On Taxis

Taxis are the customary means of transportation for your friendly neighborhood Peace Corps Volunteer here in South Africa. Well, taxis, my own two feet, hitch-hiking, motorcycles, donkey carts, and the occasional stolen car (just kidding about a couple of those…hi Peace Corps!) They’re efficient, if you’re willing to give the word an extremely elastic definition. One that totally ignores any concept of time, speed, promptness or, well efficiency. But you can get to any village, any place in the country, for very little money…eventually.

The initial step in hailing a taxi is very simple. I walk outside of my room and go stand in the street. There is no set schedule of when one of those capricious, disintegrating, hurtling tin cans will decide to mosey by. You just wait until one does. Its not like they would be on time if there were a time-table anyway. So you stand, and you wait. A crowd of school-children walk past and giggle. They say “good morning” no matter what time of day it is, because for some reason that’s the only greeting they are ever taught in English, or the only one they remember. The braver ones might say “hihowareyou” in an incredibly nasal voice. This is meant to imitate my thick, exotic, and generally ridiculous American accent. The only correct response is “I am fine, and you?” because it’s the only one they learned. When I’m feeling particularly exhausted of being the village sideshow attraction I might purposely respond with “not too shabby, what’s cracking with you?” because I know that they have absolutely no clue what I’ve just said. But generally the prescribed English, or the siSwati “ngikhona.” (I’m here/I’m fine) works just fine. The children continue walking, their entire day’s topic of conversation now taken care of and taken up by the bizarre “Mistress Nomvula.”

I wait some more. A few bakkies (pick-up trucks with anywhere from 2 to 25 people in back) whiz by. Some cows cruise down the road, impervious to the honking and swearing of whoever is trying to get somewhere behind them. A Steenbok traffic jam. A gogo by herself or in a pack walks up. (I haven’t decided yet what the correct term for a plurality of gogos is. I’m sure it exists.) They look at me as if I’m doing something slightly sketchy, and I say “sanibonani, bomake” (good day, mothers). Immediately their faces light up and we exchange pleasantries. Greeting gogos is one of my favorite parts about wrestling with this ridiculous language. They’re always ecstatic and I like to try and drag the conversation out as far as I can. They’re very patient, and at every broken sentence or attempt they will clap their hands and try to find someone new to point out this miraculous and novel white woman to. In fact, greeting in general can change the tone of an entire interaction. I’ve had young men go from looking at me like a walking job, wallet, and evil oppressor all rolled into one, to a friend in just a brief sentence. A young woman working in a shop will switch from ‘ma’am’ to ‘sesi’ (sister). A grandfather giving me the evil eye will burst into an enormous toothless grin. Its an amazing, breathtaking experience each time, even though it happens 3 or 4 times a day, and one that I don’t think will ever get old. Going from mistress to sister…I like that.

The gogos continue on to take care of their important gogo related business (I’m sure it involves some form of world domination) and I wait some more. Finally, there, on the horizon – is it? Could it be? It’s a taxi. It stops at least 5 times between when I spot its tell-tale cloud of dust and when it finally gets to me. I put my hand up and point my finger in the air – I’m heading out of town. The taxi pulls over and I yank open the sliding door of the minivan. If I’m lucky, it rolls open smoothly and there are only 3 or 4 people already inside, a few of whom I already know. If I’m not so lucky then I jerk a few times, nothing happens, the person next to the door bangs a little bit just for the heck of it, the driver turns the engine off, walks around, and manhandles the thing as far as he can. Then I climb in, watching my head because of the rope that is tag-teaming with the rust to keep the door in place, and squeeze myself in, between an enormous gogo and a mother breast-feeding her baby. In front of us a man is holding a box of chickens and next to him another man holding a box of beer. We sit 4 to a row in benches meant to hold 3 and the driver will attempt to cram at least 23 people into that poor little minivan. It can be done, I’ve seen it.

This entire process can take anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour.

I pay my dollar (R6,50) and that taxi drops me off at the taxi rink, where minivans, hawkers, drivers, and passengers all swirl around in a cloud of smoke and diesel and yelling. I greet the taxi marshall, whose job bears a striking resemblance to that of a circus ringmaster. He’s starting to recognize me, and points out the taxi I want. Then there’s a little more waiting involved. The taxi won’t leave until it is completely full – all 16 seats taken. If that takes 15 minutes great, if it takes 2 hours (and it has taken 2 hours) well, you weren’t trying to get around Africa in a hurry, were you? Rookie move.

Finally the taxi is full. I pass my fare up and try to make friends with the nearest middle-aged woman or gogo. This is a precautionary, defensive move, because inevitably I will be hit on by whatever man, drunk or sober (usually drunk) has decided today that I look like a pretty good ticket to American citizenship and a life of ease in that great, rich country where the streets are paved with gold and no alcoholic ever has to work. Busting out the siSwati is no help in this situation, it just encourages them. I’ve told men that I’m married, that my lobola is far too high, that I’m 14, that my parents expect me to come home again sans husband. None of them seem to work. I honestly don’t mind most of the time. Messing with their heads is an entertaining way to pass a long taxi ride, and its pretty good boost to the ego. There are certain key phrases that signal where the conversation is about to go:
“what time is it?” = “I’m about to start hitting on you mercilessly. Gear up.”
“Are you married?” = “I would really like to be an American citizen”
“Ngiwutandza.” = “I love you (lets get it on right here).”

So that’s fun. Finally though the taxi gets to where its going, which is hopefully within a mile or two of where I would like to be. I hop out, go do my shopping or whatever I’ve come for, and eventually amble on back to the taxi rink to do it all over again.

Nothing is ever boring here.