I take four taxis every time I go in to our office, two to get there and two to get back. My commute is usually about two and a bit hours round trip. I am something of an expert at this route: I have down cold the times that I should leave home or the office to minimize waiting time, exactly when to start digging through my bag for the taxi fare, who to tell when about where I'm getting off...etc.
There is a definite hierarchy between kinds of taxis. In my area, there is a rough divide between the quantums, which are more bus-like, and the older taxis. The quantums are more spacious, more comfortable, and newer; I can stand upright in them, and their seats have head rests. There is also a functional aisle between the seats. The older ones are shorter, have fold-out seats, and are often in varying states of disrepair.
There is one particular taxi that goes from Giyani to Mapayeni, or from town to my village, that is substantially worse than the others. Instead of having four rows behind the driver which seat three people each (or four in the back row), it has three rows which are supposed to seat four people each even though it is the same size as the ones that seat three. I'm pretty sure that the back row isn't bolted down as it should be and most of the seat linings have disappeared. It is also the only red taxi that runs this route, so I can recognize it from some distance away. So can everyone else. Consequently, this taxi takes forever to fill, since no one wants to get in it. Since I stand out too, I rarely get the option; the queue marshall just ushers me on.
Before this month, I'd probably only ridden in this taxi three or four times over ten months. Riding in it isn't actually so bad, but waiting for it to fill--especially if you're squashed in the back row in intense heat--is murder.
For the last week, ending yesterday, every day on the way home the little red taxi (fondly referred to by me as the "crap taxi") was waiting to fill. Last Wednesday I got there around three and it had only two people in it; those two people actually abandoned the taxi and so after ten minutes there were actually fewer people than we had started with. It took an hour to fill. The next day I showed up at four and it was half full, and filled up in a normal amount of time. This week, the first day I showed up at four thirty, and there was the little red taxi again. Quite a streak, eh?
Then, yesterday, I was there at five, sure that I was late enough in the day to avoid the little red taxi. But--there it was! So I climbed in with a resigned sigh.
Around five thirty we hit the road. Halfway to my village, an ambiguous but very disconcerting scraping sound seemed to be coming from the undercarriage. We stopped. The driver got out to inspect, shrugged, and climbed back in. We started off again.
A few minutes later--more scraping. It sounded eerily like a corpse trying to escape from its grave. We stopped for good this time.
In America, this would have been cause for some outrage. But, TIA--this is Africa. Resigned good humor with a certain amount of repressed laughter seemed to be the response of the day, which both I and a girl a little younger than me who I had been talking to in the taxi seemed inclined to. After all: it had been a long day already and I was exhausted, so of course this would be the day the taxi broke down.
This was followed by a dawning excitement. The little red taxi broke down! Maybe it would never drive again!
A few minutes later we transferred over to another passing taxi--a quantum! There were a few hiccups (the two drivers were actually arguing about how much the one had to pay the other. Come on, guys. We want to go home; and I was actually standing up, which was fine except that I couldn't see to figure out where I needed to get off), but I was home before dark.
And today? The little red taxi curse is broken. A normal taxi with four rows and a bolted down backseat. Not a quantum, but we can't have everything.
Showing posts with label taxis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label taxis. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Taxis
I think I often vaguely allude to the taxis, but have never fully explained how they work. Taxis are a pretty awesome phenomenon, and I am given to understand that they work on a similar pattern (though hardly identical) throughout much of Africa.
The taxis are the equivalent of public transportation and are the standard way for people to get from the village to town. The system uses vans that are supposed to seat fifteen, though in practice can seat many more—though South Africa tends to be stricter than many other countries about enforcing the fifteen people rule. Since people often take enormous suitcases, their groceries for the next month, boxes of bread or snacks to sell in the village tuck shops, or other sundry items, even with only fifteen official passengers (not including the children sitting in laps or strapped to their mothers’ backs), the taxis can sometimes be a little to crowded for comfort, especially on a hot day.
