Enjoy!

My my, it has been awhile. Still jumping though, taxi to taxi...
an old hand.

Something funny happened on the way from the rank this afternoon. Something that had "Africa" written all over it. So we leave Eastgate rank. A nice Inyathi (an "Inyathi" is like a local "Toyota" I think - don't hold me to this, I only ride the things). The driver, as soon as he gets out of the Eastgate parking lot, and has turned onto the slipway of the R24, the part where the freeway becomes the not-so-freeway into Jozi central, pulls the cab over to the side of the road and gets out. I'm thinking, not again (about a week ago we got pulled over by the pigs and I witnessed my first bribe - more on that later...).

Anyway, the guy gets out and goes behind the taxi. Others look around, I stay looking ahead, not your regular rubbernecker. Until I hear snickering. Our driver is taking a leak behind the cab at the side of the road. This draws out mixed responses from the other occupants. I know to hold my piece, haha, but I do smile. Once done he moves back along the cab and jumps back in, grinning from ear to ear and looking, to his credit, slightly embarrassed. He turns around to his audience, smiles an apology then holds up a 500ml Coke bottle in explanation. "iKoldrink..." Funny thing is I also needed a leak. I held it in until I got home an hour later. It was a long one. Not the ride.

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Smileys sighted at WITS

For a change of pace, today, I am bringing you, at long last, an image of the Tshirt Terrorist bombing run of WITS university. Tomorrow I might revert to tales of taxi travails. I might also simply post more smileys. Watch this space.



Oh, before I forget... Today's BUMPA STICKA is:

IN THE GOOD OLD DAYS GIRLS COOKED LIKE THEIR MOTHERS
NOW THEY DRINK LIKE THEIR FATHERS

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How s m Dr ving?

Today started out as any other day as a taxi jumper... I walked the stretch through Melville to Main Street, although this time aware that the only currency I had on me was a R100 note (refer to the BUMPA STICKA: DONT BRING R50 R100 R200 IN THE MORNING... well, sometimes, you know, you just can't help it).

First thing, a nice new blue car stops, and the driver tells me forget it he doesn't have change, so I jump off at the next robot and hail another one. This driver is more courteous and accepts my cash. Soon we have caught up to the nice new blue car (one of those fancy Toyota Quantums the government is pushing the taxi bosses to purchase as part of the recap) and on the back of the car I see the following

HOW IS MY DRIVING?

071 16 381

As far as I can remember there are 10 digits in an SA cell number. This little terror has scratched off 2 digits and left it there... hmm... it will take some working on but I'm sure I can figure it out. Number puzzles. Yay.

Anyway. I digress. The reason this nonevent stuck in my mind is because in the afternoon the taxi I caught had a real slow driver. Real slow. This guy went through a red robot. Just like that. At first the car is quiet and then everyone erupts... what the fuck, baba?! kinda thing.... This guy, this baba of note, he's grinning and you can see he just totally missed it... straight through.... Ten minutes later, Jesus, he almost does it again... this time everyone pipes up just before he tears through it and he stops just in time. Next, he's stopped at the side of the road, the door's open someone's getting out and he starts to pull off. Once again the taxi erupts... baba, what the fuck?! All this guy can do is grin as if he doesn't have a care in the world...

On the last leg to Bree I'm the only passenger left. You can bet I'm holding on... Baba, your car has shite shocks, is shimmying from side to side on piss-poor alignment and you can't see worth fuck. In the words of the one true bob... Stop the train I'm leaving... which is damn well what I did.

Sometimes, these guys... perpetual slow boat I tells ya.


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Both sides of the Phat Ass Coin

Last Friday get this. We get into the taxi, catching it at Main Road, and an argument over change is in full swing. Let me explain quickly how the money thing works, and you'll find the rest easier to follow.

When you get into a car, you pass your fare to the person next to you. If the taxis is at the rank, you do this after the driver has started the car (just in case something happens and you need to find another car...). Once every row has collected their fares these are paid forward to the driver, or the person next to the driver who hands change backwards and the rest, the sum, to the driver.

