Of taxi maths, hyena breath and oxygen wars
After the snide remarks I’ve made about the abysmal failure that is our public transport system over the years, I recently asked myself the question, “Dear privileged middle-class whiner, how well do you even understand this system you whinge about every day?” The last time I’d used minibus taxis to commute, “the class of ’96” was ditching the RDP we had been promised and sneaking in the wonderful GEAR path that’s led us to where we are. And so it came to pass that, over the past few months I’ve taken to intermittently using minibus taxis to commute from my Ekurhuleni house to my radio gig at Kaya FM in Parktown North.
Well, I cheat a little because I hail an Uber to drop me at the station taxi rank where I get taxis to the MTN ranks in Joburg’s CBD, before catching another taxi to Randburg, which drops me off right in front of the Kaya FM building on Jan Smuts Avenue. To steal from successive ministers of transport, I’m using an “integrated public system” approach.
It’s been a helluva ride (pun intended). I must confess that some things have changed for the better since the last time round. These new Toyota Quantums offer significantly more space, better safety features and far less bumpy rides. One does not disembark with pins and needles in one’s behind. And each seat is equipped — wonder of all wonders — with a safety belt! The fact that no passenger bothers with using them is neither here nor there.
But mostly, the more things change, the more they stay the same. After my first few trips I was pleasantly surprised at just how effortlessly smooth everything was. Everyone in the taxi was quiet, minded their own business and was generally agreeable, except for a few requests for selfies — an occupational hazard from Kaya TV’s weekly broadcasts. But mostly, even those commuters who recognised me kept their distance and gave me “Ag shame, he must have fallen on hard times if he’s using taxis” glances.
But on about my fourth trip I realised I’d been riding a statistically improbable purple patch of fortune. Firstly, a fellow came and sat next to me and immediately singed all my nasal hair. He suffered from halitosis so bad, a hyena with advanced tooth decay and tonsilitis would have said, “Here, man, have a Stimorol!”
This is not, in itself, an experience unique to taxi commuters. I’ve been subjected to many hyenas on Mango and Kulula flights. But what’s unique about taxi commuting is the irrational aversion to oxygen from fellow travellers. As soon as we took off, a chorus of voices said in unison, “Bhuti, please close the window, the wind is harsh”.
On about my fourth trip I realised that I’d been riding a statistically improbable purple patch of fortune
I tried to protest without shaming Hyena Breath, to no avail. For the rest of the rest I had to sit there taking in tiny gulps of air, careful not to suffer acute hypoxia.
On a subsequent trip I drew the short end of the stick and found myself in the front seat next to the driver. I will not bore you with the details of the harrowing “taxi maths” brought on by taxi associations’ insistence on setting ludicrous R11.50 fares per trip. The taxi rule is that whoever finds themselves in that hot seat has to delve deep into their reservoirs of Pythagoras and quadratic equations to figure out the change for a row that gives you notes with the instruction: “There are two of us in the one R50, one in the other R50 and one in the R20”.
What I wasn’t expecting was that when I started rolling down the window to let in a bit of air, the driver barked at me, “Do you think this is an Uber? Close the window!” Did I mention that my phone was telling me that the temperature was 36°C?
Holistically, though, I’d have to say that it’s a great experience. Even if it’s just the chance to walk across Joubert Park at dusk to catch the next taxi. The sounds of the inner city. Couples walking hand in hand. A father feeding his infant baby formula on a park bench …
But using minibus taxis to commute is still not for the fainthearted. Whether it’s the
Rastafarian chap belting Lucky
Dube from his phone at 100 decibels without headphones, or the lack of phone privacy from fellow travellers.
During one recent trip I sat next to a woman whose breath smelled of amagwinya (vetkoeks). So I put up a post on Facebook about it. When I turned around she was staring at me, nostrils flaring as she showered me with gale force magwinya breath.