Africa,  Zimbabwe

Beyond Fawlty Towers

October 9, 2024 /

Nyanga was the Zimbabwe town set in beautiful countryside ravaged by wildfires, our hotel nestled in woodland with neat lawns and its own trout pool. Apart from a suspiciously empty car park there was at first nothing to tell us that we were about to step into a place so badly run that its comedy of errors would lead us to dub the place “Beyond Fawlty Towers”. Just how many issues can one hotel cram into three nights?

It begins in reception, where for the first time in all of Africa we are met with straight faces instead of welcoming smiles. Having confirmed in advance that we could pay by Visa card, the looks of disdain on those straight faces tells a different story. Cue a 3-hour round trip next morning to the nearest international card friendly ATM, with a distinct lack of sympathy or contrition from hotel staff.

The Towers is another isolated lodge where our only realistic dining option is to eat in, as has often been the case on this trip. With just us and one other couple in the dining room, we order our food and a bottle of red. A few minutes later, the doors from the kitchen swing open and, without anybody coming through, swing shut again. From the other side comes a bang, a brief yell and the sound of smashing glass and crockery. Lots of it. 

Next, in comes a young lad waiter, a bottle of South African red and two glasses on a silver tray. As he approaches our table, for some inexplicable reason he tilts the tray forwards: both of the wine glasses smash into smithereens and the whole bottle of red BOUNCES across the table in my direction. Incredibly, I catch it. Even more incredibly, the cork which has been released and placed back in the neck, stays in place and no wine escapes. Had it done so, I would have received a very large red wine shower.

And talking of showers, the next morning we are unable to take one, on account of the fact that the water from the taps is a deep brown colour, thick with some kind of foreign body. 

“Yes”, says the manager when we complain, “we have a problem in the piping. Leave it running and it will clear”. Some fifty minutes later it’s still running a colour so deep brown that no self respecting hippo would bathe in it. And then the power goes off. He tells us the generator will kick in shortly. It hasn’t done so by the time we head out for the day.

That evening, now the only guests in the hotel, we saunter into the bar, startling the tall manager and the young waitress who are in the middle of a surreptitious snog and grapple behind the door. He is, by the way, considerably older than her – we’d like to bet that if he has a wife, this young lady isn’t it. Boy does the girl look embarrassed as she rearranges her skirt. We stay straight faced and simply order a beer. When a few minutes later we ask for a second, the young girl tells us they only keep two in the fridge, so if we want another, it’ll be a warm one. OK, that doesn’t sound nice, we’ll have a red wine instead.

“We don’t have any red wine”, she says.

“Really? But we had some last night”.

“I know you did. That’s why we haven’t got any”.

“…………..!”

As we head to the dining room, the power goes off and we are plunged into darkness once more. It’s almost half an hour before the generator kicks in and the kitchen is again operational. I’ve ordered trout, expecting something freshly plucked from the pool outside and slapped straight on to the grill. What I actually get is more like a stickleback than a trout – it is utterly laughable, the smallest and least fleshy fish I’ve ever been served. I’ve seen more meat in a crab claw. After it’s been eaten.

Just as we’re staring at my stickleback in disbelief, the young waitress, the one who’d been snogging the manager, arrives behind me with an array of sauces and accompaniments on a silver tray. As she approaches our table, for some inexplicable reason she tilts the tray forwards……I think you probably now know where this sentence is going. Yep, in an unbelievable repeat of last night’s boy waiter calamity, she drops the whole lot, but this time everything misses the table and smashes on the floor in a huge mix of broken glass, smashed plates and multiple sauces. The home made tartar, bright yellow in colour, splashes huge vivid streaks across my shoes and trousers. The girl runs off in tears.

Out comes the lanky manager, he who snogs his staff, full of apology and offering to take away my shoes for cleaning. There is, of course, no way I’m leaving my precious sneakers in his calamitous possession. On day three, we opt to drive forty minutes to a different eatery rather than take part in another Fawlty Towers circus. The trout at the new place is delicious and, joy upon joy, fully grown.

And so it’s finally time to leave. I suggest to the lanky manager that he might like to forget the charge for the second night’s meal by way of compensation. He says he doesn’t have the authority to do any such thing and insists that I pay in full. Unbelievably he also gives an exaggerated glance at the tips box. You’ve got to be joking, sunshine.

So we now have Beyond Fawlty Towers in our book of travel stories for ever. Of course it’s not really called that – nope, stand up and be counted, named and shamed….the Rhodes Nyanga Hotel.

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