SHORT STORY: Ticket to ride

London has the red double Decker bus, India has the motorised three wheeled vehicle, first developed in Japan in 1930, China has the fastest train on earth; capable of speeds of up to 600km/h: we have the mini bus taxi!

First legalized in the 1980’s, the mini bus taxi carries out approximately fifteen million commuter trips daily. (For the statistically minded, within the industry there are approximately 200 000 mini taxis, 300 000 drivers, 100 000 taxi marshals and the industry also benefits 100 000 car washers and 150 000 vendors at the various taxi ranks).

South Africa has a large working class who live mainly in Townships scattered around the business districts. Early in the morning, the taxis begin to ferry passengers to the city and from around four pm they drive the workers home again.

I had decided to move to the coast after my retirement and I bought a ticket to Durban aboard a Greyhound coach. I am a widow, my chicks have grown and flown and I could at last fulfil my lifelong dream of permanently living within the sights and sounds of the Indian Ocean in KwaZulu-Natal.

Upon arriving at Durban station in the early evening, I enquired of one of the taxi drivers waiting for a fare, where I might find reasonably priced lodgings for the night and for a hundred rand, he offered to drive me to a local hotel.

I spent an uneventful night in a tidy functional room. The next morning, after showering, I packed my belongings into my little black zip up case on wheels and asked at the reception desk how I might travel to Port Shepstone, a bustling sea side town, which I remembered from our family holidays in nearby Umzumbe.

A pretty little African receptionist said, “Mam, you can catch a taxi to the station and a train from there”.

I smiled my thanks and walked out into the balmy coastal air of Durban in the summer and looked around for a taxi. Not seeing one, I re-entered the hotel and asked the young lady if she would point out where the taxis were standing. She accompanied me outside and pointed to a white kombi parked on the other side of the road.

“Over there Mam, that mini bus taxi will take you to the station for R8.00”.

I cautiously approached the open sliding door of the vehicle, peeped inside and asked the very large African man seated at the steering wheel if he was going to the station?

“Yebo, I am. Get inside. When we are full, I will take you there”.

I climbed into the kombi, and took a seat at a window. I placed my little black case onto my lap and waited, and waited and waited in the sweltering heat for my journey to begin. One by one, an assortment of folk began climbing aboard until each seat was filled, and then , with a bone numbing jerk, the taxi took off.

I sat as still as a mouse, for fear that someone might notice my brown hair and pale skin and throw me off the taxi! We must have stopped and started ten times to let passengers off and to load others on, before the driver bellowed over the raucous African music, “Station”!

I got to my feet and navigated my way over an assortment of bags to the sliding door, alighting onto a cracked pavement. Across the road I could see the station and I made my way to the concourse. I hesitantly approached the ticket window and asked the clerk for a ticket to Port Shepstone.

“Oh, I am sorry madam, there aren’t any trains running to Port Shepstone anymore, but you can buy a ticket to the last station on the line and take a taxi from there”.

I bought the offered ticket for twelve rand, wondering why travel in KZN was so cheap. I walked down the concourse as directed, went down a long flight of grimy stairs and through a dingy tunnel reeking of urine, I came out onto a platform where a stationary train was waiting and I climbed into a compartment. I waited and waited and waited some more, until eventually some school girls climbed in and I asked them when the train was leaving?

“In about twenty minutes they chirped.”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief when with a clang, a bang and screeching tortured steel, we set off. I sat glued to the grimy window; I didn’t want to miss my first glimpse of the sea! Ugly dirty factory walls slid by the window, overgrown paper and bottle strewn grass verges filled my vision. I was utterly bereft. Where was the sparkling blue ocean, curling onto the sandy beach that I remembered from long ago?

Then, through my tear stained eyes, the sea came into view! I asked the schoolchildren to warn me when the train was approaching the final station so that I could get ready to get off and find a taxi for the final leg of my journey.

As the children alighted at their stop, they said, “The next stop is the last one Mam,”

As the train came to a halt at the next station, I grabbed the handle of my little black case on wheels and stepped down onto the platform. I followed the other passengers over a steel bridge spanning the train tracks and when I reached the other side; I asked an African lady where I could catch a taxi to Port Shepstone.

“Whosa, follow me.”

She led me to a waiting Kombi. The burly African driver gave me a long penetrating look, as if he couldn’t quite fathom what a middle aged white woman was doing all by herself, pulling along a little black suitcase on wheels and catching his taxi in the middle of rural Kwa Zulu Natal.

“Get into to the front seat with your case he ordered, you must pay R20.00!”

Clutching my case on my lap, I waited expectantly for the next leg of my journey to begin. The driver waited until the mini taxi was packed to capacity and we set off for what I believed to be Port Shepstone. Not so! He drove to a bustling African market place where his passengers alighted. Switching off the engine he said, “Wait here, we leave for Port Shepstone in twenty minutes!”

I couldn’t believe my eyes or ears. Pins, roots, bags of flour and maize meal, razor blades, cigarettes, fruit and live chickens were on display for sale. African music blared over the strident voices of the salesmen and women peddling their wares, taxis hooted to attract passengers and I could hear goats bleating in the distance. I closed my eyes in utter disbelief and, taxed to the limit, I must have dozed off.

I woke with a start; the taxi driver had returned and was gunning the engine and tooting his horn. Passengers approached the taxi and got in, soon the taxi was full and we took off for I knew not where.

We drove through rural KwaZulu-Natal over bumpy dusty roads. Monkeys were jumping from tree to tree and young children were herding goats and sheep. My eyes could hardly take in the emerald hue of the trees, the riotous foliage and the abundant sugar cane growing as far as the eye could see. I sat back in my seat, totally in awe of the spectacle.

Eventually, we reached an asphalt highway and I noticed a sign board saying Port Shepstone 30 kms. The driver put his foot on the gas and we hurtled towards my final destination. When Port Shepstone came into view with its iconic black and white lighthouse guarding the coast line, the driver asked where I would like to get out.

“Anywhere in town,” I replied.

When he dropped me off opposite a shopping centre, I saw the familiar “Wimpy” sign and decided to regroup there over a burger and coke. I paid the driver the required sum of twenty rand and he pulled off with my thanks for a safe journey ringing in his ears.

I sat at a table and caught the attention of couple of girls sitting near me. “Excuse me, I said, could you direct me to an inexpensive hotel for the night?”

“Sure Mam, do you see that taxi over there…”

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