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.

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