CONTENTS | ANB-BIA HOMEPAGE | WEEKLY NEWS
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Zimbabwe |
SOCIAL CONDIT.
«Slices of life» from a typical African bus/truck depot
For a first-time visitor, Gweru’s Kudzanayi bus terminal can be an overwhelming and often alarming encounter. Squeezed into a corner of prime commercial land in the central business district, it’s a meeting place for a diverse mix of people, literally a human zoo made up of thieves, vendors, self-styled witch doctors, travellers, beggars, preachers, pimps, businessmen, artists, plain clothes policemen, vandals, farmers and touts. All have an individual act to stage.
At the terminal’s main entrance, a man plays «see-saw» with the gate barrier. He spends practically the whole day there, seemingly oblivious to the noise and chaos. «Is this place always so full and noisy?» I ask him. He just looks at me as if I’m crazy. I ask him about the buses, and then he’s on a roll, describing ever make of every fleet, and which bus company has just acquired the latest Volvo model.
But among the most mesmerising characters are the bus conductors. With unbelieving agility they dangle from and jump off buses to pay their fees for entering an appropriate bus stand, hardly ever stopping the bus to do so.
Not to be outdone, touts for the respective buses take over once the conductor leaves. They sing the praises of their master’s buses in loud, shrill voices, cajoling passengers into buying a ticket.
Meanwhile, city council officials with leather money pouches hanging from their necks, harass vendors (mainly women) into paying the Z$15 (about US $0.30) daily fee for their space where they can sell their goods. «Pay up», yell the officials. «I’m not your husband to whom you can tell any old nonsense. Pay up, or I’ll take those eggs». The vendor quips back: «That girlfriend of yours in the corner, did she pay as much as I have to?»
Then there’s an elderly vendor trying to sell snuff to a schoolboy on his way back to boarding school in Lower Gweru. The boy’s having trouble convincing the old man that he’s no use for it.
Occasionally a blast of «Tuku» music blares out from the record bar, or from an old telephone booth converted into a music box. No one seems to notice or care amidst the madness and confusion.
Often the stench from the public toilet is sickening, but it does not deter the tireless cabbage vendors who have set up shop next door to it. «The smell is nothing», they say, «compared to the power of the dollar. With money at least we’ll be able to buy something to eat for dinner». «What about the smell?» I ask. They just look incredulously at me and shake their heads. «The life of the market is trade. We stop selling and we die. That’s all there is to it».
A bunch of roughly-made leather catapults hangs from a rope in the sun — their price tag is Z$25 (US $0.50) each. The art of purchasing is to first of all show a keen interest in the item and then start bargaining. You shake your head at the going price and say you only have Z$10 (US $0.20). The vendor says: «Just add Z$5 (US $0.10) to your offer and I’ll be happy». You reply: «No way!» Eventually a bargain is struck and the vendor is still happy because he’s made a sale.
A bit further on there’s a nursery stall crammed with local exotic plants proudly displayed by the stall’s owner. How the plants survive amidst the exhaust fumes from the hundreds of buses which pass through the terminus, is a testimony to their resilience.
A few steps towards the inner market there’s an attractive display of plastic containers. A woman expounds their merits. She doesn’t care what you’re buying for — «just buy them», she tells you.
«Dar es Salaam»
Facing the mall, just by the sign which reads: «Bulawayo En Route», you find yourself in the corner of the market popularly known as «Dar es Salaam». There’s a good pair of shoes for sale. «Imported from Tanzania», says the vendor. A glance at the next stall and you find yourself in the world of haute couture. Or at least that’s what the sales people want you to believe. A leather jacket carries what looks like an «original» label from the manufacturer, but on close inspection you see it’s misspelt — just another imitation.
The traders are above all creative and ever-optimistic. One has the inscription «this is my home» written over his stall. And he means it. He explains that he came to the city hoping to get a job but found nothing. So he decide to become self-employed. Although he’s a squatter (once night falls, he throws a mattress down at the back of his stall to form his bed), he’s a proud man. «With your hands and a noble mind, you can’t go wrong», he says.
By way of contrast, just ask a trader operating a pavement bookshop where he gets his books, and you’ll get a reply something like: «If you want to buy, buy — don’t ask any questions or you’ll regret it!»
The resonating sights and sounds of Kudzanayi would not be complete without the elderly women in the inner market whose job it is to dispense medicine and advice for every conceivable and emotional ill. Give a sly wink and ask for backache medicine, and they will hand you a potion they call «ZESA» (i.e. the Zimbabwe Electricity Supply Authority) with a mischievous glint in their eyes. «Drink it in your tea, coca cola or beer and you’ll have the sexual prowess of a baboon», they assure you. Aphrodisiacs such as ginger are also available; likewise a number of precious herbs and brews the women only haul into view for their most important customers.
The local authorities do their best to keep the market area clean and safe. There are two public toilets with a constant supply of running water, but unfortunately not everyone makes use of these facilities. And even when signs from every corner shout out at you: «Use the bin, not the road», you still catch people throwing their litter on the streets and pathways. Plain clothes policemen stand guard at all times on the lookout for trouble makers and pickpockets.
A quartet of blind beggars provides light entertainment on one corner, trying to sooth the hearts of passers-by and encouraging them to drop some coins onto their old tin plates. Young children who should be at school, are forced to work as guides for these beggars.
Amid the cat-calls, whistles, mock fights, rowdy laughter, money continues to change hands at the terminus. After all, that’s what Kudzanayi is all about!
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