by: Derek
The morning was grey with overcast clouds. The rain that made the dirt walking path leading to the taxi stop sticky with mud had come down throughout the night. Large drops reverberating, hitting hard on our tin roof had caused me to awaken a few times throughout the night. A chill in the air had been brought by the storm and was still quite present this morning. Coming from the United States, who would have ever thought it gets this cold in Africa? There is a general perception back home that all of Africa is constantly hot due to it being a vast continent of unending deserts and scrub-land. This stereotype, however, along with many others I had carried with me from many kilometers across the Atlantic Ocean, has been proven to be a misperception.
We arrived where the path meets one of the village’s main roads, also made of dirt and muddy this morning. My wife and I wait here at this junction Monday thru Friday for a taxi to come along and take us to the town where we work, about 10 kilometers away. Our attempts to dodge the puddles and thick mud along the way were mostly successful. Still, I looked down and saw little mud splatters on the bottom half of my pants. After waiting for about 15 minutes, with hands in jacket pockets to keep the chill at bay, I looked down the road to my right and saw a blue taxi, known in Zulu as a “kombi”, slipping and sliding around the corner on its way to pick us up.
The word “taxi” is a misnomer for this form of public transportation found throughout Southern Africa. A misnomer at least to the western mind, who usually equates the term with yellow or white sedans with decals along the side panels noting which company it belongs to and a lighted protrusion coming from the roof telling the hopeful passengers along the street whether it is “on or off duty”. These taxis in South Africa, “kombis”, are nothing of the sort and just another example of a western mind needing to adjust to new surroundings. One similarity, however, between the taxis found in the US and kombis in South Africa is it is as easy to spot a kombi as it is their “yellow cab” counterparts in the States. Koombis are mini-vans, predominately of Toyota or VW make, and, with a few exceptions, manufactured no earlier than the mid-1980s, likely to be falling apart in some form or fashion. It is a country full of little “hippy-wagons” hauling people to and fro. There must be tens of thousands of these square little boxes of metal throughout South Africa.
While it is possible to generalize the make and model of kombis, the actual aesthetic appearance, both inside and out, can vary quite widely, albeit subtly. Each seems to have its own unique character given by its owner. Kombis can be blue, red, white or almost any color imaginable. Inside the setup usually consist of four bench-style seats covered in a myriad of upholstery choices with little rips and tears, remnants of many passengers loading and unloading. It is possible to fill these seats with a minimum of 15 passengers, but often as many as 20 or more can be accommodated if necessary. Another general aspect of the interior, found in almost every kombi, is some type of after-market speakers rigged in numerous ways to the nooks where the side panels meet the roof. Hanging from the rear view mirror, in each of these kombis, is always some type of dangling item, another chance for the driver to impart his own sense of character. These items are as wide and varied as the drivers themselves: a fluffy, feathered neon green boa; a child’s stuffed bear that looks to be the victim of a lynching with a rope tied around its neck upward to the mirror; a big bushy mess of fur, tail-like, that looks like a trophy from a fox hunting expedition; and possibly my favorite, a gigantic fishing lure, the type you would use in the open ocean when trying to hook a blue-finned marlin. The list could go on, and I am always a little anxious to see what bit of creativity dangles from the rearview mirror when I enter a taxi I haven’t taken before. All of these characteristics make kombis at once the same, generally, and yet quite unique, subtly.
Even though I had questions about the speed in such conditions, I was glad to see this blue kombi sloshing its way toward us, as my light jacket was proving not to be quite warm enough. When it was around 75 meters away, I began to hear the low thumping of bass, produced undoubtedly by an apparently high-powered example of the above mentioned make-shift sound system. At around 50 meters, higher notes and lyrics started to become audible. It wasn’t until the kombi had almost reached us, though, that I notice the actual song being played: “My Girl” by the Temptations. This song selection took me by surprise, at first, but I brushed it off and figured it to be an anomaly in the driver’s playlist.
We step aside, so as not to get splashed with mud, as the kombi pulled up and stops in front of us. The creaking door slid open, eventually, as a couple good yanks were needed to coax it down the worn out tracks upon which it slid. Stepping up to board, I look at the driver and offer the usual, polite greeting, “Sanibonani”. Despite yelling and being only a few feet apart, there is no way he could possibly hear my words. I couldn’t hear them myself. The music was so loud that it almost had a physical presence, something actually pushing against you and reaching inside to thump around the vital organs. He must have read my lips or just assumed correctly what I was saying, since this is what everyone says when they get on a kombi, because he nods his head, smiles, and replies with “Yebo”, at least according to the motion of his lips. In the time since arriving in South Africa, I have ridden in many kombis with blaring music. Actually, it should be expected as standard operating procedure to be assaulted by high volume levels when traveling on public transport here. This, however, this sustained explosion of sound that literally made your insides rattle was a first in my kombi-riding experiences.
Gradually, we make our way to the third row of seats. This seemingly simple task of bending over and putting one foot in front of the other was challenging to complete due to pathways in my brain being jarred loose. As we pull away, onward to pick up more passengers, the classic Motown hit began to fade to completion. I thought, “Maybe that was his favorite song, thus the reason for such ungodly listening levels; maybe things will go back to “normal” now, the volume knob will be turned down and the usual African-styled gospel music will be played…”. After the short pause of silence between songs, my wishful-thinking was proven null and void. From no direction in particular because it was omnipresent, the next song began in the same manner of unabashed assault.
I must say the song selection was quite good, however. Apparently the driver had acquired a complication disc of Motown’s greatest hits, for the next song was Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing”. I laughed to myself about the slight irony of the song being played, given that South Africa suffers from one of the highest rates of HIV/AIDS in the world. I guess I was the only one who saw the cruel connection, for the driver, the man in charge of the volume knob, just cranked it up a few more notches and with emotion that isn’t natural at this hour in the morning bounced in his seat, snapping his fingers and pounding on the dash to keep the beat. As we slowed to let the next passenger on, I saw it was a gogo (i.e. grandmother). Surely, I thought, he would have mercy on our bleeding ears when she boarded, for gogos are highly respected throughout this culture. This hope of mine was also diminished as the gogo took her seat directly underneath one of the overhead speakers without even flinching as Gaye’s lyrics, “…honey I know you'll be there to relieve me…” made no apparent change to her demeanor.
We made our rounds through the village, eventually reaching maximum capacity of about 20; everyone crammed nice and close together. The whole time as people boarded, sat, and rode peacefully there was never any indication that anything was askew with this taxi ride. We reached the tar road, and as we were turning right onto it toward town I noticed in the distance, behind the mountains, the skies were starting to clear with a few delinquent rays breaking through the grey. Just then, a new song was beginning. Otis Reddings words, “Sittin’ in the morning sun, I’ll be sittin’ when the evening comes…” couldn’t seem more appropriate, no matter what volume they were played. I looked up at the taxi driver, still groovin’, moving his head side to side and now belting out the lyrics with all he could muster. This type of joy was contagious. I forgot about my permanent loss of hearing due to this kombi ride, began to smile widely, nodded my head subtly with the beat, and thought how alike we all really are. Public transportation and love of music are fairly universal, whether you are in the U.S. or South Africa.
