"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 favourite 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."
