The hard life of Zim imigrants

RUSSO LUMA
Correspondent | Tuesday February 16, 2010 00:00

The revving of the old engines makes the exhausts belch out heavy dark smoke that pollutes the air. The raucous roar is deafening. Hawkers, who have pitched their stalls on the pavement beside these buses, are engulfed in smoke. They stand up ranting and raving. The drivers seem unconcerned. One of them pops his head out of the window and gives a wry smile.

This further infuriates the women who bluntly insult him in Setswana. The drivers come out of the buses laughing and buy sweets and cigarettes from them. The dust settles. They look like old buddies. They are all chatting and laughing. The leaking diesel tanks mess the pavement. These buses are old. I once heard a traffic police officer warning one of the drivers that he would ask them to wash off the smelly diesel, which has discoloured the pavement. Not only is this pavement damaged by the diesel; the overly loaded buses are making it uneven. The activities taking place around these buses become more intriguing to me. I hang on for a while to watch and chat to a few Zimbabweans. Some are hesitant to talk to a stranger, but some feel at ease about it. I sit down with three women under the shade of one of the hawkers' stall. They are so friendly. I ask them about how the food situation is in Zimbabwe. 'The shelves in supermarkets are fully packed now. Nowadays we only come to Botswana to buy electronic gadgets,' one of the women, who did not want to disclose her name, says.  The other two join her in singing praises about the slow, but promising pace to recovery. They are so upbeat about this. It is common knowledge that shelves in most of Zimbabwean supermarkets used to be empty. 

People starved. It is good news to hear what these women say. They further tell me that food in their country is cheaper than here. As we continue with our relaxed talk, a middle-aged man, who speaks Ndebele, quietly asks one of the ladies if she wants South African rands. She opens her handbag. 

He stoops and hands over a hundred rand note. In return he gets P80.  Surprised, I inwardly say to myself, 'She is some black market bureau de change facility.'  This is illegal. I withhold an impulse to ask until the swift transaction is over. I then say, 'My brother, difficult times can make you do things that you never thought you would do.'

Slowly but surely, there is an assortment of goods piling up beside me: TV sets, radios, satellite dishes, microwaves, blankets and sundry others.

That sight is repeated elsewhere on the side pavements where passengers queue to board the buses. As the pile grows, I am squeezed out of where I am sitting. I have to give space. Bus conductors come with their receipt books and count the items before deciding on the luggage charge. I ask one woman about her goods. She seems cagey at first. I smile to allay her 'fears.' 'These sell quickly in open markets back in Zimbabwe,' she tells me. She travels repeatedly between the two countries conducting this kind of business. 'That's all I can do to fend for my family,' she continues. She also does not want to tell me her name for reasons best known to her. Just when I am about to thank her for the little chat, I hear some disturbing noise on the other side of the buses. I quickly make my way there. It is a scuffle for passengers between conductors.

They are pushing, shoving and almost wrestling each other. The innocent passengers are not spared in this scuffle. One of them is carrying blankets and some TV sets. The TV sets are all but sent clattering on the pavement. The women hold firmly onto them and make sure that they do not lose their footing.  They are absolutely furious. 'This is rude!' One of them venomously spits out. I approach three men who seem to be discussing something. We exchange a few pleasantries and I tell them that I am a journalist. Upon hearing this, two of them leave. I do not bother them. Manford Ncube, a 28 year-old bus driver, remains behind.

I am lucky this time because unlike other Zimbabweans I have talked to he at least tells me his name. He appears unfazed by the fact that I am a journalist. I ask him about business in public transportation. 'Business used to be  good until 2008.

That has since changed as people no-longer cross into Botswana to buy food like they used to. They now buy food items locally. Only a few still come here to buy electronics. This has led to the drop in the number of passengers.' I agree with him because I do not see anyone among the passengers carrying groceries.

A Nswazi Spar Supermarket manager, who preferred to withhold his name, later confirms this, sales have indeed plummeted. But he does not only blame this on the Zimbabwean customers, who are now more or less out of the picture, but on the recession as well. 

If numbers of bus passengers have gone down, this may explain why conductors are involved in scuffles to get business. My conversation with Ncube goes on. He sounds like an enlightened man. He talks about Zimbabwe, then Africa. 'Africa is like the weather. Things change unexpectedly.

Today it is Zimbabwe, tomorrow it's Botswana.' He further tells me that during times of trouble in Mozambique, Zimbabweans were xenophobic against immigrants from that country and he is surprised to hear them complaining about such behavior from Batswana. We learn a lot about each other. We shake hands and part.

It is blazingly hot. I am terribly thirsty. I have to negotiate my way between the buses, passengers, the luggage and hawkers to get out of that crowd.

Here and there I see some ravenous people gobbling take-away food. Some share. Others are criticised for being selfish. Cigarettes, sweets and soft drinks are bought.

Hawkers make money. Interestingly, some of them know a smattering of Ndebele.  They easily communicate with their customers who also have a little knowledge of Setswana. It is mission accomplished for me. At least I have learnt something about what happens when ones country has been hit by an economic limbo.