Earlier this month we challenged Gauteng Transport Minister Ignatius Jacobs to put his money where his mouth is: park his official motor vehicle at the office and get around by walking, cycling or using public transport, which he claims is woefully underutilised. To date, we have had no response despite numerous follow-up phone calls.
”Public transport is underutilised?” snorted Randall Howard, the secretary general of transport union Satawu. ”Not where I live!” And to prove his point he decided to take up the challenge put to Jacobs and travel to work by taxi.
We meet at his house in Ormonde View, a new suburb south of Jo’burg, at 6.30am and take a 10-minute stroll to the taxi rank, which consists of four minibuses parked on top of a traffic circle. We clamber into the rickety backseat, packed in four abreast as per the driver’s instructions and wait another 10 minutes for the taxi to fill up before we can leave. As soon as we pull away the interior is engulfed in choking petrol fumes, which seem to be coming from under our seat. I’m grateful for a sign on the window that forbids eating, smoking and swearing, reducing our chances of immolation by a stray cigarette.
The young woman next to me is plugged into her iPod. She sings loudly and tunelessly, her eyes closed, the whole way to town.
Our driver eschews the highway for a maze of back and side roads thronged by packs of what Howard refers to as ”death wagons”. Our driver seems a little less of a kamikaze pilot than others I’ve experienced and gets us to the city centre in 45 minutes, with relatively few death-defying manoeuvres.
Our journey ends in town, but for most of the commuters who alight at the Noord Street taxi rank the process is about to begin all over again as they get in line for the next leg of their journeys, to jobs in suburban malls or industrial parks. They face at least another hour of queuing and being crammed into high-velocity sardine cans, many of which appear to be held together with string and bubblegum.
Thandazile Twala commutes from Orange Farm to Rosebank each day, spending R620 on transport a month — about half of her salary as a cleaner. She wakes up at 4am and leaves home at 4.50am to find a taxi before it gets too busy. ”It takes about 45 minutes to Noord Street, but when you get there it depends if you are lucky and find a taxi immediately. If not, you can wait up to an hour and half for another taxi to Rosebank.”
For Twala and the many working women like her, who spend up to four hours a day travelling to work in unsafe vehicles at the mercy of often abusive drivers, the cost of public transport is too high — in terms of time and money.
”These ‘transport months’ and ‘congestion-free’ days that politicians call for are nothing but PR exercises, which highlight the weakness of the system,” says Howard.
”We need proper planning and policies for an integrated public transport system that will address the problems created by apartheid spatial planning. Instead of spending R20billion on the Gautrain, which will be a white elephant anyway, this money should have been put into a safe, adequate transport system for working-class people, who are the bulk of our commuters. This was a wrong political choice, as will be proven down the line.”
On foot
There are sometimes things one regrets saying, and volunteering to walk to the office in Rosebank from my home in Braamfontein was one of them. My editor was persistent and told me to see how far I got, promising to send me home in a taxi if I collapsed.
On the streets of Braamfontein I met my friend Mpumi, whose eyes widened in disbelief when I told her I was walking to work. I smugly sent her an email later that day informing her that I made it in an hour and 25 minutes.
I left at 7am and headed down Jan Smuts Avenue, where I approached the Empire Road intersection with some trepidation — pedestrians are often knocked down trying to cross here. Fortunately it was still early when I got there and I was going against the traffic. The motorists were surprisingly polite and one lady even stopped and held up the traffic to let me cross.
By the time I was near the Westcliff Hotel I was flagging quite badly owing to the steady, but steep, incline. If I had been walking on the other side of the road, going with the traffic, I would probably have jumped on the first bus or taxi that came by.
I reminded myself that in Harare workers routinely walk long distances to work and back, and would no doubt consider my grumbling over a mere 10km stroll to be ”sissy” in the extreme.
By the time I got to the office I was worn out and had to down energy drinks to help me survive until 5pm. As I battled to keep my eyes open, a Chinese proverb kept running through my mind: ”Never walk if you can stand still, never stand if you can sit, but lying down is best of all.” It was all I wanted to do. — Percy Zvomuya
By bicycle
I am feeling rather proud of myself this week. Without any great effort, or even the intention to do so, I have figured out how to make myself invisible.