Last Friday get this. There's a huge row. Not sure what's going on but I hear "R20 for 3" this and "R20 for 2" that. The driver is turning back to conduct his bit so often that he's hardly facing forward anymore. I think nothing of it - both his riding position and the row - and pass my R50 for 2 forward. I don't pass it sideways to the person next to me because not only is this my girl, but it is fairly obvious that the majority of people have paid, given the argument.

While waiting for my change I try follow what's up. The guys in the back are snickering about this driver. The implication seems to be he has no clue what he's on about. A lady behind me says, and not too kindly... "this guy just wants to drive his car, he doesn't want to know about no money..." which would amount to a serious problem. As a taxi driver you need have some small understanding in this direction. How to make change for one, if not how to make money.

I look around for interesting bumpa stickas. I see one, behind the driver's head. It says: THE DRIVER DOES NOT ACCEPT RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY DAMAGE LOSS OR THEFT WHATSOEVER. I begin to think... oh-ho....

Everyone is still arguing. I slot in my two cents. R50 for 2, I shout, adding to the increasing din of R20 for 2's and R20 for 3's. Fuck. This does not look good. Er, R50 for 2. At R7.50 a pop that means I am expecting R35.00 change from this phat ass zulu looking dude, and he's not showing any signs as yet of having heard me. He's got a handful of notes in one hand, the steering wheel in the other, the passenger beside him who should have by rights sorted this out long ago looks about as fucking clueless as he is. Great. FUCK. R50 for 2, I shout. I am silenced by the din of people wanting their bucks, and I don't mean the soccer team neither.

My girl gets out in Braamfontein, she says, you gonna be alright? you gonna get your change? Jeez, of course, who ever heard of not getting their change back from a driver, right, with or without the ol' doesn't accept responsibility for wharawharawhara...?

The taxi is getting lighter. I don't mean more white guys are getting in, I mean more and more people are getting out as it nears Bree Rank. As we enter into the rank I am lone guy sitting and I don't have my change. The taxi draws to a halt and I say, hey, baba, R50 for 2, where's my R35 change? He looks at me and points as to behind me and he says, you saw those guys, they robbed me. They robbed me! I'm like, fuck. He gets out. Here I am. The taxi is now standing last in a long queue of waiting cars and I am R35 lighter. And I don't mean I am whiter, there are for real spots of colour building high on my cheeks I'm sure, I mean I have just been lifted by this phat ass zulu looking dude either because a) he's a real shrewd piece of work or b) he's just a dumb fuck. I sit there. He has left his keys in the car. I sit some more. The keys.

Understand this. If I had taken this guys keys and bailed I would never have been able to come back to the rank. I would had to have taken the bus to work. The bus. Think about it for a minute, OK? The fucking bus. So of course I don't take his keys. I just sit there. Like this car right now I am going nowhere, brother.

He comes back. Leans in the window. I explain the story to him again he says to me, so who do you think robbed you? This, no doubt, is a loaded question. A knife point. Your friendly village assagai passed between friends like musical battle hymns on the eve of the revolution. So I say, it doesn't matter who robbed me, what matters is that this is your taxi... your responsibility. You need to ensure that things stay sorted, no matter who did what to you, at the end of the line, I need my change, to catch another cab, to get to work. He looks at me....

Let's take a step back here. Let's analyse this situation as part of the broader picture, OK? This ain't no pot or kettle name-calling session. A spade is a spade is a spade. The simple fact now remains, bullshit aside, that there ain't no fucking way I'm getting this cash. The guy has a clear way out. He is a black guy and I am a white guy. I am sitting in his taxi surrounded by hundreds of other taxis and their drivers and thousands of other black guys. I'm not getting this money. I can make an issue but that will be a poor judgement call on my part. So I do what any other self respecting white guy would do in this situation. I back the fuck up. I get out the car, but not without a parting shot, I say guy, I say dude, I say motherfucker, no I don't say that I say, mate, I'm the wrong white guy to mess with. And I mean it. I look back. CRB 482 GP. You'll never ride again. And if you do. God fucking help you, man. And I don't mean with the problems of counting out change neither.

I walk out to the ABSA ATM, eyes in the back of head, and withdraw another R50.00 then head back into the rank. Feeling like a loose white cannon I could shoot this entire shit-holed scenario straight to hell. It's stinking litterstrewn ganjapiss smelling beauty. I could rock the whole fucking thing down the block and off the edge. I don't. I find the car to Eastgate and wait to get taken to work. I'm gonna be late. Great. FUCK.

