Gullible travels

Our country is renowned for many things – Nelson Mandela, the Springboks, Table Mountain, the Big Five and the minibus taxi. So I ventured into the unknown, and set out on a voyage of discovery to catch my first taxi, on my way to Shaka’s Head.

Having never been afforded the chance to hop into an iconic minibus, I did not realise that this taxi would be the first of a handful I would have to catch in order to reach my destination roughly five kilometres away.

I admit, if I possessed a little more know-how of the local taxi routes, perhaps I would have arrived earlier, but I had Murphy and the full might of his law arresting my plans for an effortless excursion.

After waiting half an hour, my head swinging left and right in search of the brightly coloured graffiti tag signalling my ride, my ears were finally treated to the tell-tale double-beep of a stopping taxi and I hopped inside.

“Sawubona mfuwethu,” I said in my broken beginner’s Zulu, “Shaka’s Head, ngiyacela,” which was supposed to translate as ‘Hello my brother, Shaka’s Head please’, but I am not sure my accent was up to scratch…

So off I went towards Umdloti. Realising we were on the wrong side of the ocean and that we were heading south, I asked if my chosen taxi was going to Shaka’s Head and found out that it was, but via Westbrook.

Fearing I would only arrive in Shaka’s Head at dusk, I decided to hop out at Salmon Bay, where my odyssey truly began.

Irritable, 55 minutes into my journey and now in a rush, I climbed aboard a taxi bound for Salt Rock and hoped for the best.

Bouncing along the tarmac to the beats of Lucky Dube, and with the ocean in full view, I felt quite at home and started to relax.

With my R7 in hand, I was sure I had mastered the art of catching taxis and smiled to myself as we approached Shaka’s Rock – we were getting close.

As we passed Salt Cafe on the left and my craving for coffee reached an all time high, it hit me that this taxi was not going to be pulling into Shaka’s Head any time soon, so I jumped off, bought a cappuccino to go and started to tackle the mini Mount Everest of a hill leading up to Simbithi Country Club.

As soon as I started walking I began to pray a taxi driving uphill would come to my rescue. Minutes passed, and nothing – not a single taxi anywhere in sight. Step after agonising step, I climbed further above sea-level, my longing for a lift mocked by the steady flow of taxis in the opposite direction.

Then, just when I had lost all hope, the classic double-beep I had been listening for played like music to my ears, and as the conductor threw the sliding door open, I pulled myself in and collapsed on the seat in exhaustion. I then leaned back in victory and when we reached Shaka’s Industrial Park, I paid my R5 and hopped out with pride, knowing I had finally made it.

After travelling for 90 minutes to cover just seven kilometres, I have a new and healthy respect for the millions of South Africans who use taxis every day.

All in all, a successful mission, but I wish I knew what I was doing – it might have been far easier.