Oupa Nkosi takes to the streets with his camera and his notepad to document a new generation of taxi marshals who are approachable, energetic and make the country’s most-used mode of public transport a little less scary for the average commuter
It’s just after 7am on a Friday morning at the corner of Azalia Street and Dobsonville Road in Dobsonville Gardens, Soweto, opposite Snake Park.
The air is thick with noise. Taxi drivers lean on their hooters, their sound systems in competition, roaring the latest R&B and house tracks into the brisk, exhaust-fumed atmosphere.
Energetic young marshals race around shouting out the routes like market wares: ”Hello there! Zola! Bara! Dube! Westgate-Roodepoort! Jabulani Mall via terminals! Jo’burg! 5-Sakies!”
The right kind of music attracts the right kind of commuters at this time of day — teenagers on their way to school. Children in uniform are all over the place: boys in tight groups share a smoke or two and talk about what will happen at the weekend; girls show off the latest hairstyles, as though they are going to work rather than to class. They wait patiently to pick out a taxi playing the latest, most stylish music — which could explain why late arrivals at township schools have become a major problem.
Some of the taxi marshals at this rank are younger than the school commuters. This is part of a growing trend, partly because of unemployment. The phenomenon has distinct benefits for commuters: the new marshals on the block are polite, informative and helpful — a far cry from the intimidating old-school types — mostly middle-aged Zulu men who specialised in swearing at commuters and wielding sjamboks.
The new young marshals are usually kids who have experienced hardship, but have taken the initiative rather than face life on the streets or be tempted into crime. In the process, in some neighbourhoods, they have transformed the culture and efficiency of the ranks.
Xolani Mkhwanazi (18) is typical of the new breed. ”I left school in grade11 last year because my parents could not afford to buy me school shoes,” he says. ”It was tough because other kids would tease me and make fun of me.”
But Mkhwanazi has found a new life — and livelihood — on the ranks.
”The guys here motivate me and I’m now able to buy myself shoes and can make about R50 to R200 a day.” Dancing to a song blaring from a nearby taxi, Mkhwanazi says he plans to return to school next year, ”but I’ll carry on working part-time”.
Mamelesi Mayonga (22) has a similar story. He left school in Jeppe, east of Johannesburg, when his mother lost her job and could no longer afford the fees. He wound up kicking around at home while waiting for his father to make good on a promise to send him to technical college. That never happened, so Mayonga took action.
”I came to work here because there was nothing doing at home, but now I see light at the end of the tunnel.”
Mayonga’s son Loyiso is now three years old and still lives with his mother at her parents’ home nearby.
”Eish, my brother, I’ve been involved with my girlfriend for six years now and if I could see us living together as a family, I’d be the happiest man on earth. I don’t mind even renting a room. This thing [situation] kills me inside,” says Mayonga. His girlfriend just got a job at Pie City as a casual worker and they both help each other to support their son.
Sabelo Masuwa (24), who also left school in grade 11, is proud of his job. ”I saw an opportunity to be a taxi marshal because commuters were battling to find taxis to their destination. It’s now been four years and I like it. We connect commuters.”
Masuwa’s mother died a long time ago and he now lives in Snake Park at his aunt’s place, with two cousins, Mcebisi and Busi Masuwa.
I paid Sabelo a visit on a Monday before 5am — it was still dark — and I was welcomed by Busi. He was still asleep but Busi woke him up. She was on her way to catch a taxi to Southgate mall, with Mcebisi, her brother, tagging along to make sure no harm befell her. Busi works as a security guard.
Sabelo boiled water in a kettle and washed himself. Before heading out to collect his friends, Mayonga and Nkosinathi, who live nearby, he drank a cup of tea. He explained how his aunt had lost her job when the factory she was working at closed down two years ago. She has been hunting for work ever since.
Things have been tough for Masuwa, but his job as a marshal has given him a sense of pride. ”Because of this job I am able to talk freely to people. ÂBefore, I was reserved — I would hide my problems as if things were fine.”
Commuters and taxi drivers seem just as happy with the new marshals.
”They offer us a good service and we like them. They make us feel safe,” says Bafana Moloi (19) from Lavela High School in Emndeni.
Driver Mandla Majozi recommends their services and praises their determination to do good in society.
”The guys are hustling and they are not involved in crime. They give us their good service and we pay them for it. Izandla ziyagezana (You scratch my back, I scratch yours).”
All this praise and efficiency brought back memories of my own teenage commuter years at the mercy of the old marshals. They were very strict and very intimidating. Most of them were isiZulu speakers and they carried sjamboks. They were rude, unfriendly, unhelpful and used to discriminate, especially if you could not speak their language.
If you were in the wrong line or standing there not knowing where to go, you were in big trouble. If you were brave enough to approach them for directions (it was always better to ask another commuter first) you would need to approach them with great caution and respect and speak in subdued tones.
The old marshals also hated cÂommuters who came from better townships, such as Pimville (where I come from). ”You think you are better off? You snobbish passengers, we will teach you a lesson!” That’s what they used to say to us.
We would wait for ages in queues while they loaded commuters from other townships on to taxis. Only when they were finished would they let us board. Even then, we weren’t safe: I don’t know how many times people were yanked off a full taxi because somebody said something negative about them.
By contrast, the new marshals take a friendly service-provider approach to their work. It’s great for those of us who were once abused, mocked and oppressed commuters. These guys are respectful, approachable, energetic and they even open doors. Oh, and they don’t carry weapons.