Guidebooks call the taxis “minibus taxis” to distinguish them from the private taxis you can get in large towns or the cities (not in Giyani, however). The private taxis I have taken have been frankly horrible: expensive, slow, and prone to getting lost. The public taxi drivers, on the other hand, know exactly where everything is, can juggle change while swerving to avoid both potholes and other cars, and operate their route with supreme efficiency. They drive along one route like a bus, picking up passengers who hail them and letting off passengers when they yell out. At a particular point in the journey, everyone will hand forward their fare, one row at a time, and some combination of the driver and other passengers will make change. Unlike a bus, however, the taxis will wait at the ranks—both in town and in the villages—until they have a full load to go, so they keep to no regular schedule. My commute takes anywhere from forty minutes to two hours, doorstep to doorstep.
The taxis are used pretty much exclusively by black South Africans; other than Peace Corps volunteers, I have only seen one white person on a taxi in my six months in the country. White South Africans express shock when you tell them that you take the taxis, since they tend to believe them to be unsafe. Indeed, my presence on the taxi—as in most places I go in Giyani—tends to cause comment. However, the taxis (despite the occasional unpleasant incident) are incredibly safe, and one of the things I love most about South Africa.
On the taxi, you are part of a community. There is an enormous amount of trust and assumption that the rules will be followed when everyone passes their fare up front to the driver, and if you get shorted on change or the driver misses your stop, the other passengers on the taxi will stand up for you and make sure that you’re taken care of. If somebody harasses me, the kokwanas on the taxi scare them off.
On the taxi from town to work, I rarely see people I know and often have the frustrations and triumphs of first interactions, and I expect that I will continue to feel like a newcomer on these taxis for months to come. On the taxi from my village to town, on the other hand, I am an old hand; all the drivers know me, passengers greet me by name, and the queue marshal at the rank never fails to usher me directly on to the correct taxi when he thinks I am heading towards to with too much hesitation. I don’t even need to call out when I want to get off, since the drivers already know where to slow down, and if they forget, the other passengers remind them.
The taxis are the equivalent of public transportation and are the standard way for people to get from the village to town. The system uses vans that are supposed to seat fifteen, though in practice can seat many more—though South Africa tends to be stricter than many other countries about enforcing the fifteen people rule. Since people often take enormous suitcases, their groceries for the next month, boxes of bread or snacks to sell in the village tuck shops, or other sundry items, even with only fifteen official passengers (not including the children sitting in laps or strapped to their mothers’ backs), the taxis can sometimes be a little to crowded for comfort, especially on a hot day.
Guidebooks call the taxis “minibus taxis” to distinguish them from the private taxis you can get in large towns or the cities (not in Giyani, however). The private taxis I have taken have been frankly horrible: expensive, slow, and prone to getting lost. The public taxi drivers, on the other hand, know exactly where everything is, can juggle change while swerving to avoid both potholes and other cars, and operate their route with supreme efficiency. They drive along one route like a bus, picking up passengers who hail them and letting off passengers when they yell out. At a particular point in the journey, everyone will hand forward their fare, one row at a time, and some combination of the driver and other passengers will make change. Unlike a bus, however, the taxis will wait at the ranks—both in town and in the villages—until they have a full load to go, so they keep to no regular schedule. My commute takes anywhere from forty minutes to two hours, doorstep to doorstep.
The taxis are used pretty much exclusively by black South Africans; other than Peace Corps volunteers, I have only seen one white person on a taxi in my six months in the country. White South Africans express shock when you tell them that you take the taxis, since they tend to believe them to be unsafe. Indeed, my presence on the taxi—as in most places I go in Giyani—tends to cause comment. However, the taxis (despite the occasional unpleasant incident) are incredibly safe, and one of the things I love most about South Africa.
On the taxi, you are part of a community. There is an enormous amount of trust and assumption that the rules will be followed when everyone passes their fare up front to the driver, and if you get shorted on change or the driver misses your stop, the other passengers on the taxi will stand up for you and make sure that you’re taken care of. If somebody harasses me, the kokwanas on the taxi scare them off.
On the taxi from town to work, I rarely see people I know and often have the frustrations and triumphs of first interactions, and I expect that I will continue to feel like a newcomer on these taxis for months to come. On the taxi from my village to town, on the other hand, I am an old hand; all the drivers know me, passengers greet me by name, and the queue marshal at the rank never fails to usher me directly on to the correct taxi when he thinks I am heading towards to with too much hesitation. I don’t even need to call out when I want to get off, since the drivers already know where to slow down, and if they forget, the other passengers remind them.
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