That was in the morning. The afternoon, well the evening, I had something else to do. I had been asked to attend the Jozi Spoken Word Fest as a speaker, a poet. I do that kind of shit often. I write stuff. And once I've written stuff, I sprout it. I'm some kind of spoken word artist. Or so they tell me. That's when I'm not a Tshirt Terrorist, which, let me tell you, amounts to pretty much the same thing. Sort of.

I catch a cab home from Eastgate, then catch another one into town. I jump off at my girl's work and we make our way to Wits. The fest is being held at the Wits Amphitheatre and I'm on at 9. It starts at 7 but before that we grab a bite to eat and embark on a Terrorist Branding campaign which does nothing if not lift the spirits slightly. (Pictures to follow.)

Anyway, to cut a long story off at the tail... I get up on stage... I do my thang... I'm up for about 4 minutes, having left my ego at home, and afterwards Rasta Zweli comes up to me (they're all Rastas, these poet guys I know, who have organised this thing and whose monthly event I support)... afterwards Rasta Zweli comes up to me, while the last performer is on, and the lights are still down, and he thrusts a clipboard into my hand and I'm thinking *groan* another sponsorship... I support these guys to the tune of R300 each month for their gig and they flaunt my logo on their posters and whatnot, so I write R300 down and he says to me, this Rasta, he says, no you must write R500, like everyone else, and trues bob all these other performers have written R500 down so I do the same. He then puts R500 in my paw and moves on. I think, wait a minute, whatthefuck?! This guy has just paid me R500 for 4 minutes on stage. That's comparatively the most I have ever earned.

This morning some black guy swindles me out of R35 and the very same evening another black guy gives me R500. I must be living in the africa of the south.


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BUMPA STICKAS Vol. II

And today's bumper stickers are...

BEER: MY FRIEND I WOULD RATHER YOU KILL ME.
I'm still trying to figure this one out. Is the assailant coming at you with a beer bottle, or are you being assailed for your beer? Do you often talk to your beer, or is it only once, you know, there's not a lot of it left... nudge nudge wink wink.

I'M A FOOL OF JESUS. WHOSE FOOL ARE YOU?
Yours. For even bothering to read this, and then memorise it for my blog.

WOMEN ARE LIKE A BANK ACCOUNT. Once you have no money they give you funny warnings.
The service fees are also quite horrendous.

Last but not yeast:
PAY WITH SMILE I DRIVE WITH SMILE.
Looks like a monkey wrench to me, brother...


WHITE TAXI, by White Man Jumping
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STAYAWAYA

Today Cosatu held a stayaway. This included taxi drivers. Usually when this happens I hang around main road Melville for a while, just to confirm there really aren't any of the buggers around, then I phone a friend and get them to work for me. This achieved I saunter on home and fire up the PC and percolator (in my case a kettle + Nescafe). Today though no-one can work for me, so I hang around main road Melville thinking: whatthefuck?!

There are one or two cars. They are few and far between. After seeing my girl off in a meter cab to Braamfontein I head on to Campus Square where I finally manage to catch a car into town. It's already like 9:30. I'm seriously late but what can I do? At least I'm on route, the bookstore can wait for a while.

One problem though, and this is a bitch but funny nonetheless. The taxi drops us all in town, at Bree, after telling us there are no taxis in town at all... anywhere. Now what? I peep inside Bree Rank. True's Bob... not a single car... I have never seen the rank looking so... clean.

So, here I am, in town, and stuck. Town is looking dead quiet y'all... not really the place you want to be hanging around if you can help it, so I decide to hightail it out of there. Problem is, to get out of town I need to find a meter cab... and it's going to cost me (turns out transport for today, to and from work, is going to set me back R300.00). Many cabs hang around Plein Street; it's a real trek. Joburg is looking decidedly Westernish - unnervingly silent as if a horde of bandits are about to arrive and shoot the place up. I begin walking and around the corner from Bree, at the Total garage, I run into about 100 taxis, deserted and parked in every available space, all minus drivers. These guys are apparently in Pretoria, Tshwane sorry, toyi toying against the rising price of power and fuel.

