time of kicking Squirrel

So, Squirrel had followed us back as we were saying goodbye to Mel Gibson and the production manager who had booked the space. There were still 2 production assistants there folding up the tables and chairs and packing up the food. Now Mel Gibson is not a big man. He is probably about 5’6 or 5’7 and had on cowboy boots to jack him up another couple of inches. Most leading men in Hollywood are actually quite short. He seemed fairly nice, and both Denise and I were fans of his. She was more gaga than I was, but I was very impressed that Mel Gibson was standing in my business.

While we are standing around saying our goodbyes, Squirrel who was a very people friendly feline was wandering around and she rubbed up against Mel Gibson’ leg. Inexplicably Mel Gibson drew back his boot and forcefully kicked Squirrel about 6 feet across the rehearsal room.

OWWWWWW!

I was shocked at his action and quickly checked to see if my cat was ok. I looked over at Denise, and the look on her face made it clear she was as upset as I was. Turning to Mel Gibson, I asked, “Why did you just kick my cat?”

Mel Gibson looked at me and said, “I don’t like cats. I don’t want them anywhere around me.”

I responded, “Well she’s our cat and this is her house. She only trying to be friendly.”

Mel Gibson said, “I don’t give a damn! Keep the cat away from me.”

Maybe it’s because I was irritated from 4 hours of re-parking the cars of over privileged and inconsiderate movie executives who had showed no regard for my business or the people who worked in the building, yet without hesitation, I told Mel Gibson, “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Everybody in the room froze. The two production assistants regarded me with astonishment, as if I had blasphemed the Almighty.  The production manager was completely shocked. Mel regarded me for a second and said, “Well, you have a crappy theatre anyway.”

I said, “That may be true, but you’ve already paid me for it. Have a good day.”

At which point Mel Gibson turned, and he and his big cowboy boots stomped loudly down the wooden stairs to the parking lot. After he had quit stomping down the stairs, the production manager turned to me, “People don’t speak to Mr. Gibson that way.”

“Well people don’t kick my cat either. When you guys get all packed up, you can go as well.” I asked Denise to make sure that they left, and I picked up our bewildered cat and went back to our apartment.

I understood that some people have an aversion for cats for whatever reason, but you do not go into someone’s home or business and kick their cat that hard. I thought it was very arrogant and a cruel way to treat someone else’s animal and pet.

Mel’s mug shot after his arrest.

It was a few years later that, Mel Gibson had his major blowout with the Jewish policeman who pulled him over for drunk driving in Malibu, California. Mel berated the man, calling him all kinds of ethnic and racial slurs. When I heard the story, I was not shocked. During our encounter in the rehearsal room, I had concluded that he didn’t seem like a very nice man.

I’m still a Mel Gibson fan to a degree. I think he’s a wonderful director and a good actor, but I probably would not want to speak to him if given the opportunity. That is the true story of when Mel Gibson kicked my cat.

When Denise left to move back to Illinois because of an illness in 2000, the new owner of the building began trying to force all the tenants out. He raised our rent 4 times in 4 months. I was forced to move the theatre to the Culver City area on Washington Blvd and continued running it until 2016 when I sold the theatre company to another group.

The front door to the old Attic Theatre in Hollywood. Building is now vacant.

For the official record, I hereby attest that the following account is my own personal recollection of the events that transpired, over a quarter-century ago, within the confines of my theatre. The building is still standing on Santa Monica Blvd., though now abandoned since the year 2001. The other tenants and businesses have all gone or moved. I am unconnected to their present whereabouts.

My dearest friend and confidante, Denise, she passed away in 2007, her laughter and camaraderie forever etched in my heart.

As for the employees of Mr. Gibson and his company, I never knew them or their names, and have no idea where they currently may be.

The building as it looks now in 2023. Completely abandoned and derelict.

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How I Survived the Road of Death in Zimbabwe

A Zimbabwean Adventure

What is the Road of Death? It was a stretch of highway that went from the city center of Harare to an upscale suburb called Borrowdale.

Zimbabwe Flag

In 2013, I returned to Zimbabwe for the second time for a couple of reasons. First, I had been invited to present the world premiere of my one man show, Coming to Zimbabwe at the Harare International Festival of Arts (HIFA), and secondly, to help create a rural teaching program for drama with the National Institute of Allied Arts, Drama Division whose artistic director was Gavin Peter. 

Harare, Zimabwe

Gavin had hired me in 2012 to come to Zimbabwe and be the first American judge or adjudicator of their national drama contest. The month that I spent in Zimbabwe during 2012 was a life changing experience. The opportunity to work with almost 8000 kids over a three-week period had been exhausting but also exhilarating as I watched these talented African kids do monologues and scene work, recite poetry, do improvs and work in many other performance styles. Plus, the two-week tour that NIAA sponsored for me to travel around the country to different historical sites in the company of the Republic of Ireland’s representative, Gary Killilea and his family was a joy and wonder, and helped cement Zimbabwe is one of my favorite places in the world. The beauty of the country and the hospitality of the people was unmatched, and I had resolved to return as many times as I could. 

