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Mountains
of Zim dollars, but no wallets
Agiza Hlongwane, The Sunday Tribune (SA)
March 23, 2008
http://www.zwnews.com/issuefull.cfm?ArticleID=18431
Like most Zimbabweans,
the last time taxi driver More Taruvinga owned a wallet was in 2002.
"It was brown and made out of leather. My father gave it to
me," he says, while negotiating the old, red tshova - as minibus
taxis are known in these parts - out of Bulawayo. It was around
that time, too, that Taruvinga, 27, last heard of a bank robbery
or cash-in-transit heist in the city. Once the currency of a thriving
economy, Zimbabwe's dollar - estimated at more than 45 million to
the US dollar - has become so insignificant that most people don't
even bother to pick up certain bank notes on the floor, let alone
rob each other. And the load of paper is too much for any wallet.
Taruvinga is clearly a people's man, and especially popular with
the ladies, who greet him as they walk past. He says although he
used to be a "player", he has "only" two girlfriends
now. His father is a polygamist. These days, Taruvinga's pockets
are always bulging with cash - not that the wads of mita (millions)
and bhidza (billions) he's carrying translate to much, though. The
money can hardly cover a few basic needs. In fact, the last time
Taruvinga had his favorite meal of fried chicken and Coke was three
months ago.
As the rickety tshova
makes its way into the dusty, pothole-ridden roads, it is anyone's
guess whether the destination will be reached. Not only do the holes
on the floorboard expose the ground beneath, but some of the tshova's
lights are broken, tyres are smooth, the dashboard is cracked, and
the handbrake lever is held together by a wire. Each time we stop
to pick up or drop off a passenger, the engine threatens to stall.
In fact, were it in South Africa, it would probably qualify for
the Department of Transport's demolition programme aimed at removing
old taxis from the roads. Derelict and dangerous the tshova may
be, it is not short on humour, as borne out by stickers with messages
such as "Do not steal, Govt hates competition". Inside,
conductor Nqobizitha Moyo, 19, is collecting the fare and dispensing
change. The 10km trip to Mahatshula costs each of the 18 passengers
Z$15 million. Each single trip brings in Z$270 million, but then
each litre of petrol costs Z$48 million on the black market - the
only place where it's available. He can only refuel for five litres
(Z$240), at intervals of four trips. Compared to Durban's speedy,
reckless taxi drivers, Taruvinga is a pedestrian. He says driving
slowly, the flat terrain, help him save fuel.
While processing
the transactions can be a tedious affair, for conductor Moyo it
has become second nature. "I used to struggle with the arithmetic
and counting the money, but not anymore," he says. He hands
over the money to Taruvinga. The smaller notes, in denominations
of Z$750 000 million, 500 000 and 200 000, go to his left pocket,
while the rest - the more "respectable" Z$10 000 000 -
are kept in his right pocket. Refuelling also helps decrease the
load of currency, he says. Otherwise, given that there are 20 people
in the tshova at any given time, they would run out of space to
keep the money. Taruvinga, the father of a 4-year-old boy, lives
in Ntumbane, about 7km from Bulawayo. "There is not a single
parent there whose child in not in South Africa," he says.
In 2002, he earned Z$250 as a merchandiser at a Spar in Bellview.
"I could buy groceries for my family, and still be left with
some money for myself." But as a mutshova, he makes more than
Z$1billion for the taxi owner, earning himself 15% of the weekly
takings. "It works out to about Z$800 million. That only gives
me 10kg sugar, 10kg mielie-meal and maybe some soap." He says
his biggest dream is for the situation in his country to return
to normal. But until then, he has set his sights elsewhere. Having
just obtained an international driver's licence, he says once he
has raised enough rands to arrange the paperwork, he will join an
estimated three million compatriots who have found a home in South
Africa.
Halfway towards Mahatshula,
the tshova is stopped by a police roadblock. Fortunately for Taruvinga,
it is the same policeman who had earlier issued him a Z$100 000
000 ticket - not because the vehicle is hardly roadworthy or overloaded,
but because Taruvinga did not issue receipts to his passengers.
"He didn't even have to inspect the vehicle. By the time I
got to him, he already had the ticket. That is how they work here."
Later, the tshova abruptly grinds to a halt. Taruvinga's repeated
attempts to crank up the engine fail. It needs fuel, but he is in
denial. "This petrol should be able to cover four trips, but
I've only done two."
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