I find a cab along Plein. The driver quotes R120.00 and there's nothing I can do. Gotta pay the fare, fair or no.... It's 10 o'clock and I seem to be having one of those days. After getting out the taxi at Bedford I look down and my fly's open.


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JESUS LOVES YOU don't bang the door

Taxis wear their bumper stickers on the inside. Here are a few gems.
ENJOY >>>

JESUS LOVES YOU DON'T BANG THE DOOR. The logic behind this one tickles, it really does. How many times do I have to slam the door before Jesus puts his foot down and I fall out of favour?

ALL WHITE PEOPLE ARE RACIST. I sat under this bumper sticker the whole way home one day, smiling. I must have freaked a whole lot of black guys out. It's because I have a disarming smile.

90% OF G-STRING WOMAN LOVE YOU FOR YOUR MONEY. It's true, you know... Can't trust them G-string women as far as you can cart them, day after weary day, in a South African white taxi.

or: SOMETHING SOMETHING SOMETHING G-STRING SOMETHING SOMETHING SOMETHING: Presumably the same message as stated above, but translated.

A WOMEN ARE LIKE A ROAD. TOO MANY DANGEROUS CURVES. Another plea for world-wide mysogeny, with a bit of old skool English dragged along for the ride.

NO HEAVY WEIGHTS IN THE FRONT SEAT. Sound advice. I've seen these mamas, dude... the taxi tilts like one way.

DON'T BRING R20 R50 R100 IN THE MORNING. Don't bring 5c either... rather chuck these out on the ground for someone like myself to find.

EVERYONE HAS TO PAY, EVEN THOSE WHO KNOW ME (Heita da, majita my bra') No free rides, no free lunches. No more free toys with every Happy Meal.

and finally... I MAY BE A TAXI DRIVER SOMETHING SOMETHING SOMETHING BUT THE HELL WITH YOU I PUT FOOD ON THE TABLE. Tru dat... a litte bit of roadkill never hurt anyone.


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TAXI to ALEX

Today I took a taxi to Alex township, although this blog title is misleading cos I jumped off before the township - Wynberg, Sandton to be precise. I was collecting a print order for 12 DOOS Tshirts for my company Tshirt Terrorist, but I'll get into that in a short while.

To get to Alex. I mean, Wynberg (I just can't resist the whole "ALEX" thing... it's like catching a taxi to Orlando, as in: I wish... no white man has ever, so far as I know, ever caught a taxi to Orlando... that's like "end of the line..." in more ways than one... but, I might be wrong, you never know.

Anyway. Back to the start. I gave myself 2.5 hours to do the round journey. This was before I got a call from Tshirt Terrorist's brand manager and entrepreneur extraordinaire Ant Scholte from TheAntsNest.com who was up from Cape Town for business and presently at my place. It was 1 when he called and said he would be at The Ant Cafe in Melville working (no guesses why he would choose this particular venue) so I said I would see him there, with the Ts!

To get to Alex you need to take 2 taxis. The first taxi, jumping on halfway, is one that travels from Cresta to Wanderers. Wanderers is not the cricket ground, I made that inaccurate assumption once, but a small street running off Plein Street, about three blocks away from Noord Street Rank. I don't like Noord Street. It is like Bree Street Rank except slightly more seedy, and in the open, which therefore feels less controlled by the taxi mob. The mob, the Bosses, keep the ranks clear of Tsotsis, so that commuters can travel the system, can feed it. Noord Street has always struck me as a dodgy haunt, but the taxi to Alex leaves from here. I don't know exactly where but I'm going to find out.

The funny thing is, when you catch a car midday, as I was doing now, the taxi driver often doesn't haul ass as he would through traffic during the rush hours. When the roads are calm so is he, cruising along slowly for tabs, hooting all the while to catch the heads up on potential fares. In other words it took about 45 mins to get to Wanderers from Melville. I asked him on route whether he knew where I could catch a taxi to Alex (iow: Wynberg, Sandton, along Louis Botha) and he said, yeah, he would show me. This amounted to pointing me in the vague direction of Noord Street Rank after depositing me on Wanderers Street. So much for that plan. I began my three block walk through the middle of Jozi.