Countryside of Zimbabwe

The chance to return came very quickly for me. As the adjudicator of the drama festival, I watched as the dedicated volunteers of NIAA kept meticulous records over where students came from and in what performance categories they had participated. Some students would only be in one area while others might be in 9 to 11 different areas of competition. At the debriefing at the end of the festival and working with Gavin, we managed to streamline some of the requirements for the participants and the number of areas they could participate in. We also found out that the students from the cities mostly focused on drama presentations while the students from the rural or country areas focused on poetry. Now Zimbabwe is mostly an agricultural country so that made sense, but this was primarily a drama festival and if most of the students in the rural areas were participating in poetry that meant there was a disconnect somewhere in the education system.

Robert Mugabe

Zimbabwe had become a poor country over the 40-year reign by their former dictator Robert Mugabe, and one of the fallouts of his terrible economic policies was that teachers in the countryside hardly made any money whatsoever. It was hard to retain teachers who taught English and drama although it was required as part of their education requirements to graduate. We found in our research that the rural teachers who were instructing the drama students were science and math teachers, or physical education teachers or soccer coaches. Well-meaning individuals who had no idea what they were supposed to do for the festival, but they had been ordered by their principal to get the kids ready. These poor individuals having no knowledge of what the contest required just did what the teacher of the year before had done which was recite poetry. 

So, Gavin and I came up with an idea of creating a training program for the teachers in the countryside to help them understand what dramatic literature was, where to find it, how to direct a play or a scene and best practices in terms of how to get their students motivated. During the year while I was back in the United States, I also recruited other Americans to come and work in Zimbabwe with NIAA to help move the program forward. 

Poster for Coming to Zimbabwe

Yet when it came to providing me with air flight back to Zimbabwe, they just did not have the money. Gavin concocted an unusual solution. That year, he was also the Artistic Director of HIFA and said if I could come with a show, he would ensure I got a superior performance slot. The idea of a one-man show based on my experiences in Zimbabwe had been floating around my head for about six or more months and now I put it down on paper. I workshopped it a few times at my theater in Los Angeles, the Attic Theater and knew I had a good show. Because Zimbabwe was a dictatorship, I had to send the script to a government office there to make sure it was not offensive in any way to Zimbabwe or President Robert Mugabe. To their astonishment there was an American who was writing wonderful things about their country and proclaiming it a wonderful place to visit. Gavin true to his word gave me a wonderful time slot and the show sold out before I even got on the plane to go to Zimbabwe, and extra performances were added. It was that money that allowed me to buy a round trip ticket to Zimbabwe.  

On the Marque at Reps Theatre, Harare

So, that is how I got to Zimbabwe, but the title of this article is ‘I Survived the Road of Death.’ What is the Road of Death? It was a stretch of highway that went from the city center of Harare to an upscale suburb called Borrowdale. This road was a four-lane highway and was one of the major thoroughfares in the city. It also ran right by the Presidential Palace. In fact, you could spit out the car window as you went past and hit the building. It was that close. Following an attack on Mugabe’s residence in 1982, a 6pm curfew was introduced to prevent any traffic passing in front of the Palace. This curfew was in place from 1982 till 2017. During this time, if you traveled down that road after 6:00 PM you could be shot in the head by one of the army soldiers that patrolled that area of the highway, and that is why it was called the Road of Death. Now the Presidential Palace by 2013 was only used for ceremonial reasons and President Robert Mugabe had a huge house/complex on the outskirts of the city where he lived. Yet, the standing law was that at 6:00 PM every evening this four-lane road would be blocked off next to the presidential palace until 6 AM in the morning. If you were trying to drive to Borrowdale from downtown or vice versa you had to find an alternative route because there were soldiers with rifles everywhere. In fact, there was an army barracks right across the street from the Palace where the security guards lived. 

Presidential Palace, Harare

After I completed the successful run of my one-man show, it was going to be about 10 days before Gavin could meet with me to discuss this educational tour that was being sent out into the rural areas. While I had friends in Harare, they could not constantly keep me entertained and I had no transportation, so I was often stuck in a hotel room or in a guest room of some kind person who let me share their house. After about a week of this I was bored, so I rented a car and drove up into the Nyangani Mountain area near the Mozambique border to stay at a little inn for three or four days and explore that part of Zimbabwe. That is a whole different adventure, but I had rented the car for several days. When I arrived back in the capital city, I was invited to a social function at the house of my good friends, Keith and Jeanette Nicholson who had kind enough to be my hosts for the first two weeks that I was in in Zimbabwe during 2012. 

Harare at night

Harare is an exceedingly difficult city in which to travel during the night. The reason for that is there are almost no street signs or working streetlights, because they have been stripped of all their copper wiring. Why is that you ask? Because the economy is in ruins, and no one has any work. So, some people steal what they can steal just to be able to put food on the table. So, I had to be careful in plotting my route to the Nicholson’s home is Borrowdale to avoid the Road of Death. I found an old map of Harare and laid out a route that I felt confident would avoid the Palace. At 6:30 PM, I walked out to my car and started driving towards the Nicholsons. It was winter and already dark. As I got close to where I was going to turn left and head out towards Borrowdale, I recognized that I was right next to the presidential palace and about to turn on to the Road of Death. 

