Ferraris

We happened to pay a visit to Zimbabwe in August 2002, the month that the ‘Land Invasions’ - forced evictions of white farmers - started in earnest. 

The currency had collapsed. The official rate was one US dollar for 55 Zimbabwe dollars. I went to an official currency exchange in Mutare in eastern Zimbabwe. I was the only person in the store. The man behind the counter asked what he could do for me, and I told him I had some US dollars to exchange for local currency.  

The man took one look at me and asked, “What rate do you want?” 

Without batting an eyelid I told him 700. There was absolutely no reaction from the man and I was paid out without hesitation in 100 red Zimbabwe dollar notes. They called them Ferraris as they went like hell. On reflection, I could have asked for a higher rate. 

The exchange rate went to thousands and then more than that, after which the currency collapsed and the US dollar effectively became the only viable means of exchange in the country.  

The whole of our trip was paid for in Zim dollars. Probably the least expensive holiday we had ever had. 

One day, driving along a lonely road in the northern tribal trust lands on our way to the Victoria Falls, we suddenly saw a wheel whizzing past on the left. It was the wheel of our rather rickety trailer. We had to stop, of course. We found the wheel and by this time we were surrounded by a number of curious schoolchildren. Paul told them in Ndebele - a local language mutually comprehensible with Zulu - to see if they could find the nuts that had come off – really just to keep them occupied. 

In the meantime, the ever resourceful Paul, with me as his helper, had refixed the axle of the trailer that had come loose with what I thought was a very ‘Heath Robinson’ arrangement. Within an hour or so we were on our way, having used some of the nuts from the other wheel of the trailer to replace those we had lost. Later on, as we approached Victoria Falls, I pointed out a welding shop that I thought might be useful for a full repair. Paul just looked at me saying, ‘It’s already fixed,’ and so it was. We arrived back at Paul’s place, ‘The Blue Anchor’ in Mozambique, about two thousand kms later and in good order.       

 On another drive in Zim, on the very lonely and deserted road from Bulawayo to Beit Bridge (the South African border), we encountered a roadblock manned by people in police uniform, equipped with road spikes. My brother Paul, who was driving, wound his window down and had a brief conversation with one of them in Ndebele.  

They demanded that Paul produce our papers. Paul’s response was to upbraid them for their shoddy fake uniforms and to tell them he would do no such thing. All the bandits really wanted was money, but they weren’t prepared for someone to see through their game so quickly. The leader signalled to the man on the spikes, they were immediately withdrawn, and we were waved through. That incident was the only hint of trouble we had on the whole of our journey through Zimbabwe. 

Paul’s language skills and local knowledge saved the day. But for that, I am sure we would have been forced to pay-up, or worse.