I’ve traveled a lot. I’ve been in Europe, Australia, Central America, Asia. I’ve noticed that no matter where I go, one of the most interesting parts of discovering a new country is the means of transportation one takes to get around. In Europe, I’m a fan of the train. I love trains. I fell in love with the rail line when I first visited Italy and took a train with my brother on Thanksgiving Day to Florence from Rome. It was that trip that we sat on these awful little seats reserved for overflow. I remember a really hot Italian guy sat across from me and even from where I was sitting, I could smell how delicious he smelled. I was so enamored with him that even after his luggage that he had poorly stored in the compartment above my head fell onto me and gave me a headache that would bother me for the next two awful, cold, rainy days, I would still only remember his smile and the sexy “sorry” he uttered to me. Wait! Quick pause to remember. Ahhh…
Since then, I’ve traveled by different means and often there is not a hot Italian guy around to make the trip all better. Flights have been missed or delayed, trains have been canceled (Word to the wise: When in Europe, learn “train strike” in the local language. It will come in useful), and buses have been…well, as buses usually are: late or non-existent. Still, public transportation is a marvel to me and I use it whenever I can, even when I’m traveling in the States.
South Africa, maybe just because I’ve spent a considerable amount of time here, is its own story. In May I visited a backpacker (aka hostel) and was reading through the info pack provided in the room and under “Transportation” it said that under no circumstances should public taxis be used as transportation. I think I remember the words: Extremely Dangerous. In bold.
I pondered this. Yes, I can see how this title might be warranted. I remember this one time I was on a taxi and did the unthinkable thing of looking over at the driver’s seat. The first thing I noticed was that there was no stick thingy on the speedometer. Well, ok, my Dad used to have a car that didn’t have a stick thingy on his speedometer. Not a huge deal. You just go about the same speed as everyone else and you’ll be fine, right? Then I noticed that there was a considerable break in the dashboard like someone had hit it with a baseball bat and the area around it was really dirty. The driver had to kind of tilt his head out the window to see the road.
After I studied him for a second, I noticed that there were no mirrors. No rearview mirror, no side mirrors. Well, I guess those aren’t really necessary. Lastly, I saw that he was balancing a beer between his thighs. Hm, ok. Now that’s probably not cool. I know the U.S. has a lot of stupid road rules, but not driving while drinking probably isn’t one of them.
Actually, it was kinda funny the way he was doing it. He would look out the front window then do a squinty thing with his eyes, then stick his head out the window. I guess to verify if he really saw whatever he thinks he saw through the window. When he would determine what it was, he would take a swig of beer and then repeat. Come’on…that’s funny!
I decided after that ride not to look anymore. Ignorance is bliss, right?
In training our really fun safety and security officer told us to be wary of public taxis. He couldn’t tell us not to take them. In the rural areas, taxis are the only way to get around. He gave us a nifty way of checking to see if a taxi was worthy. First, check the tires. If the tires have no tread, it’s no good. Second, check to make sure the door closes properly; you wouldn’t want to fly out while a taking a curve at a high rate of speed, now would you? And lastly, check to see if the driver is drunk. Ah, thought me in training a month before I would ever get on a taxi, swell advice dear Gert!
However, since getting on more than my share of taxis since then, I realize the unfeasibility of these rules. First, all tires have no tread. It’s a fact. If you find a taxi with one tire with good tread it’s probably because the last one just blew out on the last run. I’ve been on taxis that have had tires blow out. Actually, twice. It’s a process every one is familiar with. One minute you’re driving along at roller coaster speeds (Weeee!) then all of a sudden you hear a pop and see rubber flying. The whole taxi gathers their things and makes their way off the taxi. The men ponder… wait, ponder is too strong a word, stare is more accurate… at the tire as if wondering if it’s really necessary to change the tire. When they realize that it is necessary, one of the men gets to work at getting the spare tire out and the others concentrate on lifting the bus, which looks very much like a VW bus but with more windows and slightly bigger. After about thirty minutes (smoke breaks included) the taxi is about as good as its going to get and everyone re-boards and bam. Back to business!
Secondly, the door thing is just simply a silly thing to worry about. If the door doesn’t close all the way (which it often doesn’t) you just sit closer to the opposite window and find something to hold on to. Ta-da! No worries.
One might be annoyed at the inconvenience of being driven around in unsafe vehicles. I get it. But instead of being scared or annoyed by taxi drivers (and taxis in general), I’ve decided to spend much time trying to understand them and therefore ride them whenever possible. Who needs safety when you can have adventure?
A typical taxi experience goes like this:
If I want to catch a taxi on the tar road a couple of yards from my house to visit my friends a few villages over, I stand on the side of the road in the direction I want to go and when I see an approaching taxi, I point downwards which is the signal for local. If I want to go to the closest city, in my case, Pretoria, I can either point straight up (I’m number one!) or put my fist up in the air (Power to the people!). I’ve seen people just point in the direction that they want to go (That way, please), which is really funny to see and I think is only used in the cities. Sometimes the drivers mock the signal in which they’re going so it looks especially funny because they usually stick their head out the window whilst they do it. So a taxi going to city might look to a foreigner like a political statement but really isn’t. There are also motions for train station (chuga-chuga with your arm) and bus station but I really don’t use those.
