Growing up in Bulawayo there was one particular avenue of childhood magic that transfixed us in our growing up years. Such was the plethora of delights it contained it is impossible for me to do it justice in one short session. One of its attractions, the National Museum, was such a wonderland that it will enjoy a chapter all of its own.
Selbourne Avenue was the main artery that sped traffic from Bulawayo's Central Business District to its sprawling eastern suburbs. Like most of the city's main boulevard's it was originally designed with the intent of allowing a wagon dragged by a full team of sixteen oxen to turn around within its confines.
Being a town planner in Bulawayo must have been a joyful occupation because the city was left with enormous thoroughfares that could cope with any amount of traffic. Selbourne Avenue was no exception, allowing for six lanes lined by a never-ending canopy of broad-spreading Jacaranda trees.
The trees provided always-shaded parking and in spring would erupt into a riot of purple flowers that would willow and wisp down to the ground and form immense swathes of bee-strewn carpet.
Driving east, the right side of Selbourne Avenue contained a massive garden area, gravel paths meandering through great groves of Jacaranda trees and their cousins and my personal favourites - the crimson topped Flamboyant Trees. The limbs on these trees would start spreading low and would be enormous - allowing for hours of adventurous climbing and exploring amongst the closely packed canopies.
The flamboyants also produced massive black pods that would crack open to reveal a row of carefully nurtured seeds. They would litter the surrounds of the trees and would be great for vivid young imaginations seeking swords and guns to slay dragons and communist terrorists.
The gardens were a magnet for the city's bridal parties - Saturday afternoons becoming a monotonous parade of blushing brides in stark white dresses posing with grooms sweating in suits completely unsuited to the tropical garden surrounds.
It was here that I had to pose through endless photographs as a page boy in kilt at my brother's wedding in 1977 followed by a gig as ring bearer in concert with Fiona Dewar at my sister's rushed wedding two years later.
Posing bridal parties would slowly work their way towards the centrepiece on this side of the road - the fountains, creating a traffic jam of hot and bothered citizens waiting for their turn in front of the splashing white jets spurting to the heavens.
No matter how hot it was though, no one ventured into the cooling waters. I presume this was something of a no-no and strictly enforced. The fizzing spires cascading into the crystal blue moat were certainly an inviting proposition.
On the pavement before the fountain was a large granite monolith bearing the city's coat of arms and in front of that were the obligatory ice-cream boys. The were astride a bicycle that propped up an ice box packed with smoking dry-ice and a plethora of ice-creams devoured by hungry children. They would add to the noise of the guffawing chatter and splashing water, with the peals of their bells, rung just in case you'd missed their presence.
If this side of the street was magical, the other side was a mystical wonderland, particularly for young boys. This was the main parklands and one entered through two austere stone pillars and into a ceaseless parade of attractions that saw families from all over the city flock to the park as often as possible.
Up on the right side were the obligatory parkland attractions - jungle-jims, see-saws, swings and roundabouts. However, what made this place particularly special was what seemed like an array of large weaponry that we were free to play on. There was a massive tank on large tracks with a huge turret that would swallow us in our multitudes and we'd peer forward through little slits in the metal at our parents, pretending that we were about to mow them down with top gun blazing shrapnel all around.
There was a sky-high globe of some description that was made from wrought-iron bars that encouraged us to climb all over it, inside, atop and throughout. Perhaps my sense of perspective is forever from childhood but it seemed that this structure was reasonably high off the ground and not something that you'd want to fall from. The occupational health and safety police obviously weren't a blight on our developmental years.
There was also a steam train, and with the paternal side being something of a railway family (Dad had been a fitter and turner in the Bulawayo rail workshops while his dad had retired after many years as a guard on the Umtali-Beira line) the train held special attraction.
Again we were allowed to climb all over it. The cabin still had a large gaping hole for fire and the coal trays behind, while empty, were still fuel for vivid imaginations as we pretended to stoke the engine's belly and in our longings prod it speeding down tracks winding through vast granite outcrops and spreading flat-topped acacia trees.
We could hang out wide from the stairs of the train and clamber onto the train’s barrel, peer down its smoke stack and jump off the front and stare at its impressive front guard intended to shift stray buffalo, rhino and elephants from its path.
