Today, do we watch as Zimbabwe, heads, inexorably towards change?

Harare

Reporter: Martin Bondi

The heady air in Harare is captivating my reality perspective. In this jailed illusion of a cloud we are seeing real change occurring within the human context. I am no more alone in this hotel - beside me, as I type from the balcony, are Cindy and Regina, two young ladies that I have met in the lobby of my hotel. Cindy is a journalist with CNN and Regina is nominally working for Italian TV network RAI.

We are sipping glasses of Johnny Walker Black Label and smoking some cigarettes as we listen to the crowds below dance and sing, the occasional crackle of gunfire punctuates the joyous gathering. Things can go one of two ways: an acceptance of the MDC's victory or, a crackdown by the Zanu PF Party of Mugabe.

Cindy hails from Baltimore. I know very little of that part of the States, so I am pretending to be interested in conversation. In fact, I wish that she'd go back to her room for a moment, so that I can make a pass at Regina. Regina is from Florence - I have, at least, been there once and know something of its location and main attractions.

Regina's dark hair glistens in the sunlight. Her brooding eyes and sensuousness captivate me: to cap it all, she seems to have a cracking pair of breasts.

Cindy is taking no hint that I might not be interested in listening to her. I force the conversation off road, and into the minutiae of Zimbabwean politics, hoping that this will discourage her to such an extent that she goes to her room for a while.

Cindy's PhD was in Southern African politics, she is a formidable interlocutor, I find myself somewhat flailing as she ripostes my latest pronouncements - it is, at the same time clear, that she knows very little of this subject and so, after a two hour discussion I ask her to leave whilst Regina is at the toilet.

After Cindy has left, the conversation turns to art and architecture. I notice that Regina has a small tattoo on her left forearm. It is of a goose. I ask her about its significance. "Another time" she tells me.

The air is warm. I feel like a mask has been placed over my face and I can only smell the Johnny Walker and the cigarettes. I watch, as Regina looks on, horrified, as I slump toward the table, the glass hitting the floor, the computer crashing to the ground as my head hits the side of the table.

"It is time I leave" she says.