Africa
Mountains of Zim Dollars, but no Wallets
By Agiza Hlongwane, Sunday Tribune (SA) 23/3/08
Mar 24, 2008 - 11:38:58 AM

"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."