In amongst these various amusements our parents would spread blankets over immaculate green lawns, unpack picnic hampers and gossip the afternoon away (probably majoring on kill-counts and the political situation) while we kids would speed from ride to ride, thoroughly entertained and exhausted by day's end.
As the shadows lengthened we would wind our way down the hill towards the hooting and barking of the duck pond which was enclosed by a miniature train track serviced by its very own station. While we could drive our imaginary engine up the slope, these little engines were the real deal - with steaming boilers and genuine chugging and steam-driven tooting.
This part of the park always had its distinctive smell. The acrid taint of roasting acacia wood and the particular pungency of heated metal. But it was not an unpleasant smell. It was one that made the nostrils flare with expectancy at what lay ahead.
There were several little trains and they were all named after the mythical heroes of King Arthur's Knights of the Round Table. I presume the idea for this came because they were housed in a brick shed that had a turntable out the front which would swing the trains onto the tracks ahead of waiting children.
The train that was used most often was King Arthur and Lady Guinevere would often get a run. Sometimes there would be so many clamoring children that they'd run both trains to cope with demand. There were several other engines but they seemed to enjoy a mystery status, hiding in the back of the shed and presumably only used when one of the main workhorses needed repair.
The trains would always run around the tracks in an anti-clockwise direction. After departing from the station the track would curve off to the left and continue that way. We would peer at the ducks slowly traversing the pond on the inside. Towards the end of the circuit the defining moment being where we would plunge through the blackness of a tunnel and the little train would toot its horn, something that was deafening in the confined space of the tunnel and sometimes completely unexpected.
Another memory of the train station was one day where there was a product launch for a new soap - Kel 77. Of course the year was 1977 and it was the era where everyone was wearing Trade Fair T-shirts with a similar 77 logo if they weren't wearing the obligatory shirts of a cartoon elephant holding a sign proclaiming "Rhodesia is super!"
We were all given free rides and at the end of our circuit would be handed a large bar of green soap. Instantly Kel 77 became one of the coolest commodities amongst us kids though in hindsight it was probably a nasty provision forced on us by sanctions. That one bar seemed to last in my shower for well over a year.
Perhaps another reason why Centenary Park seemed to have a particular kind of magic is because it was the centrepiece of the civic Christmas celebrations and it therefore enjoyed the rarified air that is Christmas anticipation for a child.
The park would come alive with a forest of twinkling lights strewn through the trees, great big neon candles would be erected and spinning stars would light up the night sky. One tree would become the Christmas Tree - a riot of sparkling fairy lights below a giant star perched at its top.
With Dad now the National director of Youth for Christ (YFC) it also meant that the YFC mob would descend on the park for the annual Christmas concert. YFC drew its ranks from nearly every teenager in every "alive" protestant church throughout the city and its numbers would rank in the hundreds.
November was always marked by the tech gurus, those strange animals with long hair and beady eyes, obsessing about the sound equipment required for the night's show. Chief amongst their concerns would always be the weather because the event was held in the outdoor amphitheatre, not far from the Centenary Park miniature train station.
The amphitheatre was essentially a large raised concrete stage at the bottom of a bowl of black tarmac that stretched up the surrounding hill. Along this ridge were long series of wooden benches that could hold a significant crowd.
And every year we'd take over the amphitheatre for a concert of some description and nervously peer up at the heavens at an encroaching thunderstorm of monolithic proportions.
Bulawayo had the knack of attracting the most frightening of thunderstorms, great big anvil-heads of cumulonimbus clouds billowing in and announcing their advance with cracks of lightening and long growls of thunder. And inevitably one of these monsters would roll in as we scurried around the amphitheatre preparing the annual show.
I remember one year the torrential rain managed to get into the box-like speakers, blowing them out and forcing us into watching an acoustic show under a canopy of raised umbrellas. The next year we came prepared and as the clouds rolled in and large drops of rain started to pelt around us we smiled knowingly, nodding approval towards a sound desk and speakers enveloped in bright yellow tarpaulins.
The show went on but at the end of the night show participants and audience alike (which would number in what seemed like their thousands despite the murderous weather) were drenched.