From my car, I could see a large blockade and there were armed guards everywhere. I freaked out. There were two lanes of traffic to my right which were turning toward the city center, but it was rush hour and there was no room for me to cut in. If I turned left, I was sure I would be shot. I was terrified. The only other direction I could go in was straight so that is what I did. 

Zimbabwe army barracks

I drove straight and ended up in the parking lot of the army barracks that protect the presidential palace. It was extremely dark, so it was impossible to read my map. Being the only white man in a parking lot full of black soldiers with rifles made me feel very uneasy. No one bothered me or even said anything to me, but they gave me strange enough looks that I knew I was not supposed to be there, nor was I welcome. I quickly called Keith and explained the situation. I must have seemed a little hysterical because he told me to calm down and gave me explicit instructions about how to get around the presidential palace and follow a road that would lead me toward Borrowdale. Following the explicit instructions of my hosts I drove around the presidential palace and ended up approaching the Borrowdale highway. At this point I was supposed to turn left and go towards the suburbs, however I mistakenly turned right and headed back towards the Presidential Palace. 

I went about half a mile when I realized that the street in front of me was blockaded and that I was back at the Palace. I was so rattled by now that I did a quick U-turn in the middle of the highway, hit the gas, and bolted down the street. The entire time I was driving I thought a sharpshooter was going to blow off the back of my head. I was sure because I was the only car on the highway that I was breaking some law and that the entire Zimbabwean Defense Force was following me. Every tank, every Jeep, every helicopter, and every soldier was hot on my tail, and I was going to end up either dead or in a Zimbabwean jail which would be the same thing. 

Zim side street not far from Palace

I quickly saw a road off to the right and with screeching tires I made the turn. I found myself in a housing development. I took the next right and the next left and I parked in the first driveway I could find. Turning off my lights, I crouched down in my seat hoping that they could not find me. I quickly called Keith and tried to explain the situation to them. Just as I began talking to him there was a knock on my window, and I turned to find a Zimbabwean soldier with a rifle standing next to my car. 

Zimbabwe Soldier

 I exclaimed to Keith, “Oh my God, they found me already.” I told him to stay on the phone and put my cell phone down on the car seat and rolled down the window. I immediately started babbling to the soldier trying to explain why I had turned around and driven away from the Palace. I gave him my passport, my international driver’s license, my work visa, the contract that said I was there to work with NIAA and all the official paperwork that I had to carry around with me all the time. He took each document and looked them over. I just kept babbling the entire time telling him I was sorry. I made a mistake, and please do not arrest me. That I was an American citizen and at least give me a chance to call the embassy. On and on and on until finally he had all my documents and I had nothing left to say. I just knew he was going to shoot me now. The waiting felt like an eternity. 

He quietly handed me all my documents back and just looked at me for a moment, then he asked me, “Do you have a smoke?” 

“What!?” I asked? 

And just like any American tourist who has gone to a foreign country and do not speak the language, the cliche is that we always talk slow and loud as if that is going to make someone understand, he did the exact same thing to me. In a very loud voice speaking very slowly, he went, “Do you have a cigarette?” 

“No, I don’t smoke,” I stated 

Zimbabwe soldier walking

“Ok,” he said, then turned and walked down the driveway headed towards the main road. It was then that I realized there were no jeeps back there. There were no tanks, there were no helicopters, there was no one. No one had followed me. This lone soldier was walking to the Palace to go to work. Most soldiers are so poor they cannot afford a car. Here was an immaculately dressed soldier carrying his automatic weapon walking through the neighborhood to the main road, and then he was going to walk the mile or so to the presidential palace to check in. And the whole time that this was dawning on me that this had just been a strange confluence of my fear and the weirdest of circumstances, loud laughter poured from the cell phone on the seat next to me. Keith thought this was the funniest thing he had ever heard. 

Laughing, not Keith Nicholson.

Now red faced with embarrassment, I picked up the phone and told him that everything was ok, and I would be there in 10 minutes. Keith repeated one more time how I was to get there, and I followed his instructions to the letter. I arrived at their house where there was a big wine celebration going on and of course all the Zimbos laughed at me because they thought it was very funny that the American who traveled around the world got lost and scared driving around the Presidential Palace. 

Well, the joke was on me. I took the good-natured ribbing for the rest of the night, had three or four glasses of wine to calm down and so that I would not get lost or die on my way back home my friends were kind enough to let me crash in their guest room. 

And that is how I survived the Road of Death in Harare, Zimbabwe. 

Below are photos from the NIAA school tour that we took after this adventure happened. Shots of myself and good friend Musa Saruro teaching improv and acting technique in and around Bulawayo 2013.

All opinions expressed are the personal opinions of the author. Tripswithjames.com is a copyright of Carey On Creative, LLC. 2023. Atlanta, GA.

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