When I travel taxis, especially routes I am not sure of, I make myself vaguely vagrantish. I don't shave, take off all bling, and keep it simply jeans and a Tshirt. Sometimes I test out my Tshirts, to see how offensive they really are, by running them through Bree Street Rank to see if I get a response. I would never do this through Noord though. I just don't feel that comfortable with the rank, or the people in it.

I make it to Noord though, trailing school kids and others, and head immediately for the far end... rows 2 - 4 where I once caught a taxi for a week through to Balfour Park, which is also on Louis Botha, on route to Alex. The best way to find out what car goes where is to either ask the line bosses, the guys who usher people into taxis, and get paid about R5.00 per taxi that leaves the rank, or to ask the passengers inside a taxi, the theory being they generally know where it's heading. On this occasion I head up to a dude who looks of passing importance and he fucking ignores me. Can you believe it? I must be white. Well, it takes about 5 mins of walking around getting told no this taxi no this one, no, man, this one, (which was the last one which wasn't the right one) before I get handed back to the guy who originally ignored me. His taxis go to Alex. I get in. Go figure.

The journey to Alex... hahaha... you know what I mean, would have been uneventful were it not for the driver stopping just outside Hillbrow for petrol... The Hillview Service Station, a regular fucking dive with apparently either no working pumps or working attendants because the driver had to reverse a few times and find a new pump. Now, I have no idea how he got this right but the driver had rigged some sort of ringtone effort to his reverse gear. You know how trucks make this incessant beeping racket when they reverse well, try this out. This 'ringtone' (I thought at first it was an unanswered cellphone) was a high-and-low-pitched recorded baby's wail... WAAAAH waahwaah... WAAAAH waahwaah... WAAAAH waahwaah... you get the picture.... This guy spent at least 5 minutes in reverse, then forward shifting, then back into reverse, and all the time, from somewhere behind and to the left, WAAAAH waahwaah. It stopped when he went forward and began again when he reversed. It damn near drove me ape.

WAAAAH waahwaah SHUTUP! WAAAAH waahwaah SHUTUP but of course I could not do that.

We got out of that bullshit situation thankfully and once more I was heading out to Wynberg, the scruffy ass-end factory district of the otherwise trendy and dolled-up Sandton. I jumped at the corner of Ark Wright and Louis Botha, just before the robots changed, and made my way down to my printers.

Someone ordered a Tshirt off my site. Low and behold a fucking miracle. But seriously, I wasn't expecting this T to sell... DOOS... it means: you cunt! or asshole! in afrikaans counter culture but really what it means is "box" so the design is effectively a cardboard box going ta-ra! and the guy wearing the Tshirt can advertise himself as a real piece of work, or advertise a "friend" as that real piece of work, if he doesn't want to wear the T himself. On my site you can buy the T and send it to someone else. I will then say, some guy thinks you're a DOOS, so we have bombed you with this Tshirt. Enjoy! I am not sure into which particular category this sale fits in, but as the guy ordered an XL I'm pretty sure he can deal with either wearing it himself or handing it out to some other doos.

I collect the Ts without too much hassle, discuss my brand with the owner of the printing concern some, then make my slow way back to the main arterial taxi route - Louis Botha Street. I really despise factory districts. It seems I have been ploughing through them, heading to or from taxis, for a long time now, ever since I started making Ts. There's dust and dirt everywhere, and people wandering around, and trucks and trucks and a few more trucks... just fucking trucks everywhere and me, walking through this to get to a taxi.

I was on a bit of a high though, having just collected Ts. Something like that does this to you. The journey from design to finished product for a small T company like mine is an amazing and very personal experience. I am way stoked, and feel good travelling back up through Orange Grove, passed Yeoville and Hillbrow, back into town.

