Honda Fits, a bit smaller than a Jazz I suppose, buzz around Harare like busy bees. They defy potholes large enough to devour them in a single swallow. Anything from 5 to 15 years old, 50,000 to 170,000 kms, intact or with a scrape here or there, Japan has realised it’s cheaper to ship them to the African ports of Dar Es Salaam, Beira or Maputo, than to clutter their island nation with the crushed debris. It’s not just Hondas, all makes and models find their way to the third world where preloved cars get a second life and provide a much needed, affordable mode of transport.
Honda Fits have replaced the offical A1 or Rixi taxis of the 1990’s. ETs (Emergency Taxis) have morphed into Kombis (crammed minibuses) that scoot around town and beyond with music blaring, interesting appellations like Apple, Google, Chrome, Facebook, Twitter and Whatsapp, or First Born while others bear the markings of bible passages. I’m told the names are a guide as to which part of town the Kombi goes, Whatsapp heads to Kambazuma it seems. The touter hangs out the sliding door, passengers crammed in. The driver honks his horn as he approaches anyone who resembling a potential customer standing on the dusty curb, mindlessly cutting across traffic to get coin. During the recent unrest the government ‘commissioned’ private bus companies to join ZUPCO (the Zimbabwe United Passenger Company — the public bus service) to tackle inflated Kombi prices (subsequent to the government fuel increases mind you). Initially heralded as reliable and safe (because each bus had army and police patrolling?) commuters had hope. I was even advised this might be a reasonable option for me (but could not find a timetable anywhere). ZUPCO stickers were plastered over the bus companies’ logos and people were ferried. All seemed good in the world.
Ah but 4 weeks on! Local media (not the government’s mouthpiece) doubt ZUPCO’s capacity to run anything let alone pay the co-opted buses’ fuel costs. So, bravely I would think, some companies have extracted themselves from the arrangement, leaving school children stranded (teachers must have returned to work after their recent ‘stay away’), workers desperate and Kombi owners joyous — Kombis quickly filling the void and dutifully increasing their prices yet again. And so the cycle continues.
It would seem that currently in Zimbabwe, driving is up there with domestic work as a leading career option. The three drivers I commissioned for my initial three weeks have been open, insightful and inspirational. You’ve already heard of Loveness. Then there is Maggie, a qualified accountant who, due to the economic demise, now rents a small cottage for her and her adult children. She has to move as the ‘coloured’ couple who own the house ‘like a drink’, and then a fight. Maggie, like Loveness and Malvern, is not a taxi service I quickly realised. It was important to book at least a couple of hours in advance. The cost of dropping then coming back to collect so prohibitive, more often than not the driver will stay for the duration of the appointment (or drinking session as it so happened at the Centurian). They rely on regular customers by sending friendly messages the next day and over ensuing weeks, so we keep them in mind. I found Maggie through Jackie, who had instructed her to give me a ‘good price’. For weekend and night time jaunts around inner city Harare, Maggie was my go to girl.
But to get to Kambazuma was another thing. Based on G Taxi and prices drivers had quoted I would not be able to afford to get to Safe Hands. The first day Irene and I met in Avondale but that would not be an ongoing option. Irene drives her sturdy old Merc inexpertly and very tentatively. Deviating off her usual routine would add undue stress. And so I was introduced to Malvern.
I had supposedly met Malvern last year when I ran workshops at Safe Hands. He collects the children from neighbouring suburbs each morning, returning them home each afternoon. I don’t recall meeting him, but attribute that to feeling overwhelmed at the end of each workshop, bombarded by the religious day’s-end photoshoot, as well as being dragged off to meet with a desperate parent about her disabled child. He is a good looking Shona guy with a winning smile. Not yet affluent enough to put on the weight of status, he has the effortless fitness of an African. His English reflects an era of the still good post independence Zimbabwean education. His education is not from varsity, but life. The politics and economy of Zimbabwe has given many informal degrees — knowledge through experience. Irene sang Malvern’s praises. She’d worked through a few drivers over the years and his sensitive manner with the children was remarked upon. Perhaps he could offer me a reasonable fare, Irene wondered. When he returned with a US$20 per day offer I grabbed it. He, after depositing the children at Safe Hands would come all the way to Newlands to collect me at 8.30 am (I shuddered at the first offer — 6 am), then he would drive me home at 2pm, in time to return for the children. I didn’t realise at the time but missing some of the afternoon session would not have great impact on my contributions, the children nap from 1–2.30 before readying to go home at 3pm. And leaving early meant I could continue to ‘work’ from home where electricity and wifi were guaranteed.