Anyway, a taxi is hailed, I quickly monitor the situation. First, sitting in the front passenger seat is probably not the best option if you’re alone and if you’re a girl unless you know the driver and have already turned his proposal down. Second, if the front row is taken, it’s best to take the second or third, but never the back. The back is bumpy and is most likely to contain the village drunks ready and willing to wake up from their alcohol coma as soon as they smell a foreigner. Speaking of smell, that’s another reason to stay away from the back seat as well. Drunks smell.
Quickly, I make a decision, get into the seat that’s best in the whole five seconds I had to ponder the situation, and off the taxi goes, usually before I can completely slide the door closed. The first thing I say is hello to the taxi. The person closest to me will usually respond and everyone else will stare as I get settled. There isn’t much room so usually I’ll see women piled under grocery bags, tires, baskets, chickens, etc. Believe me, after a while, you stop getting surprised at what people want to bring onto taxis. I’ve seen it all.
Once I get settled, I pull out my money to pay the driver. There is no meter, no price listings. You just have to know. I’ve memorized how much it costs to get around my area of Mpumalanga/Limpopo. It’s knowledge you slowly acquire for survival. So, after my money is arranged, I tap the woman in front of me, say, “One, Pankop (my village) to Mmametlhake (my friend’s village)” and shove my money at her. This may seem rude to some, but it’s routine. Sometimes because of my accent, she’ll verify what I’ve said and I say yes then she passes the money and message on to the driver who collects the money, counts out change and slowly, the change gets passed back to me. At first I was wary of this. How can you trust that 19 strangers aren’t going to pocket your money? Well, because taxi drivers are kinda like the mafia and you don’t piss off the mafia. You just pass the money and mind your own business.
So now that I’ve gotten a taxi and have paid my fare, I wait. About every five seconds the taxi stops to either pick someone up or let some one off. This is usually a long process. If you got on at a Taxi Rank (which is like a makeshift bus terminal where a lot of taxis gather to take people to different places) chances are you’re already at capacity people wise and over capacity with goods. However, because the taxi driver wants to make a good profit from the trip, he will usually stop a time or two to add one or two more. Now this is where things get really interesting. Little kids usually know to climb onto their mother’s laps but once that is done, there is just much squeezing to be done. Squeezing becomes nearly impossible when you already have 20, um, hefty African women on the taxi. But somehow people can make it possible to add two more. Often you’re handed a random baby or a package to hold while the person gets on or off. It’s an amazing feat that usually ends up with someone’s butt pressed up against the window. I’ve been in a taxi that had a capacity limit posted on the door of 15 and we had 22. Drivers love this. It’s probably a drinking story for later, “Hey man, I fit 22 in my taxi today, how many did you do?”
The waiting continues as the taxi trudges along. A five-mile ride might turn into thirty minutes if you get a taxi driver that’s a little more drunk than most and who stops to talk to every passing taxi on the way. It happens. A lot of the time, taxi drivers will convene in the middle of nowhere and after a moment of talking, will come back to the taxi and tell everyone to move into a different taxi. Once I took a taxi into my shopping town and was the only one on the taxi with the taxi driver and his friend. On the way he kept asking me where I was going and I kept telling him. In the course of the ride that should have taken 30 minutes, he stops to get a newspaper, talk to someone on the street, and get his mail from a village that wasn’t even on the way. Then, he tried to take me to a village that I’d never been to in order to get another taxi to take me to my shopping town. After much arguing he took me the whole way but not before picking up some drunks on the way. Finally we got into my shopping village an hour later, but then just as we were taking the last stop before the taxi rank, the taxi broke down and the guys all had to jump out and push it the last couple of yards. Karma’s a bitch.
When I finally get to my stop, I shout “SHORT LEFT!” and since nobody can understand my silly “accent” or the taxi drivers just think its funny to ignore the non-black girl in the taxi, everybody in the taxi usually has to say stuff to the driver in order for him to stop long enough for me to get off.
I once met this taxi driver named Peter who I admired who took me, 50 children, and three other adults to a youth conference. When we first got picked up, one of the adults started yelling at him for being late and because this is Africa and there’s no such thing as “the customer is always right,” he yelled back at her. When we finally boarded all the children and adults into three taxis, we set off to a near-by gas station to refill before the trip. The kids immediately began shaking the taxi by jumping up and down and screaming/singing at the top of their lungs. When we got to the gas station, I thought he’d say something to the children to stop shaking the taxi, but instead he just opened the gas tank and let the attendant fill the tank. The whole way there, even though the screaming/singing/shaking continued, he didn’t say anything. Just kept going. After the conference just as the sun went down, we were on our way back when he turned and suddenly there was a girl in a car going the wrong way on his side of the road. She didn’t swerve out of the way but just stopped. We nearly hit her and I said to him, “Crazy drivers. What was she thinking?” and he just shrugged and said he’s seen worse. And that was it. No near panic attack or anything.
And that made me think of all the things that these taxi drivers put up with. The road conditions always suck since the South African road authority think that putting a sign that says “Bumps Ahead” is better than actually fixing pot holes and since goats and cows run amuck there are always random stops and swerves to move around cows in the road.
It would probably drive me to drinking and driving too. Ha. Maybe.