Passed Noord street I jumped out and ran/ walked/ eyes-down looking for change, to outside the MTN butchery. MTN, not the mobile network, although their branded colours are similar to the MTN Jack Mincer Rank (Noord Street) across the way... but MTN - Meat Too Nice! (Can you believe that shit?) They name a butchery in such a sucky way to play on the larger branding across the road which means you're effectively left with a bull on a fading yellow background glaring at you with fading red eyes going, Meat Too Nice! Fuck me. I see a taxi that's heading to Bree and now I'm in a hurry cos not only is Ant waiting me at the Ant (and he's a busy guy but it has been almost two hours since we spoke) but I think I have picked up a printing fault on the Tshirt, and I can't exactly start checking this out in the car... this is low key stuff, this jumping cabs, you can't reel your reputation out as a big wig businessman in this environment and expect respect... you'll just call down all sorts of heat on your ass, so you sit still in your faded jeans and week-old beard waiting to get out Jozi. For some reason everyone else has chosen this taxi to Bree too, it seems. There are mamas struggling to get up into the car trailing helpful, dedicated sons carrying huge bags of goods. This whole process of filing people in takes a lot longer than I would have liked, but once again, like that kid in reverse, I gotta keep my mouth shut and my eyes on the ground, scouring for change. Do Not Fuck With The Locals, white man jumping, Just hold your lid.

I eventually do get back into Melville, convinced the printer has messed up the Ts, but it's all a big misunderstanding, between me, two different designers and the printer designer who eventually had to make a tough call, did so, and seems to have done the right thing. A few things I need to sort out tomorrow but for the most part I am happy, and Ant is happy. Got himself a Doos Tshirt is why... has been keen on one of these for a while now. I didn't ask whether he planned to wear this himself or hand it to some other doos. He told me....


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BLACK to the future

How else would "die Groot Krokodil" have crossed the Rubicon?

Money makes the wheels go round...

Today I earned a total of 20 cents at Bree Street Rank. There is so much money to be had if you know just where to look. Mostly thrown on the ground, mostly discarded coppers, although sometimes you're luckier and something bigger crops up. On Saturday I was travelling down through Noord, passed the Johannesburg Art Gallery, and I caught sight of an elephant under the back seat. A whole elephant. R20. It was a good day for White Man Jumping. I snatched it up quick as you can and sat there thinking: what a score! It pains me, however, to take money like that. Most of these people don't have much, but I have a theory about money that I would like to share with you. I don't think it's completely my own, or even a very workable theory, but it might explain why someone would go ahead and drop 20 bucks in a taxi (and this is not the first time this has happened either).

To understand my theory you need to imagine that money isn't real, that it doesn't exist. No wait, hear me out. Money, the daily reality that is commerce, exists solely in our collective consciousness. Our desire for something to exist that we can trade between ourselves for other things is the foundation upon which the very nature and value of currencies extend themselves. This is pretty much an established fact, passed down by economists to us little folk and for the most part, I think it holds true. It forms the departure point for my theory which is, I'm afriad, just a little 'esoteric'.

If you choose to discard money, throw it away, no matter the denomination/ value you are discarding, money will in return reciprocate this lack of respect, trust, and meaning, and pretty much do the same to you. As a concept money takes no shit from any of us, if you abuse it it will desert you. Ergo: if you're going to go throwing 5 cent pieces about, don't expect to find the big guns waiting to crowd your wallet, and don't be surprised if you lose money all the time.

Over the years I have found more tom in taxis and the ranks than elsewhere. Most of it is 5c pieces. I saw a mamma, a trader in Bree Street Rank, chuck a whole handful out onto the tarred lanes. I don't make a big thing about collecting these discarded units of our communal angst but I tracked down as many as I could, after they had rolled on about, abused and miffed at the whole thing I'm sure, then continued on my way. Every so often I get up out a taxi and there's all this change, all this silver, just lying useless on the seats. Thank you very much, I don't mind if I do.

The moral, I suppose, of this little episode is: If you're travelling the taxis, or walking the ranks, keep your eyes on the ground, keep your head downcast. Not in fear, supplication, or humility, you fool. People are forever losing their change.

Outspan.


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White Cop Black Cop

Today was a pretty average day as far as taxis go and boy, do they go! But seriously, most of the time it's business as usual, so I am going to have to make something up. Just kidding. All of the posts by White Man Jumping will be the troof... I promise. Let me rather take you back a week to the incident I mentioned yesterday, where a metrocop got behind a wheel of the taxi I was in, for the first time, although I did not know this then (not that he got behind the wheel, of course, but that another similar incident would follow, jy verstaan?).