The morning commute at the later time of 8.30 meant we could take a more direct route, rather than the very circuitous journey others took at 7.30. Chatting to drivers has been a window into the lives of industrious Zimbabweans who have managed to drag themselves out of the large class of the unemployed. Malvern drip fed his story over 2 weeks. His parents died when he was 9. With 2 older siblings and an uncle to oversee things, they were able to stay in the home his father had purchased. Malvern, fully aware of the advantage of having a fully owned roof over his head, applied himself to his studies. Education is gold in any country but here, to get good A Levels, that could just be the ticket out, the ticket to at least a working class life in another country. Malvern secured a place to study law in Perth, Australia. But as an orphan, there were no funds, no benefactor or person to explore other means, scholarships, whatever it might take. His older sister lives in SA ( ‘esss ay’, the colloquial for South Africa) with her family and is now studying law. His brother works for the UN in Sudan, a bomb removal expert. Malvern, at 32, pondered, is it too late, should he study. “This government, I should be far ahead from where I am” he lamented, his business plan, clear in his head, has been thwarted by the local economy. He runs 2 Kombis. I didn’t ask what logo his Kombis are swathed with.
Malvern’s other income generating scheme (people who don’t have jobs must be creative) is importing cars from Japan, or collecting imported cars for people. We began negotiations when the necessity of a car became evident. The BeForward website would only recognise me in Australia so Malvern and I planned to look together. The idea of hiring a car sprung up and Malvern, with one car stagnating in a car yard unsold, offered to hire his car to me. His first offer was unrealistic so we negotiated. A formal contract would be written, US$ exchanged and I’d have wheels. He would source fuel, cover the insurance and agreed that the contract would be null and void if for some reason I had to suddenly leave the country.
But before that, Malvern and I, sometimes joined by Joyful, spent the commute chatting about life in Zim, often contrasting it to home. With 3 children, his wife looking after their 6 week old son, Malvern was the sole breadwinner. His day started early with the Safe Hands transport, and ended late gathering the takings from his Kombis. Part of the weekly routine was ferrying free bore water supplied by an Indian in Belvedere, for his household, and sourcing fuel for the cars. We talked about roles. I spoke of how Australian men take on considerably more of the household and child rearing responsibilities than decades ago. Malvern turned, an incredulous smile revealed his disbelief. He shook his head and slowly replied, “Ahh”. It spoke volumes. Even this relatively young Shona man (he laughed when I told him he was young, his life and loss imbuing a wisdom beyond his years) steadfastly held onto cultural roles. There was no way Malvern was going to cook sadza at the end of the day.
We talked about Safe Hands and the children, the challenges to keep the place afloat, he mused that it could become Kambazuma’s St Giles, a private school for physical and sensory impairment that in its hey day was the gold standard. Now families pay school fees, boarding fees and additional money for therapies. In spite of these fees parents must attend daily to feed and toilet their children. Those that can pay a maid to do this so they can go to work. After I told Malvern Zim had only a handful of speech therapists he revisited the topic of study and asked to read some of my books. Primarily a businessman (of necessity) he could see the opportunity.
Navigating the potholes, passing army trucks, facing flour and oil shortages, queuing for bread, fuel and water — ever present in our commute was the past 39 years of Zimbabwean politics. The solutions were less evident. Two generations of children are growing up with rampant corruption as the norm and, in plastic infused lives, a confetti of litter in the streets (though I was pleased to see ladies in red sweeping some main streets the other morning). Hospitals absent of antibiotics, painkillers, syringes lead a local doctor to break ranks on facebook, her pleas for the government to step up were desperate. She said simply, her voice heart broken, tears streaming down her face, “We are helping no one”. Zimbabweans, the Shona in particular, are patient peaceful people. Their leaders are not. I ponder the only solution I can see. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
