Brendan Taylor's girlfriend, Kelly Reading, and Craig Ervine hit the dance floor © ESPNcricinfo Ltd

The local word for party is dhindhindi. Funny word, you might think, but it actually has a very good reason for becoming part of Zimbabwean vocabulary. If you actually say it out loud, it has a similar sound to music, in particular, the opening beats to Ice, ice, baby. Get it?

No? Well, neither did I until the dhindhindi that was held last night to celebrate the team’s victory over Bangladesh. A function room in the Rainbow Towers’ hotel (previously the Sheraton) was booked for the bash and I expected a somewhat snooty affair, with martini glasses clinking and finger food.

The food was certainly meant to be eaten with fingers, but it was not the same as the kind you will get in the Sandton Towers. There was no delicate salmon or parma ham, the type of that is found at parties hosted by many cricket boards, particularly the ones I am most often at, in South Africa.

Instead, a selection of fried snacks - samosas, springrolls, spicy chicken and crumbed chicken - were laid out on the main table. To the right of it was a stand where roast beef with mustard was being carved. Just in front of that, a dessert platter including mini-cakes and a fruit salad. Kepler Wessels, who is known for his dedication to fitness and healthy living, was seen tucking into some of the trifle. All told, it was nothing too fancy, but simplicity has been Zimbabwe’s defining trait all through this trip.

The players milled about, chatting about this and that. Ray Price told us about his third child, Daniel, who was born a little over two-months ago. He explained that the left-foot, right-foot jig he and Chris Mpofu pull out whenever a wicket is taken was conceptualised during the World Cup when they opened the bowling together and “became really good friends”. Grant Flower showed us his bent fingers, one of which has been broken 14 times from being hit with a cricket ball, and allowed us to compare our straight fingers to his. Hamilton Masakadza reminisced about the Free State, where he studied his marketing degree, and said he would never have been able to live in Johannesburg or Cape Town for that long because “I’d get lost in such a big place”.

Until then, there had been no dhindhindi.

Then, the stadium announcer arrived at the podium and gave a small speech about Heroes’ Day, which Zimbabwe celebrated yesterday in commemoration of those who fought the liberation war. He said the national cricket team made the country very proud with their heroic performance and saluted their efforts. Then, the lights dimmed, the music started and it was time to dhindhindi.

Brendan Taylor’s girlfriend, Kelly Reading, who is the queen bee of the Zimbabwean WAGS, got the party started when she led national coach Alan Butcher onto the dance floor. Butcher’s moves were not too shabby, although he battled to keep up with Kelly, who seems to have had some practice doing this before. Brendan is not a big dancer, and hung around on the periphery of the floor, blushing every time one of his team-mates did something comical.

And there was plenty to blush about. Keegan Meth, nicknamed Crystal, for his eccentric behaviour was the highlight on the floor, breaking down moves that could qualify him for role as acrobat in a circus. Together with Mpofu they dominated the dancing, but there were a few unlikely characters with them. Heath Streak was in full swing, Craig Ervine joined in and Elton Chigumbura got down as well. It was the heartiest party I had ever attended, with everyone indulging in nothing but wholesome fun.

The drinks flowed, with countless offers from the waitress of “one more, for the road”. Evidently, she thought it was a long one. Somewhere in between the fourth and tenth last round, Stuart Law entered the room, politely asking if it was okay to join in. He had also, clearly, never experienced a dhindhindi before. But, like most of the people who were there, he would have woken up with a sore head as a result of it this morning.

The Red Lion bar has evolved with the times © ESPNcricinfo Ltd

For most travellers, Zimbabwe has the same fascination as a car crash – it looks interesting from afar but there’s enough about it that says, “Don’t get too close.” Tales of power cuts, food shortages, communication problems, and the more serious violations of human rights and restrictions on personal freedom, make the warm sunshine and wide open spaces seem avoidable rather than appealing.

A few years ago this was certainly the case. Locals recount tales of getting used to drinking black coffee or tea, not because they liked it, but because there simply wasn’t any milk. Or being unable to drive anywhere at night, because without any streetlights and potholes lying like landmines in the dark, it was just too dangerous to do so.

Thankfully, Zimbabwe is not such a treacherous place anymore. Last night, the only thing not available in one of the local restaurants was oysters. “But we have the fresh Scottish salmon, which was flown in today,” the manager informed us. Can’t complain about that.

The improved Zimbabwe, although not perfect, is quickly becoming a wonderful midpoint between old world Colonial charm and new-age African development. In between the gables are the thatched roofs, alongside the enormous properties with front gardens the size of a cricket field, soapstone carvings can be bought and next to the traditional pub grub is the sadza (stiff maize meal porridge). Of course, it would be naïve of me to suggest that racial integration has come full circle here, but compared to South Africa, it is certainly more obvious.

One of the places it’s become noticeable is the Red Lion bar, an institution in the main clubhouse of the Harare Sports Club. I was told that this bar would give me a glimpse of Rhodesia, with ruddy faced men of an older generation recounting what life in this country used to be like, in the days of Ian Smith. Happily, the old hangout has evolved and as my companion said, “The only black people inside are not just standing behind the bar.”

We met a man who says he is a solider (he looked the part but did not say where he had been deployed) and helpfully pointed out a framed cheque which Cecil John Rhodes had made out to the Salisbury Cricket Club, which was what this venue was originally known as. There were also some sketchings of the ground, photographs and a few magazine tributes. Noteworthy articles they are all are, but the really striking things are taking place all around them.