In the mornings I reverse the route that I take in the evenings to get back home. Er.... We were travelling through Bertrams, next to Ellis Park, the very Bertrams that looks like a dog chewed at it, morosely, before moving on to something with a bit more zeal. All of a sudden, out of the blue (like no kidding) these metrocops woot woot passed us and stop the taxi. This angry looking black cop gets out, shouting and screaming, followed by his calmer, more chilled, polystyrene coffee cup toting white partner. The black cop comes up to the driver's window and says, you almost bloody hit us, you fool, and he points backward some. We all of us in the taxi look behind us, but it is only for show because, of course, there is nothing to see there. The driver looks nonplussed, and for sure, none of us can figure where and how this might have happened. He is asked to get out of the car and the black cop, like seriously pissed, says he is going to inspect this car now and find something wrong so he can impound it. At the time I am thinking back a year to where another pissed off metro, this one white and purebred bonehead, wanted to do the same thing, all the time uttering, "I'm going to take this piece of shit off of the road!" (not the black cop now, the white cop then... anyway, I digress - back to the present, which is actually last week).

So, the black cop gets behind the wheel and makes a show of trying to find something wrong. The usual... start her up, shift her about. The coloured lady next to me in the first back row says to the cop, hey we are late, why not drive us all to work so you can see where the problem is? This cop is like not impressed. He gets out the car to shout at the driver some. A black lady behind me says knowingly, this cop is looking for a bribe, but as far as we can see the driver isn't falling for it. The white cop has wandered off back to the metrocar ahead of us, and we don't see him again. Our black metro friend meanwhile is getting way worked up, gesticulating (we all turn around again, look back the way we came, still nothing) and this is where the coloured lady with the original chirp gets involved.

She's out the car and siding up to the arguing cop and asking him what the hell the problem is we're all late for work. This rankles our bribe-seeking officer who threatens to take her in for "Interfering with the course of justice" or some such bullshit. He has his finger wagging in her face but she feels feathers, she just gets back in, followed by the driver, eventually, and we pull off, our sideshow entertainment abruptly curtailed.

That's about it. That's the funny incident. Not much I'm afraid, but then I said it was a slow day. Join me again tomorrow for another exciting, edge-of-your-seat adventure with White Man Jumping, your eye on route as we move in transition. If it's not exciting I'll fiddle with it a bit (again, don't stress) or recall something else that happened that makes jumping taxis the only way to go.

WHITE TAXI, by WHITE MAN JUMPING
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RFG 538 GP - IMPOUNDED

Today the taxi I was in got impounded by the Johannesburg Metropolitan Police (metrocops). According to the metrocop who was part of the team outside Ellis Park who pulled our driver off the street, this taxi, a Mazda registration RFG 538 GP, was officially still impounded. How this taxi came to be back on the street, with me in it, is beyond our present comprehension. The rest, luckily, is fairly easy.
Let me begin.

Today, for the second time in a week, a metrocop got behind the wheel of a taxi that I was in and, after starting it up, shifted it about a bit to see if it was working properly. The first incident will require a blog all on its own it was just so... random. Today, it took this metro, a white Afrikaner, the help of the taxi driver to simply open the driver's door. You can imagine how the situation would deteriorate after something like this. Actually, the whole thing will snowball to the point where I find myself without a ride in the middle of Jozi. But I'm jumping ahead of myself.

The cop gets in and turns around to us. He says, do you guys feel safe in this car? What can we say really...? It's a ride, you know, A 2 B. I did feel, at the start of this journey from Eastgate, that the driver was fucking off a bit fast. There's this one dip, past Bez Valley, I held my breath. He starts the car and puts it into first. It would seem he is an old hand at this because he doesn't struggle a bit. The gearbox engages, he revs the engine, tests the brakes, up and down shifts, checks the hooter (the hooter in a taxi always works, but you never know...) then switches her off and gets out. All seems well, and this latest episode in the endless saga that plays itself out between taxi drivers and metrocops each day in Joburg City looks headed for a happy ending but, a tiger lurks, the foilage explodes in a blur and shit, all of a sudden, happens.

Hey, buddy, come here, come, here, look... The cop has moved to the left side of the front of the car to check the car's vehicle registration and he is now calling the driver over. The driver has been standing at a safe distance the whole while. It would seem that this car doesn't have a valid registration or something. The something turns out to be enough to get the cop, who for some odd reason has not done so until now, to ask the driver for his license. Low and behold, he either doesn't have one or doesn't have one on him. Off he goes to the metrocop car, the backdoor is opened, the driver is pushed in. And here we sit, fourteen black guys and one white guy, stranded, driverless, outside Ellis Park amidst the turmoil of the 2010 FIFA World Cup roadwork preparations. It is 15h45 and I am beginning to regret sneaking off early from work.

