Mashvingo is nothing special. Dirt roads - like most of Zimbabwe - average storefronts, and lots of people milling about. It was especially ordinary on the day we arrived, as it was a national holiday and most things were closed. After our attempts to locate an Internet cafe were thwarted, we resigned ourselves to a Coke float (that's a Spider to our Aussie readers) at Zimbabwe's Dairy Queen-esque Creamy Inn. While we were sitting with a group of our friends, the American couple - Lauren and Matt - got up and said they were headed to check out the nearby market. We had been told it was pretty crappy, but as we had time to kill and nothing to do, we decided to tag along.
The Lord works in mysterious ways.
The market itself was pretty standard - tin shacks on a dirt road. We wandered about aimlessly, remarking how funny it was that you could purchase solar panels (!!) at the stalls, and yet all of the stereo equipment seemed to have tape decks. Most of what was on offer was of little use of interest to us. We stopped at one point to half-assedly (is that a word?) haggle with a stall owner, but when neither of us would budge on our price points decided to keep looking. Now, at that point we had reached the end of the market. It was hot and dusty, and it was nearing the time when we needed to head back to the truck. But, as luck would have it, Matt had a particular item in mind that he wanted to buy - some old school Converse all-star sneakers - which forced us to wander back through the market rather than just taking off down the parallel side street.
It's amazing what you see when your vantage point changes. We had walked past every single stall on our first pass, but somehow we'd managed to miss a few very key items. When Matt stopped to talk price with a vendor, I stood in the middle of the strip and let my eyes wander over the neighbouring stalls. I was about to keep moving when suddenly a familiar image caught my eye. I started. Was I seeing what I thought I was seeing, or had I suddenly been hit with a mirage from home.
I turned my body a full 180 degrees and stared at the stall which was two metres in front of me. A vertical clothing rack packed tight with items stared back at me. I paused to take it all in, and felt my heart start to beat a little faster. It couldn't be...
Nestled in between the garments on the rack was a modest sliver of bright red fabric. But not just any red. The red of a proud and glorious nation; of a land which can only be described as the "True North, strong and free." From the top of the silver - which I now ascertained to be a piece of a sleeve - I could just make out the body of fierce and noble warrior, buoyed forward by passion, skill and determination. In his - or her - hand was clasped the most awe-inspiring sceptre I have ever known; the hockey stick.
But my excitement didn't end there.
I reached the rack in seconds flat - it's possible that I ran, but I believe I may have actually floated - and as I extended a trembling hand to touch the sweet polyester fabric of a most sacred vestment, I noticed for the first time that this noble warrior - still half hidden by another garment - bore a number. 9. I nearly choked. Surely not. Not here. Not in a dusty, dirty market in the middle of nowhere. (In the middle of Zimbabwe, for God sake.) "Ok," I said to myself. "If I pull this sleeve out and there's another 9 on it, I'm going to faint." I braced myself, licked my lips, and gave the sleeve a gentle pull.
99.
The greatest number the game has ever known. "Holy. Shit." It could still be a mistake, I thought. But I couldn't wait any longer. I grabbed the hanger and pulled my treasure from its trove, flipping it quickly so that the full back was exposed. I gasped audibly. There, stitched in perfect white letters on a background of beautiful maple leaf red was the word:
G-R-E-T-Z-K-Y.
"COURT!" I yelled. "COURTNEY!" He came over immediately, looking perhaps a little frightened, and I all but screamed at him: "DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS?!?! A TEAM CANADA WAYNE GRETZKY JERSEY! THE REAL DEAL - MADE IN CANADA BY BAUER!" I showed him the tag to prove my point. The object of my affection for so long - a red Team Canada jersey - but the one item which I had never allowed myself to purchase due to its exorbitant price. And the fact that it was already outfitted with HIS name...unbelievable.
"How much?" Court asked the woman at the stall - who, I'll admit, I hadn't even realised existed in all my excitement.
"$15."
"I'm sorry - did you say $15?!" I thought I might cry.
And then, my dear, sweet Courtney, did something which nearly killed me. He offered her $11. $11 for a jersey which would cost close to $300 in the place where it was made. Thankfully, she turned it down. (Fuck, I would have given her $100 for it and still walked away thrilled.) We bought it, of course, and threw in a Dion Phaneuf rivalries in the NHL." Don't worry, Dad - I didn't let him buy it.)
And that, my friends, is how I came to be the proud owner of a Wayne Gretzky Team Canada jersey. A-MAZING. Some of you may wonder how the jersey came to be there in the first place - that's something we have a few theories about. It definitely came as some form of aid. The question then is whether people are given the clothes directly, or if they buy it by the bag/weight. That we don't know. But, rest assured that your clothing donations are making it over here so they can be purchased by those who need them...and flown back to their country of origin. It's a funny world we live in.
Now back to our travels...
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