Don’t believe me? Well, you can try it yourself: all you have to do is get on a bicycle and attempt to negotiate Johannesburg traffic. It will not take you long to realise that while you have felt no obvious change in your physical makeup, to all intents and purposes, Johannesburg’s ”vehicularised” commuters see right through you.
This is a problem. The city does not provide bicycle lanes, which means that for the most part we are forced to ride alongside traffic. At best, this is a terrifying experience. Cars, trucks and taxis fly past, the gusts of wind in their wake nearly knocking you off your bike. Some come within inches of your body. Turns off or on to a main road are so hair-raising that I rode 10 minutes out of my way, uphill, just to avoid them.
Even so, I was nearly run over three times during my 7km commute, all by cars that did not appear to see me crossing the road as they turned. As this all happened at 8am, no amount of reflective gear could have changed that.
Where there are sidewalks they are bordered by high curbs, forcing you to interrupt your ride and get on and off every 300m or so. People shooting out of their driveways are also a hazard.
It is a shame. Were it not for the fact that cycling in the city is downright life-threatening, it would be a great way to get around.
Although the exhaust fumes can be a bit much, it is a very satisfying feeling to cruise to the front of a kilometre-long line of cars stuck in traffic — and to see the looks on people’s faces shift from surprise to envy as you do so. And my bicycle commute only took me a few minutes longer than it usually takes me in my car.
There is also a nice feeling of community among us more unorthodox commuters — not only do we shout greetings at one another, we even smile.
However, much as I like the camaraderie and the sense of accomplishment that comes from biking to work, I am unlikely to make it a regular routine.
I think I would rather walk a tightrope drunk. — Stephanie Wolters
In a taxi
It is 7.36am. My lift is late. I am new in town, having arrived from Chicago a few weeks ago. My apartment in Observatory is 15 minutes away from work by car. That’s plenty of time to get to work by 9am on a mini-bus taxi — or so I think.
I walk to Yeoville where I am told taxis don’t go straight to Rosebank and that I will have to go to town and change taxis there.
A red dilapidated Toyota minibus approaches. I wrestle to open the dented side door and climb in. I feel like I am inside a metal skeleton that shakes as the driver presses down hard on the accelerator before it stops in the middle of the road. The driver fails to get the engine going again and points down the road, telling me I can catch another taxi there.
I fumble for the handle, which is not there, just a big rusty hole. I put my hand out the window and try to open the door from the outside. It is stuck. As I struggle with it, the engine kicks back to life and the taxi lunges forward. I guess I am staying in this taxi after all.
The ride feels surreal and I want to laugh, but I am too nervous. Am I really in this death-trap metal box? What if the vehicle caught fire? How would I get out?
A few blocks later, closer to the sidewalk, the engine stops again. Despite this, several passengers climb in and soon there are 16 people squeezed in to the 12-seater taxi.
The driver turns on the ignition. The minibus shudders a few times then grinds slowly up a hill. I focus all my energy, willing it to go on and praying that it doesn’t stop halfway up the incline. At the top, I breathe easier.
A hand extends over my shoulder and a voice at the back says: ”Three, 20 rands.” I watch in amazement as the passengers in front count the money and hand back change. In a city notorious for its crime, it seems people trust each other. In Chicago I wouldn’t trust anyone to handle my train fare.
When we reach town the sheer number of taxis and people is mind-boggling. There is no signpost indicating where to catch taxis. I ask around: ”Rosebank taxi?” People wave me away, telling me something. I do not understand them.
It is 8.30am and I still haven’t found my next taxi. I am lost and frustrated. I want to make a phone call to ask for help, but I am afraid to take out my cellphone on the street.
I finally find the right rank. The line of people waiting is the length of a city block. There must be at least 500 people in the line! It is 8.58am. I start work at 9am.
I look at the empty taxis sitting idly up front and wonder what’s taking so long. When I get to the front of the queue, the man directing people into taxis shoves me forward.
It’s close to 9.15am by the time my taxi gets going. I call the office to let them know I am running late because of public transport. They understand. It must be a common occurrence in Jo’burg. — Kabuika Kamunga