When I was young, the taxi rank was a scary place.Durbanville's wasn't quite as scary as Bellville's and I assume there were even more terrifying ranks of which I was unaware.It was a place we had to visit weekly to get our darling Grace. Grace really was our home's saving grace on a Saturday-morning.Scary place why?It was full of noise, language and smell unlike anything my tranquil home resembled.It was foreign.
This morning, 12 years later, I drove to the taxi rank to pick up Sanna.Background for the reader:The arrangement was that Sanna would help me out every second Friday, starting today. She has never been to Durbanville.We met in my office (where she pleaded for extra work as the cleaning-company she works for pays very little) She had instructions to get off at the Durbanville-Taxi rank and I'd be waiting for her from 07.45am - 08.15am. I explained that I had to leave at 08.15am, so as to NOT be late for work. And I even went further: If I am late for work, I don't get paid (ok, not QUITE the solemn truth, but it drove the point across) and then I cannot pay her. So it works like a little domino-game.I thought she got it.From 07.45am to 08.15am, I had a very different experience than 12 years ago.
Firstly: it is colourfull. The ladies look amazing (traditional gear) and the garden -boys look fresh and energetic.
There is a definite social order/ranking to be noted:
A taxi-driver is the equivalent of a prince. They walk around like they own the region. The younger ladies who pitched up in the prince's carriage, waiting for their evil stepmom's to come pick them up, (sorry it was just too easy to say that) are the little princesses, who will grow up to be the queens of the estate. (Queens earn the best, as I later heard)
Another element to this scene which struck me, was the calm sort of orchestrated chaos. Ladies chatting, probably comparing the attitudes of their employers and how that translates into their pay-cheques, or talking about the kids, or the neighbours' kids, etc. The princes are trying to find the parking spot closest to the food-distributing caravan.
The caravan ( which cannot be roadworthy even if it tried ) is stationary and serves coffee and "pap and vleis" as I hear one prince asking the next if he wants some.
Some sit inside it like a gypsy café and others order from ( what I assumed was once ) the sleeping quarter's window.
But they look like a tight-knit community. Two princes are crouching (investigating something of concern under another's vehicle ) They look like two qualified mechanics: they debate and give advice.
In contrast: there are large 4X4- vehicles parked to one side ( they are also waiting for their Sanna's ) and there are slick sexy sports cars, also on the look-out from a Gucci'-framed view for THEIR Sanna's. But we all park away from each other (one empty parking space in between for courtesy sake, like in church) and the Sanna's are all chatting away, like sisters, standing closely together: sharing life.
fascinating
My Sanna didn't pitch, or her taxi broke down along Durban Road or I missed her with 2 minutes.Who knows.But I gave another Sanna a lift to Murray-street, where she works 5 days a week for a "lazy madam" ( her words)fascinating.What a colourful morning all before 08.30am
cheers for now