We all file out. This happens often. You get in a taxi at a rank, or after having hailed it, and the metrocops stop you with the end result that you all file out and find another one. You actually learn to plan for this eventuality. You wait for it to happen. You choose a seat near the door so that you can be the first to find a new seat on a new taxi and not get left behind. Today I am right at the back of taxi number one, and taxi number two, that was hailed by our driver, who has somehow managed to extricate himself from the backseat of the metrocop car and is lazily every so now an then searching the backpocket of his dirtyjeans for a license that is so obviously still not there, has filled up and pulled away leaving five of us still waiting to be relieved. We end up waiting fifteen minutes for another taxi. During this time I have been speaking to one of the metros. He says the taxi is impounded. Was impounded. Was somehow, incorrectly (shall we say: Corruptly?) released, and will therefore be impounded again. I see a pattern developing here. The metrocop says, this guy obviously hasn't learnt we need to educate him. I do not ask questions. I file into the new taxi.

Off we go again. The only problem is, when you get routed from a taxi for whatever reason, the driver is meant to return your fare to you, so that you can pay the new driver. This, in the slow African confusion that assailed the scene at Ellis Park, has not happened. But it's OK. I am once again in a taxi on route to Bree Street Rank. Haha.

The driver of our new taxi, a snazzy black Toyota Hi-Ace number, is apparently none too happy that he has had to change his route and deliver us to Bree. 1 K down the road, in the shadow of Pontii, amidst more roadworked grit and sound, we are expelled. There are five of us, the driver hastily hands one guy R15.00 (we stand around and together count the coins on his stained palm - yip... only R15.00). The fare to Bree is R7.00 per person. Four guys, obviously pissed off, file into a new taxi as it slows and stops, and I, the white guy out, can't get in, it's full.... It pulls off and disappears and I am left standing, literally, in its dust.

On a good day I have loads of tom. Today I have enough money to get me from Eastgate to Bree (R7.00) then from Bree to Melville, which is on route to Cresta (R7.50). I have R7.50 on me, and will need to pay full fare to Bree in another car. Fuck. I go across to the BP station under the Pontii Towers. The FNB ATM is "being serviced". FUCK! I begin walking. The idea now is to get to Braamfontein, about 5 Ks away. My girl works in a bookstore there. I will catch the bus home with her. I haven't been on a bus in ages. It will be an adventure. But first, the walk, through Joburg. Ah. Did I say "adventure?" I did, didn't I?

I remember Joburg. I used to club here as a teenager. I went to varsity at WITS (for 6 months, before moving on to RAU). I even worked in Hillbrow, at the South African Blood Transfusion Service as a Donor Assistant (don't ask) after dropping out of WITS. I used to walk Jozi's steets flat. Smal Street Mall to High Street Look 'n Listen I'm a fucking legend. But Joburg has changed. This is not 1994. I am older and a lot less loose. I think I'm a bit wiser and less naive. Anyway... this is one horror hell of a walk, there is construction everywhere and my contact lens is bitching, my eyes are streaming and it must look like I am crying - a poor little white guy lost in the big bad ol' city.... I am struggling here, and my right hand, clutching a small, dented, mace, is itching in my puma zipup pocket. I think I might be forced to use it damn dude don't pull it whatever happens last resort keep it concealed or the fuckers will fuck you up long before you get to flaunt your high-noon reflexes. Remember that guy outside Bree. These guys do not mess around.

But make it I do. I feel a bit better once I navigate off Smit street, find the top of Braamfontein and thread my way down closer to WITS. Still, this is not what I was expecting on a Tuesday afternoon. Here I am, brave white man can jump taxis but set me down in the middle of Jozi and I'm a total kitten. I need to work on my profile.

I think about this some, go in to meet my baby, and slowly, after some quiet time, make my way home, on a bus. fu-uck.

WHITE TAXI, by WHITE MAN JUMPING
is brought to you by

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