Taxi through Pretoria (part 1)

Somebody asked me to write about my experiences on a minibus taxi, a mode of transport I use quite often. This is the first column of three that will look into my experiences. Firstly, there is nothing wrong, dangerous, eerie, creepy, dingbat in the head about a middle-aged white man riding in a minibus taxi. No, I have not lost my marbles, neither am I a six-pack with one missing. As for the middle age, anything between 60 and 80 to me is middle age. I wear my dented and abused silver crown with pride.

If anybody wants to dispute this fact I will abduct you and carry you screaming into a minibus taxi on my next ride. I travel by minibus taxi because it is the only form of public transport that works. Taxi drivers usually don’t strike like the bus drivers do, leaving a crowd of bus commuters standing bedraggled at bus stops like poor lost souls. They cannot be affected by copper wire theft and are still the fastest form of transport around, including the Gautrain.

But, for a white person to take a minibus taxi, that person must have a strong disposition and nerves of steel. He/she must be able to work through ‘the stare’. The stare? Yes, the stare of incredulity that a middle-aged white man could make a minibus taxi stop by using the right hand signals, nogal. The stare is not only reserved for the taxi passengers, however, when you get off the taxi the white people also stare at you as if you are a hensopper or traitor.

When you get into a minibus taxi, young and old will stare at you with mouths wide open in amazement and confusion, as if you are an alien trespassing on their domain. Toddlers will cling closer to their mothers and their large eyes will not leave your face for a second. Any sudden move from your side, such as fishing for your fare, will send them scurrying deeper into their mother’s safe embrace. Taxis can be very dangerous and quiet places or lively with music and laughter depending on the driver.