Battling for survival

The line of cars began in a narrow side-street and snaked around three corners before finding its way to the crowded forecourt of a petrol station over 1 km away. A heat haze danced on the roofs of the 200 vehicles in the queue as drivers waited with growing impatience to fill up. John Maponga had queued for over three hours to be served at the Total petrol station in the Harare suburb of Helensvale. He asked: “How am I meant to run my business when I have to waste time like this? Look what has happened to Zimbabwe. I’m going to emigrate to Zambia. At least they have petrol there.” Endless queues at the few Zimbabwean petrol stations with supplies are the most visible signs of an economic crisis that worsens by the day. With no reserves of foreign exchange to buy imports, Zimbabwe has suffered fuel shortages since December 1999. Superficially, this only affects the small minority of people wealthy enough to own a car. Yet the economic slump is so severe that an entire society is being impoverished. President Robert Mugabe’s government has achieved the distinction of recording some of the worst macroeconomic statistics in Africa. Last year, unemployment rose to 60 percent, inflation ran at 57 percent, the budget deficit swelled to 23 percent of gross national product and the entire economy contracted by 6 percent. The victims of the collapse can be found on any street corner in Harare. Thomas Karimadondo, 25, once worked in a clothing factory in the industrial suburb of Graniteside. He lost his job when the company closed in 1999. To support his son, now aged 3, he joined the informal economy and based himself opposite Meikles Hotel in central Harare, where he sold souvenirs, mainly small wooden elephants, to tourists. But Zimbabwe’s tourism industry was crippled last year when the number of visitors fell by 70 percent. So Thomas lost his livelihood once again. He still earns a living as a street trader, but now sells goods that are in constant demand – petrol funnels. As he walked beside a row of cars halted at the busy junction between Second Street and Tongogara Avenue, Thomas carried his collection of shiny, silver funnels with genuine pride. “Other people sell old ones that leak, but mine are the best,” he said. His customers seem to agree. Thomas sells about 10 funnels a day, at the equivalent of US $1 each, making him rich by the modest standards of Harare street traders. “Everyone needs one of these funnels. I can sell all that I buy,” he said. Thomas has survived by spotting the gap in the market created by Zimbabwe’s fuel crisis. For the very poorest, living outside the formal economy, survival now hinges on ingenuity. Entire families are dependent on selling the unlikeliest objects. When asked where he gets the funnels from, Thomas looks uncertain. In fact, the clean, metal cylinders are made from Harare’s street signs, which are rapidly disappearing. Finding your way around the city is increasingly difficult because countless streets have become anonymous overnight. The metal signs have numerous uses. Many people eke out a living by turning them into coffin handles and then selling them to undertakers. About 2,000 Zimbabweans are estimated to die of AIDS every week, so the demand for coffins is growing fast. The business of death allows thousands to live. The battle for survival is also fought by the 40 percent of the workforce who hold jobs in the formal economy. An inflation rate of 57 percent is indiscriminate in the poverty it causes. The petrol price increase of 74 percent announced on 13 June has already led to a 50 percent rise in bus fares and will push up the cost of every basic essential. A manual worker living in the dormitory town of Chitungwiza, 25 km south of Harare, will typically earn the equivalent of US $55 per month from a factory job in the capital. Yet the cost of commuting by bus each day is now about US $1.36. Every month, the worker will spend more than half of his salary on bus fares, before buying a meal or paying the school fees for a single child. So more and more people are walking to work. Every day in Chitungwiza, thousands rise at 4 a.m. and walk the 50 km round-trip, to and from Harare. The additional strain this imposes, and the hours it adds to the working day, have become unavoidable. Only the very richest have been shielded from the effects of economic collapse. But even they risk poverty when they reach old age. Inflation has wiped out the value of savings and pensions, depriving those who once held senior government positions of a quiet retirement. Steven Sibanda, 73, retired from the civil service as an Assistant Secretary in 1987. His pension was then worth US $400 per month. It has now plummeted to US $145 per month at the official exchange rate, and US $57 at the more realistic “parallel” rate. Last year, Sibanda’s pension was upgraded by 15 percent – less than one third of the inflation rate. He said: “We’ve reached the crunch point now. To survive, we’re going to have to make severe economies.” Sibanda cannot afford to visit his children in South Africa and may soon have to dispense with his gardener and housemaid. To supplement his income, he does occasional lectures at the University of Zimbabwe and other casual jobs. “We don’t really have a retirement any more. We have to go on working to survive,” he added. For people at every level of Zimbabwean society, a country that once prided its self on its orderliness and sophistication, survival involves nothing but a struggle.