Thankfully it was warm and it didn't much seem like hardship. Inevitably the show would take place on Christmas Eve and we would wend our way out of the park, past trains, tanks, roundabouts and trees gaudily painted with flashing and flickering lights, unbelievably excited with the thrill of an impending Christmas morn.
Magic!
Selbourne Avenue was the main artery that sped traffic from Bulawayo's Central Business District to its sprawling eastern suburbs. Like most of the city's main boulevard's it was originally designed with the intent of allowing a wagon dragged by a full team of sixteen oxen to turn around within its confines.
Driving east, the right side of Selbourne Avenue contained a massive garden area, gravel paths meandering through great groves of Jacaranda trees and their cousins and my personal favourites - the crimson topped Flamboyant Trees. The limbs on these trees would start spreading low and would be enormous - allowing for hours of adventurous climbing and exploring amongst the closely packed canopies.
The flamboyants also produced massive black pods that would crack open to reveal a row of carefully nurtured seeds. They would litter the surrounds of the trees and would be great for vivid young imaginations seeking swords and guns to slay dragons and communist terrorists.
The gardens were a magnet for the city's bridal parties - Saturday afternoons becoming a monotonous parade of blushing brides in stark white dresses posing with grooms sweating in suits completely unsuited to the tropical garden surrounds.
It was here that I had to pose through endless photographs as a page boy in kilt at my brother's wedding in 1977 followed by a gig as ring bearer in concert with Fiona Dewar at my sister's rushed wedding two years later.
Posing bridal parties would slowly work their way towards the centrepiece on this side of the road - the fountains, creating a traffic jam of hot and bothered citizens waiting for their turn in front of the splashing white jets spurting to the heavens.
No matter how hot it was though, no one ventured into the cooling waters. I presume this was something of a no-no and strictly enforced. The fizzing spires cascading into the crystal blue moat were certainly an inviting proposition.
On the pavement before the fountain was a large granite monolith bearing the city's coat of arms and in front of that were the obligatory ice-cream boys. The were astride a bicycle that propped up an ice box packed with smoking dry-ice and a plethora of ice-creams devoured by hungry children. They would add to the noise of the guffawing chatter and splashing water, with the peals of their bells, rung just in case you'd missed their presence.
If this side of the street was magical, the other side was a mystical wonderland, particularly for young boys. This was the main parklands and one entered through two austere stone pillars and into a ceaseless parade of attractions that saw families from all over the city flock to the park as often as possible.
Up on the right side were the obligatory parkland attractions - jungle-jims, see-saws, swings and roundabouts. However, what made this place particularly special was what seemed like an array of large weaponry that we were free to play on. There was a massive tank on large tracks with a huge turret that would swallow us in our multitudes and we'd peer forward through little slits in the metal at our parents, pretending that we were about to mow them down with top gun blazing shrapnel all around.
There was a sky-high globe of some description that was made from wrought-iron bars that encouraged us to climb all over it, inside, atop and throughout. Perhaps my sense of perspective is forever from childhood but it seemed that this structure was reasonably high off the ground and not something that you'd want to fall from. The occupational health and safety police obviously weren't a blight on our developmental years.
There was also a steam train, and with the paternal side being something of a railway family (Dad had been a fitter and turner in the Bulawayo rail workshops while his dad had retired after many years as a guard on the Umtali-Beira line) the train held special attraction.
Again we were allowed to climb all over it. The cabin still had a large gaping hole for fire and the coal trays behind, while empty, were still fuel for vivid imaginations as we pretended to stoke the engine's belly and in our longings prod it speeding down tracks winding through vast granite outcrops and spreading flat-topped acacia trees.
We could hang out wide from the stairs of the train and clamber onto the train’s barrel, peer down its smoke stack and jump off the front and stare at its impressive front guard intended to shift stray buffalo, rhino and elephants from its path.
In amongst these various amusements our parents would spread blankets over immaculate green lawns, unpack picnic hampers and gossip the afternoon away (probably majoring on kill-counts and the political situation) while we kids would speed from ride to ride, thoroughly entertained and exhausted by day's end.
