We never give great minibus drivers their due

SOMEWHERE in this town, a white Land Rover has spent the weekend swearing under its breath about a shameless piece of windgat driving that culminated in the theft of a parking bay, right under its grille.

While it mutters and mumbles about lawlessness and declining standards and lost morality and where will it all end, it reserves a special emphasis for the identity of the villain.

It tells the tale in gleeful glory, doubtless with an embellishment on each successive telling, and then it concludes with the shocking punchline: “And you know what, it was a Volvo!”

Which indeed it was. I know that because it was my hands on the Volvo’s wheel, and my foot on its brake. And accelerator.

I herewith apologise to Mr or Ms Land Rover driver. I also alert or remind them that it started with the Land Rover itself converting a right turn into a left lurch, so I had to skedaddle pronto or the old man on the upright bike was going to mash his face into my roof.

Still, yes, the upshot looked like, and partly was, an abruptly opportunistic skidding into a just-opening parking bay – which, apparently, was what the Land Rover had lurched for.

What I found interesting was my first thought, even before this little Tin Can Tango was over. It was: “Whew, thanks be that I’m not in my last car.”

My last car, like its predecessors over decades, was one that you expect to misbehave.

It had ridiculously more cylinders than seats and lines like the designer was on opium. When drivers saw it in their mirrors, they imagined teeth and aggression (neither actually being anywhere near) and moved all unasked out of the way.

To pull a stunt like this in a car like that would be mortifying.

You’d feel the utter bleakness of passers-by thinking “what a jerk”, and you’d rightly shrink a little.

Whereas the same stunt coming up by freak from a Volvo – and not even a larney Volvo, a modest little old one and grey moreover – what you feel is “hmmm, that was funny, but you know how it is, Things Happen, even to Volvo drivers”.

Anyway, fine, the Land Rover pauses a bit, waiting to glower at the evildoer (who feels sufficiently guilty to busy himself leaning over the passenger seat, “assembling papers”). Then it’s all over.

Until the next morning. It’s rushhour.

I’m coming out of my drive and must turn into a strong stream of cars.

As usual, they are coming up flash and gleaming, 4x4s and X5s and Z4s and SUVs and C-classes and XFs, buckets of millions worth of prime motorware.

As usual, pretty much everyone’s life, worth and self-esteem depends on giving no quarter in respect of right of way.

Although the queue becomes static about 20m beyond me, and it will delay no one that an extra grey Volvo slips into the stream, Yuppie Joburg is a jealous corner of the planet.

Making space where you are not beholden to is sinful, like paying employees more than you are beholden to.

As usual, it’s a taxi that flicks lights to say go ahead, an aged minibus taxi with 10 passengers and a driver who gives me a beaming smile when I wave him thank you.

Isn’t it odd that from the minibus taxis we see both the worst and the best? Isn’t it odder that we make wisecracks and advertisements and comedy routines from the worst of taxis, but never see a word about taxis at their best?

Now let Volvo introduce a minibus taxi and create an even newer South Africa.