C.C. Chawawa is dressed in black from head to toe, a pair of rhinestone cowboy boots on his feet. He insists on being allowed to race. Against the Hummer.

A breathalyser kit is found. C.C. Chawawa blows into the pipe. 'Okay,' shrugs the race organiser. 'Give him his race.'

In the end it's no contest. C.C. Chawawa's elderly Honda trails the Hummer, whose turbo-diesel engine rumbles without strain as it runs away from him down the track. Cheers, whistles and applause for C.C. Chawawa and his Honda. He may have lost, but he gave them a race, and that, after all, is what people are here for.

Zambian President Levy Mwanawasa recently called Zimbabwe the 'sinking Titanic'. It's an accurate summation of a country that was once an economic leviathan. The economy has shrivelled from a gross domestic product of US$7.4 billion a decade ago to barely US$3.5 billion last year.

Zimbabwe's poor, trapped in steerage, are an exhausted, frightened people for whom the prospects of rescue look slim. For the few left on the upper decks life is a little less precarious as they remain poised to flee, a dwindling community of the privileged who cling to a dying way of life. Many are opportunists, hucksters, black marketeers who have found a niche that allows them to survive, and thrive in a descending economy.

The extravagant squandering of precious fuel at Donnybrook race track, amid the smell of roast chicken and buckets of cold beer, is evidence that for the wealthy, Zimbabwe remains a pleasant place to live.

'There's a lot more going on here than people think,' says Jonathan, my guide, and an economist who once ran the Hong Kong office of a British financial agency.

'The thing is, I have a great house, a business and a good life. I can't think where else I'd get all this.'

The race-going crowd grows as the day wears on. Some wear biker gang colours, others sport glorious tatoos, but most are just ordinary blokes and their wives and children.

I'm introduced to Lynn, an attractive 40-something brunette, standing in the pit lane cheering on the racers. She's recently undergone a breast enlargement by Harare's foremost plastic surgeon. Her husband is working in Iraq, fixing air conditioners for American soldiers, earning a small fortune in dollars - real ones. 'My husband's making good money, and this is what I got out of it. Nice, huh?' she says.

Jonathan and I depart Donnybrooke together and drive back into Harare, winding through the northern suburbs towards affluent Borrowdale. Suburban Harare is an extraordinarily lovely place. Lush, green, with rambling houses and jacaranda-lined streets, it's easy to see why so many are reluctant to flee. Even in the current drought, which has caused up to 95 per cent crop failure in some districts, further impoverishing the population, this section of Harare looks delightfully green and at peace with itself.

There is very little sign of visible poverty in upper-crust residential Harare. A potholed road here and there and fading street signs hint at genteel decay, but it is clearly far from ruin.

We arrive at our Borrowdale destination. Our host is Anthony, a late-middle-aged Briton who has been living in Zimbabwe for the past decade. Anthony adores tennis, and has his own court in the grounds of his property, screened from his swimming pool by a lush plumbago bush of explosive blue.

Anthony is affable, attentive to his guests and an expert barbecue chef. He serves up slices of steak, rare and butter soft, a vast dish of fresh vegetables and salad. Best of all, he seems to have an endless supply of ice-cold beer. This is a blessing in a city with intermittent power cuts and blazing heat.

In the past Zimbabwe stood out from most African states with its good infrastructure, law-abiding populace and rule-bound society. Now things are different, and getting things done is no longer a question of standing in the right queue or filling out the correct forms. It's about knowing a guy.

Pretty much everyone I speak to knows a guy; a guy who can get fuel; a guy who can change hard currency for Zimbabwean dollars at a good rate; a guy who can get imported whisky, or women's underwear for the best deal; a guy who can fix legal problems with the police before the matter comes to court.

'Mugabenomics' has all but driven out the conventional middle class. Black and white, they have fled to safer, less anarchic places around the globe.

The vacuum they left has been filled by another group of can-do dealmakers who keep the machinery of commerce running.

The people who have remained on the upper deck always have a deal. They have the smarts and flexibility to spot an angle, any angle, that takes them to the next transaction.

It is rampant capitalism and rugged individualism at its most extreme. Without them, Zimbabwe's decline would already be complete.

Charlie is one such a guy. Mostly he sells chilli pepper to the South African military who use it for pepper spray, to be dispersed on unruly crowds during African peacekeeping operations.

I meet him at the Hellenic, a gone-to-seed club restaurant east of the city.

'Here's where deals get done,' Charlie says, waving a huge Cuban cigar in a lazy circle. Charlie is 'coloured', that is, neither black nor white, the ultimate inside-outsiders. 'This is where I do my business, it's my office.'

It is barely noon, and a group is gathered around Charlie's table. Drinks are ordered, and arrive with an apology from management.

'Sorry guys, prices have gone up - 100 per cent since Friday,' says the woman bearing a tray of beers and whisky.

Lately inflation has rocketed to average about 50 per cent a month so no one is surprised or bothers to complain. Pretty much everything has doubled or tripled in cost in the past few weeks.

The lunch-time drinks stretch through the afternoon until early evening. Rob, another 'guy', joins us. He's not sure if he should be drinking - he is having surgery soon on a broken toe that has not healed properly. 'It'll cost Z$60,000, which is about enough to buy a six-pack of beer,' he says. His surgeon is obliged to charge the state-mandated rate, so Rob is compensating him in another way. 'I'll be giving my doctor a shipment of diesel,' he shrugs. 'It's the way to get things done around here.'

A day later I attend the annual shareholder meeting of a construction company, held at the company's factory north of the city. A cluster of shareholders and corporate hounds show up. Almost everyone is black.

The chief executive, Sekai, lays out the company's achievements over the past year, the main one being managing to stay in business.

This is no mean feat. It did so in spite of the wild currency fluctuations and rampant inflation that has killed the construction industry, as well as the staff problems rooted in underlying poverty.

After Sekai has completed the presentation, shareholders scramble for the door, where a catered lunch, complete with cold beer and imported whisky, awaits. Talk, as usual, is around fuel supply, inflation and who has a line on disposable diapers.

Sekai is said to be connected to senior members of the ruling Zanu PF party. Mostly, he comes across as a man doing a difficult job in crushing circumstances.

'I don't think anyone knows what's going to happen,' he says, in reference to talk about if, when and how Mr Mugabe will go.

'We can only manage in the present. The future holds no clues.'