Another Early Morning At Wanderers Taxi Rank

Baggy pants and a decade old t-shirt from an anti-globalization campaign; a mess of hair, Chuck Taylor feet waltzing an intersection at dawn.

My angel dons some Hello Kitty costume, looks like a catalogue and feels divine, enthused by the prospects of travel which is every child’s secret addiction.

Head is bobbing to rhythms of hooters and synthesizers from random stereos, ear sealed by thought yet alert to pulsating life around this traffic jam.

Bodies hurriedly coax pathways among vegetables and fried meats, skeletons of flesh donors scattered at mouths of clogged drains.

A whistle here, a clamor of chatter and sales talk, crowds of vendors around windows of ramshackle taxis and sleep assailing nightshift workers with sweat smell and halitosis.

Perfumes from alleys or lost shelves in glass markets and migrant shopping malls, it is yet another dawn among late streetlights still glowing at this rush-hour.

Another morning at Wanderers Taxi rank, trolley pushers yawning clouds of cheap gin, heaps of luggage paraded among nervous commuters and the commonly annoyed ones. 

Impromptu calls from queue marshals about destination too far to comprehend vie for space, broken boards with faded signs exclaiming names of places where others are to be buried.

Mess of bodies still clad in dreams waking from railway tracks and makeshift shelters under bridges named after colonial masters.

Muddled wishes and ancient stories riddled in homeless young faces, well dressed mannequins and uniformed guards wielding handcuffs and other cold steel.

Spit contests, smoking mouths and hoarse narratives among road travelers and the constantly staring eyes of passengers packed in metal coffins that mirror our transience.

My daughter in tow, a heavy bag full of toys crushing my shoulder blades and her slim hand soothing in my grasp, her daze and wonder making strides slower than the motion, we are also lost as seeds among tall monuments standing on granite earth.

After swindling our way through rows of pavement boutiques and sizzling coals, we board a taxi to our destination, Kokosi.

It is still missing seven people, and this means another two hour wait in the blizzards of a Joburg summer is metal cage with windows welcoming inexhaustible chatter and deals.

One lady with an irritable child is being molested by dirty salesmen with dodgy toys and sugar supplements, and the child starts prying for one of the nooses dangled before him.

“Atle alle fela ngoana o, otla mothudisa hobane nna ha kena chelete.” She tells the lout to outright leave her child to his lack of throwaway playmates and diseased delicacies.

An unceasing stream of vendors assails this wreck from all sides, harassing passengers with all types of expressive endearments.

Stale fruit, soggy sandwiches and boiled eggs pitched on sweaty shoulders or sooty head-wraps, garbage piles growing faster than a mime’s pose.

And yet a vendor’s zest never flounders, even when they’ve become jokes for forlornly bored travelers on yet another coffin on wheels.

There’s the belts and facecloths salesman, with a portfolio of combs, toothbrushes and hairpins in tow, he tickles a snort-nosed urchin crawling on a single knee, its mother seated at a peanut stall.

The one carrying a single box of ‘expensive’ perfume, always asking prospective clients how much they can afford; the one with three gold chains always exposed way below the waistline for open observation.

Not far away, more wanton people crisscross each other’s footsteps pacing towards various ends of this anthill city, bags are drawn or carried, hands exchanging coins for bottled water or poisoned energy drinks.

Disused policemen saunter through this human mess like masters of a board game, wrestling machismo handshakes with drowsy taxi owners playing draft seated on rusty tin drums.

My daughter is perplexed by these theatrics I can tell, because she is glued to the conversation happening between two women in the taxi, about how much hair costs and on which street to find designer labels for fake products.

Slim passages between taxis make any movement precarious, vehicles packed like loaves of steel bread in a crate made of concrete, but I dare venture to find a spot to light a cigarette and smoke, concealed from roach vultures who always ask for a last drag.

An eye peeled on my daughter sketching figures on a sordid window steamed with her breath, I am getting restless but soon I am called in as the last farers arrive in time to relieve me from bile frothing in my gut.

After an olfactory overdose of rotten armpit odors and sour drains, sweat drenched shirts unbeaten by nicotine stench closest to my nose; I venture inside to sit next to my tired child, searching for notes to pay while she fumbles for a position comfortable for sleep.

Some woman commends her plaited hair and beauty, I smile, and soon the hum of the engine steers out of this case on stilts, a sign that we are headed out of this vile machine city.

Skyscrapers hover over parades of departures and arrivals, while lost patients from its womb’s sanitarium still walk trapped in its blinding mazes.