Driving Miss Pondo

Around me the night whirrs and croaks. I’m back in Pondoland. Today I drove 3 ½ hours from Port Shepstone to Thea’s place just outside Port St Johns. I’d romantically imagined spending the journey marvelling at giant African sky blues, but instead my amazement was saved for the potholes. Oh, for a chauffeur.

Of course, most people round here do have chauffeurs. That is, people are crammed into the back of minbus taxis, enduring the curves and the bounces without any say as to how fast or slow they go.

Steve Biko railed against white liberals who wanted to be part of the struggle, but then went home to their cushy white lives and the end of a day of protests and underground meetings. He argued that if they really wanted to be part of the struggle, they should step out of their privileged lives, their privileged education systems, and get one of the menial jobs that were only on offer to black people at the time. That they could never be truly part of it because they didn’t know what it was like to live it. I felt a bit like that today. There’s me wanting to know what beats in the heart of South Africa, but I don't want to travel by minbus taxi. Why? Because I don't have the need, the need for speed.

Wouldn’t it be great if there was a minibus taxi service for wimps? “We promise to take longer than anyone else to get there," would read the bumper sticker on eSlowCoach Taxis. They would obey the speed limit, take hairpin bends at the recommended 40km and 60km and never, ever overtake on a blind corner. They might even play soothing whale music. Of course, it’d cost a little bit more, but I could live with that. And so would everyone else.