People heading to Zimbabwe queue up at Beitbridge border post in Musina, South Africa. Picture: Gallo Images
The showers falling over Musina signal the end of the most devastating drought in living memory, yet the new life that is bursting forth in Limpopo stands in stark contrast to that other more famous drought just north of here, the economic barrenness of Zimbabwe, which remains far from gone.
Border towns everywhere share their peculiar dynamics. Whether it’s Chuy in Uruguay, Trabzon in Turkey, or Musina in Limpopo. The common theme for these cities is that they depend on some form of imbalance. One side has more of this, and the other has more of that. That’s where the magic happens – the magic of trade.
Trade, stripped to its essentials. Buy to sell. Make money. Buy more. Sell more. The most basic of economic equations: buy for less, sell for more. And, as in any economic equation, there is risk.
In Musina, everything is geared to supplying neighbouring Zimbabwe with essential goods. The main road through town is the N1 itself.
The city centre is filled with all forms of trade. Bulk, wholesale, retail. And from there even smaller, to individuals carrying bags and buckets. Bakkies, taxis and trailers, loaded way more than you would have thought possible, with anything from furniture, fridges, TVs, bicycles, buckets, potatoes, old rusty chicken mesh.
ALSO READ: Zimbabwean national dies after collapsing at Beitbridge border post
Shops owned by South Africans, Somalis, Pakistanis and Indians all cater to an endless stream of shoppers from “the other side”, 14km north from here.
The Beitbridge border connects South Africa with Zimbabwe, Malawi, Zambia, the Democratic Republic of the Congo and northern Mozambique. Most of the goods that come from or through South Africa to surrounding countries pass through here, along with the millions of Zimbabweans who live and work in South Africa.
And then there are the traders who perpetually buy in Musina to supply the Zimbabwean consumer. It’s a perfect funnel.
A Zimbabwean known as Takawera is driving his truck from Johannesburg to Harare. This time, his load consists of piping for the mines, some cables and toilet seats.
Zimbabwe may be poor and corrupt, but trade doesn’t stop. “Our trucks are never empty,” Takawera says.
His truck is also his home, boasting a comfortable bed behind the driver’s seat, a cooler box and a gas burner, along with a chessboard to kill the long wait at the border.
The queue to the border stands at 10km. It moves at about 1.5km a day. And it grows longer at about 2km every day. The Christmas traffic adds significant pressure. And the Covid-19 curfew, along with the required testing, does not help either: instead of working 24/7, the border now closes at 10pm.
ALSO READ: Border crossings drop to a third amid virus pandemic
At the last road stall before Musina, Takawera buys meat and sausages. “I’m probably going to take three, four days in the queue. I need to be prepared. The pap I cook myself.”
The queue of trucks is an ecosystem in itself. Movement is scarce. Every 20 minutes or so, it may move for 50 meters. Families are “camping” in the shadow taxis, cooking food, changing nappies. Drivers are napping in or under their trucks.
A man had some kind of stroke in the scorching heat. He is lying next to the road, foam coming out of his mouth. Some guys have taken off his shoes, another is throwing water on his chest. He seems to be breathing. We all walk on.
Another woman was not so lucky, and she died while waiting in a bus at the border on Tuesday.
Right now, the queue is not moving. The traffic to Zimbabwe takes up most lanes of the highway, in both directions. The trucks and cars that have managed to come into South Africa – after a 9 day wait on that side – get stuck on this side, not being able to move through the oncoming flow of vehicles.
Traffic signs seem nonsensical: “Don’t Stop – High Crime Area”, “Slow Down – Stop Ahead”. A brave robot insists on jumping from red to green and back to orange.
As packed as it is, officials still find ways to clear up space for their “preferential customers”, moving them ahead so they can knock off a day or two from their wait.
Takawera observes it with resignation: “Everyone is chowing. The cops chow, customs chow. Those Covid tests also must have somebody chowing.”
Just before the border, the clearing agents run their businesses from a complex of small buildings and fitted shipping containers. They walk to and from customs with stacks of paper, crossing a large parking lot with trucks coming from Zimbabwe, waiting to be cleared.
No movement here either.
On the far fence of this parking lot, two young men sit under a makeshift shade roof. An opening part of the fence is held closed with chains. Every few minutes, a group of people comes either from the bush behind the fence – to enter, or through the parking lot – to exit.
The people coming from the Zimbabwe side carry empty gallons and bags. The people going to Zimbabwe have the gallons loaded with petrol, and carry bags and buckets filled with wares.
ALSO READ: Border blues boost illegal migration and travel
A guard named Thumelo stands up from his old car seat under the shade. He haggles with the leader of the group. R10 per person, charged by the owner of the parking lot. I ask Thumelo if he feels like an alternative border guard. He laughs, for the first time. For his clients, he has perfected the grumpiness and “why are you bothering me”- attitude of any other border guard in the world.
The bush and the river behind the fence are filled with danger. From border patrol to robbers to crocodiles. And then the increasing prices along the way. The guides may decide that additional payments are needed.
There are plenty of reports of people being robbed and women being raped by bandits and by military patrol guards.
People risk their lives for the most basic commodities. Some women come every day, to stock up their spaza shops. The path to the river leads past a military base. Everyone is aware of what is happening. To cross the river, people climb over the old bridge – in plain sight. A ladder leads up the pillar of the bridge.
The cost of doing business here is high. Every step of the way there are fees. To pay Thumelo at the gate, to pay the guide, to pay the carriers. To pay bribes. The cost of wares being stolen or confiscated. The products are often bought at retail price. Still, it seems to make economic sense in this twisted reality.
Just like water, trade will find a way. It will wear out the rock to make a stream. Through the poverty, the corruption, the risks.
In this light, Minister of Public Works and Infrastructure Patricia De Lille’s debacle over the R40 million blown on what was to be a 37km border fence is not only a tale of bad procurement and management. Much more than that, it shows the fallacy of ideas – thinking that the economic pressure coming out of bankrupt Zimbabwe can be stopped by mesh and wire. It is like stopping a stream of water with a sieve.
By now, the queue has grown to 16kms, starting already before Musina. Many of the people here will spend their Christmas in it.
As I walk back from the border, there is movement. A 16km long snake sets into motion. Cars are hooting. People are running – getting out from under trucks, grabbing their belongings, jumping into their vehicles. The queue is rapidly reorganising itself, filling up new available space. Suddenly there is life, sound, and movement.
Africa is resilient and energetic. Even when all we see is stagnation, we are always ready to spring into action – at the first opportunity.
For more news your way, download The Citizen’s app for iOS and Android.
Download our app and read this and other great stories on the move. Available for Android and iOS.