As the shadows lengthened we would wind our way down the hill towards the hooting and barking of the duck pond which was enclosed by a miniature train track serviced by its very own station. While we could drive our imaginary engine up the slope, these little engines were the real deal - with steaming boilers and genuine chugging and steam-driven tooting.
This part of the park always had its distinctive smell. The acrid taint of roasting acacia wood and the particular pungency of heated metal. But it was not an unpleasant smell. It was one that made the nostrils flare with expectancy at what lay ahead.
There were several little trains and they were all named after the mythical heroes of King Arthur's Knights of the Round Table. I presume the idea for this came because they were housed in a brick shed that had a turntable out the front which would swing the trains onto the tracks ahead of waiting children.
The train that was used most often was King Arthur and Lady Guinevere would often get a run. Sometimes there would be so many clamoring children that they'd run both trains to cope with demand. There were several other engines but they seemed to enjoy a mystery status, hiding in the back of the shed and presumably only used when one of the main workhorses needed repair.
The trains would always run around the tracks in an anti-clockwise direction. After departing from the station the track would curve off to the left and continue that way. We would peer at the ducks slowly traversing the pond on the inside. Towards the end of the circuit the defining moment being where we would plunge through the blackness of a tunnel and the little train would toot its horn, something that was deafening in the confined space of the tunnel and sometimes completely unexpected.
Another memory of the train station was one day where there was a product launch for a new soap - Kel 77. Of course the year was 1977 and it was the era where everyone was wearing Trade Fair T-shirts with a similar 77 logo if they weren't wearing the obligatory shirts of a cartoon elephant holding a sign proclaiming "Rhodesia is super!"
We were all given free rides and at the end of our circuit would be handed a large bar of green soap. Instantly Kel 77 became one of the coolest commodities amongst us kids though in hindsight it was probably a nasty provision forced on us by sanctions. That one bar seemed to last in my shower for well over a year.
Perhaps another reason why Centenary Park seemed to have a particular kind of magic is because it was the centrepiece of the civic Christmas celebrations and it therefore enjoyed the rarified air that is Christmas anticipation for a child.
The park would come alive with a forest of twinkling lights strewn through the trees, great big neon candles would be erected and spinning stars would light up the night sky. One tree would become the Christmas Tree - a riot of sparkling fairy lights below a giant star perched at its top.
With Dad now the National director of Youth for Christ (YFC) it also meant that the YFC mob would descend on the park for the annual Christmas concert. YFC drew its ranks from nearly every teenager in every "alive" protestant church throughout the city and its numbers would rank in the hundreds.
November was always marked by the tech gurus, those strange animals with long hair and beady eyes, obsessing about the sound equipment required for the night's show. Chief amongst their concerns would always be the weather because the event was held in the outdoor amphitheatre, not far from the Centenary Park miniature train station.
The amphitheatre was essentially a large raised concrete stage at the bottom of a bowl of black tarmac that stretched up the surrounding hill. Along this ridge were long series of wooden benches that could hold a significant crowd.
And every year we'd take over the amphitheatre for a concert of some description and nervously peer up at the heavens at an encroaching thunderstorm of monolithic proportions.
Bulawayo had the knack of attracting the most frightening of thunderstorms, great big anvil-heads of cumulonimbus clouds billowing in and announcing their advance with cracks of lightening and long growls of thunder. And inevitably one of these monsters would roll in as we scurried around the amphitheatre preparing the annual show.
I remember one year the torrential rain managed to get into the box-like speakers, blowing them out and forcing us into watching an acoustic show under a canopy of raised umbrellas. The next year we came prepared and as the clouds rolled in and large drops of rain started to pelt around us we smiled knowingly, nodding approval towards a sound desk and speakers enveloped in bright yellow tarpaulins.
The show went on but at the end of the night show participants and audience alike (which would number in what seemed like their thousands despite the murderous weather) were drenched.
Thankfully it was warm and it didn't much seem like hardship. Inevitably the show would take place on Christmas Eve and we would wend our way out of the park, past trains, tanks, roundabouts and trees gaudily painted with flashing and flickering lights, unbelievably excited with the thrill of an impending Christmas morn.
Magic!
1 comment:
Great pictures! Brought back so many memories. I left Bulawayo in 1990 and I had forgotten so many of the details. Thanks for the walk down memory lane.
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