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Zimbabwe diary: Tuesday
The Economist
September 18, 2007

http://www.economist.com/displaystory.cfm?story_id=9821376&pub=170907&fsrc=RSS#tuesday

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LUCKILY, we had a full tank when we made our narrow escape. Driving back to Harare every evening, my small car has been guzzling petrol at the speed of light, and I nervously check the gauge every half hour.

Petrol, like many other basics, has become rare. In Harare, most petrol stations are dry, and when rumours of a delivery spread, cars start lining up even before fuel gets there. In one of Harare-s leafy residential neighbourhoods, I drive past a line of over 80 cars that snail around the bloc. A few policemen and soldiers stand by the pump to make sure the line is orderly.

For a while, it wasn-t that bad. Last year the government had allowed private importers to bring in fuel, which was expensive but available legally at petrol stations. Thanks to the price controls slapped on in June to fight spiralling inflation, stations have run dry again, unable to restock at the unrealistic new price.

Yet petrol, like most others things, is available on the black market at a hefty 2.5m Zimbabwean dollars for five litres—about $14 at the parallel exchange rate, the equivalent of a teacher-s monthly salary.

The trick is to know where to go, and not get caught. A farmer sells us ten litres that will get us back to Harare, which I struggle to pour into the car without a pipe. One of the few government perks that farmers enjoy is cheap fuel. Some of the new farmers make a living by reselling their allowance on the black market, which is much more profitable and easier than farming.

In another small rural town, I desperately need to refill again, as the petrol gauge is dangerously low, night is there already, and I need to drive back to Harare. I stop at a petrol station, which is officially dry of course. But after a few minutes, the attendant says he can find some black-market petrol. He disappears for a while and comes back with a five-litre jerrican, which he expertly siphons into my car.

Changing foreign exchange into Zimbabwean dollars is also an exercise in cloak and dagger. Buying local currency at the grossly overvalued official exchange rate would make everything extraordinarily expensive. The local currency has recently been devalued from Z$250 to the American dollar to Z$30,000, but this is still way off the Z$270,000 it unofficially trades for now.

So I once again rely on my local contact. He makes a few phone calls when I arrive to check with his trusted unofficial dealers what the going rate is. Last time, we drove to a shop, where my $100 got exchanged for huge wads of local notes in a back room.

This time, we drive straight to central bank. Ironically, the black market has infiltrated the control room of the official foreign exchange system, thanks to accommodating employees keen to pad up their meagre salaries.

This is a flourishing business. The many Zimbabweans who live abroad send money home, and bypass the official exchange rate as well. Even the central bank is said to be buying foreign exchange on the black market.

Dealing in local currency has also become popular, as Zimbabweans are only allowed to withdraw Z$1.5m a day from their bank account. So unofficial dealers are providing cash against bank transfers, for a fee. Trading of all kinds has become a way of survival in a country plagued by 80% unemployment, and where those employed cannot survive on salaries eaten away by inflation officially estimated at over 7,600% but probably even higher.

Most people cannot afford the black market though, and they have to spend most of their days hunting for basics. I go to supermarket after supermarket, only to find the shelves for bread, sugar, cooking oil and meat depressingly bare.

Some supermarkets are trying to hide the shortages by spreading bags of dog food along the meat shelves. Others do not even have enough left to spread around.

I drive by a farm outside of Harare that still sells chicken. Hundreds of people are massed by the gates, waiting for sales to start. A few days earlier, a child was trampled to death in the stampede. A few policemen are organising queues: one for civil servants and soldiers, and one for others. Queuing and penury have become a way of life.

Back in my hotel, the hardship of daily life in Zimbabwe usually vanishes. Here water always runs, and lights always work. Here people buy expensive drinks at the bar, and eat fat steaks or French food in the restaurants.

But reality bites when I call room service in the morning to order breakfast. "I am very sorry, Ma-am," I am told. "We could not find eggs, so we have to ration. No more than one per guest." The thin veneer of apparent normality is cracking up. Shortages have made it to Lala Land.

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