The grand hotels that are found in the city centre and the suburb of Avenues – a tree-lined area with wide streets and medium sized apartment blocks – have a regal and colonial nature about them. Dark wood bars, imposing columns and majestic staircases. But in the rest of the town, where the regular people go to enjoy themselves are neighbourly eateries next to average night spots which stand out on quiet streets. It’s Africa in a way that I have not experienced before, where the old order and the new can stand next to each other. Much to the surprise of some, it’s a mixture of people who can be found inside these places, a sign that Zimbabwe is moving on, in the best way it knows how.

The financial problems that have plagued Zimbabwe haven't affected the hospitality industry so much © ESPNcricinfo Ltd.

One of the ways Zimbabwe can continue rebuilding its economy is by starting colleges for people interested in the service industry. Zimbabwean waiters, bartenders, receptionists and hotel desk staff are friendly, approachable and helpful, without being over-eager, aggressive or desperate to sell.

Take the group that works at the Portuguese establishment Coimbra, who received a group of hungry cricket journalists last night, interested in something more meaty than just a good story. They happily let us in, with no reservation, even though the two rooms were full and when we complained that the table we had was too close to the door, they moved us further inside. They served peri-peri chicken and ice-cream long after everyone else had left and never gave that uneasy feeling that sometimes floats around a room when the restaurateurs want the patrons to leave.

Or the man working at the Bronte Hotel and has been doing so for almost a decade, and has now been promoted to a manager of the breakfast area. He remembered a guest he had served years ago, asked how he was, and personally offered to ensure his hot meal was adequately prepared, because the buffet food may have been too cold. The steaming scrambled eggs arrived a little later, to be enjoyed while taking in the view of the hotel’s stunning garden.

It is a large outside area, which has managed to keep its colours in spite of winter. Whatever financial problems have plagued Zimbabwe, this hotel has kept its grandeur, its homeliness and its pride. Its gables announce its authority and the warmth inside confirms it.

One of the drawbacks is the steady decline of hot water through a shower. It starts off as a full shower head and within minutes is down to a limp trickle, leaving no choice but to open the cold tap, hold one’s breath and dive in, knowing that if it’s done quickly enough, the subsequent walk to the cricket ground should be enough to warm up again.

Once inside the ground, the friendliness is back. The day before it once again becomes a Test venue, Harare Sports Club was hosting an IT conference. One of the organisers proudly reported that they had managed to connect 150 computers to the internet at once and they will now look at putting a booster into the press box so that the journalists (of which there are far fewer than 150) can remain connected throughout the match.

While the conference continued inside, the Zimbabwe and Bangladesh national teams trained outside. They went almost unnoticed, so much so, that at one point, two people pushing a shopping cart ambled across the field, split their practice in half and didn’t pause until they reached the other side. While the net bowlers were trying to concentrate on not getting the balls hit back at their heads, the sound check took place and even when it was established that the speakers worked just fine, the music continued. It was a party, no-one was going to stop it.

The outfield in Harare is pristine green and it is made of kikuyu grass, resilient enough for the Bangladesh team to play football on © ESPNcricinfo Ltd.

My trip to Zimbabwe started ominously. Air Zimbabwe was grounded the day before my scheduled flight because of a pilots’ strike. They promised to “try” to put passengers on another flight but South African Airways only had seven seats available on their Harare-bound plane. I had no choice but to buy one, with blind faith that Air Zimbabwe would refund me.

Harare is a desirable destination this week, the cab driver, Bernard, informed me. “Lots of people have come for the cricket. We hope we win.” Fair enough. He drove though the city centre. Much like inner Johannesburg, it was a ghost town at night. He pointed out a few general shops. “You can get everything in there,” he said. “Before, there was nothing, not even bread. If any shop had bread, people would queue for a long time and by the time you get to the front, the price has gone up.”

That was an old joke, I’d heard it, but I could tell by the seriousness of his voice that he was not trying to be funny. “Our money [Zimbabwe dollars] was so worthless, if someone had a wheelbarrow filled with money, a thief would steal it, throw all the money out and keep the wheelbarrow.” Surely that one was a joke. He waited for me to laugh, then he joined in.

So things had improved, according to Bernard. There was enough fuel, power-cuts were less frequent and although it was still expensive to get an internet connection (US$35 for 350MB), they are readily available while mobile phones services are cheap. I have yet to see if they are effective because when I tried to make my first call, to Zimbabwe Cricket’s media manager, the hotel operator called me back after 10 minutes saying he was trying to get through. He still is.

The morning’s light had really kissed the sky when we were out for a morning run. The quietest route is past the hotel, right onto the morning road and left into a long street that goes past Harare Sports Club on one side and president Robert Mugabe’s house on the other. On the corner was a camo-clad army guard, an automatic rifle in his hand. I was told not to look at him and to make sure to run on the other side of the road. Glances at Mugabe’s house are also not a good idea, although there is little to see besides a 200-metre long brick wall and an identical guard on the other corner.

The road is a typical country pass, which winds past the Royal Harare Golf Course, from where an antelope observed me and the Botanical Gardens. A few school children were the only other people on the road. It was bliss, a flat running route, golden sunshine gently warming the wintry air. On the way back, I noticed a yellow sign outside the Sports Club, advertising Thursday’s match. “Return to Test cricket,” it said, with ticket prices ranging from US$3 - 5.

“We expect a good crowd on the weekends,” said a waitress at the Maiden pub, situated right behind the bowler’s arm. The pub overlooks the field, which is pristine green despite the season. It is made of kikuyu grass, resilient enough for the Bangladesh team to play football on. What a beautiful place to play cricket. Come Thursday, it should also be a beautiful place to watch it.