I then wanted to write something about Isaac - the older guy who took me back to the airport. He also spoke seven of the languages (but a different seven to Trevor). Isaac was born in Soweto in 1959 and has been there ever since. After spending all day in museums learning about South African history at arms length, I didn't really expect to be sitting next to a guy who had actually been marching down Vilakazi street with his fellow high-school class mates when police opened fire, killing 13 year-old Hector Pieterson.
While both Trevor and Isaac's stories are fascinating, I don't have a good photo to match them, so instead I'm going to have to tell you about my morning catching Taxi's in Soweto. Maybe it doesn't sound as historically powerful or as politically relevant, but its certainly no less intriguing...
I was rather nervous as I strode out of the Hostel and past the first few piles of burning rubbish, clutching Maletsatsi's instructions about how to get to the Apartheid Museum. "Have you been there before?" she had asked me, in response to my query about using public transport to get there. "Never," I replied and fishing for more information I added "do you think I'll be OK?" She momentarily stopped her paper sorting, caught my eyes and gave me a long considered look. I don't know what she was searching for, but abruptly she went back to her paper shuffling with a curt reassurance: "Yes, you should be just fine." So it was this long considered look that was playing on my mind as I walked down the street scanning each vehicle that went past, trying to determine whether it matched her description of a typical Sowetan "taxi".
Already at the first intersection Maletsatsi had described, I decided to ask a passerby if they could indicate where the taxi's to "Bira" were located. Alas, the said passerby didn't seem to understand a word I was saying, and then spent an inordinate amount of time reading word-for-word the short directions that Maletsatsi had written for me. After a confused gesture of non-comprehension, he whistled at a passing mini-van and motioned that I should run after it. In response to the whistle, the mini-van stopped and began waiting expectantly. Not at all sure that the unmarked mini-van was any kind of a legitimate taxi, let alone whether the passerby had understood where I wanted to go, I very reluctantly climbed aboard and squeezed into the crowded row of seats 2nd from the back. Someone shut the door behind me and we immediately jolted off in a direction completely opposite to that which I had imagined we should be going. As our pace accelerated I stared out at the passing scene of red-brick shacks, razor wire fences and mangy goats, hoping desperately to recognise some landmarks that I might navigate home by, envisaging that at any moment I might be turfed out in an inhospitable corner of Soweto by our dreadlocked mini-van driver.
But my fears turned out to be totally unsubstantiated. After just becoming conscious of the exceedingly contemporary chilled-out house soundtrack playing through an incredibly decent in-car audio system (courtesy of our dread-locked driver), I felt a friendly tap on my shoulder. Turning to the passenger behind me I found him thrusting a 20 Rand note into my hand and saying insistently "Two. Two." Gingerly accepting the bill, but not quite knowing what to do with it, I turned back around to observe a similar scene being played out by the passengers in the rows in front of me. I soon realised that the money was being passed row-by-row toward the front where eventually the driver, in between negotiating corners and changing gears, would collect it, calculate the appropriate change, and then pass this back in the same fashion. I didn't hesitate in following suit - tapping the unknown passenger in front of me on the shoulder I gave him the 20 Rand note and repeated the originating passenger's command: "Two. Two." And away it went like clockwork, row-by-row the 20 Rand note made it all the way to the driver, then back along the same chain came a few coins change. When these coins got to me I turned to the passenger behind me who already had his hand out. Expecting a fight to break out any moment about there being too few coins, I handed them over, but the count seemed good. The passenger (and his wife sitting next to him, hence the "Two. Two.") was satisfied and I was over the moon. I couldn't believe that between all those hands the money had passed through, none of them were tempted to pocket a passing coin or note for themselves. In a seemingly poor and desperate place like Soweto, it was a revelation.
There was only one thing left to do then: I had to try it for myself. Leaving caution to the wind I tapped the complete stranger in front of me on the shoulder, gave him a crisp 10 Rand note and said "One. One." Just like before the note left and made its way row-by-row to the driver. About four blocks and two traffic lights later my change made its way right back into my hand by way of at least four complete strangers, and not a coin short of the price Maletsatsi told me I should expect. I was thrilled. This was the kind of commerce I loved: simple and efficient, yet human and personal. It was kind of like taking the collection-bowl and the "peace be with you" parts of church and rolling them into one happy little jolting mini-van (with a killer house soundtrack to boot).
And the row-by-row fare paying was just the first of my discoveries riding the Taxis. On later journeys I was to see the row-by-row scheme become even more elaborate - where a whole row of passengers (all completely unknown to each other) would work out their fares between themselves, the passenger at the end of the row diligently acting as accountant. At the end of the small flurry of note and coin exchange, a single wad of money would be passed forward accompanied by a "Four." or a "Five." depending on how many people were squished together on the said row. Then there was the seemingly psychic Taxi drivers, who without even the merest glance in the rear-view mirror seemed to know exactly how many passengers were on board, who had and hadn't paid, and where each person was getting off. At one Taxi transfer, a kind lady explained to me the "secret language of thumbs", used for signalling to passing mini-vans: thumb-pointing-up if you want to go to Bira, thumb-pointing-down if you want to go to Jalekiza - plus of course a whole host of other directions that I didn't have time to master.
All of this goes without mentioning the miracle of the system as a whole. I never had to wait more than five minutes for a Taxi. The Taxi's were almost always full (but never overcrowded), and because of the small capacity of the Taxis (13 to 15 people on average) travel times were rapid due to the relatively few number of stops. All this was achieved without any centralised authority to administer and dispatch Taxis, without any technologically complicated GPS tracking and certainly no state of the art electronic payment systems. The Taxis don't bear any specialised registration and no driver identification is displayed. Despite all this, everyone seemed to get where they needed to go and I never saw anyone short-changed or over-charged.
The moral of the story? Well the taxi's certainly got me where I wanted to go - there were no problems there. In contrast once arrived at my destination, the Apartheid Museum, my visit was heavy: history in South Africa takes on an incredibly relevant if not stifling-close tone and its hard not to leave with landmark dates (e.g. 1976, 1994) burned into your brain and a tear or two staining your cheek. But thanks to my journey on the Taxi's I also had a much more pleasant memory to take away with me: a memory that speaks of an alternative ends people can achieve when they work together. Not an ends languishing in despair that is based on fear, hatred and centralised control, but an ends that basks in hope, borne out of trust, cooperation and resilient independence.
South Africa is dead. Long live South Africa!
