I need to get a car.
Be it a jaunty jalopy or sleek fuel-efficient machine; whatever it is, I really don’t mind at this point in time. All I need is a dependable specimen that will save me from the continuous wear and tear that I experience daily from my use of public transport, particularly the dreaded ‘kombi’.
If you have ever hailed one of these rickety vans to stop and give you a ride, you will have noted how eager and enthusiastic the driver and tout always are when they notice you standing at the road side, desperately waving your hand to get their attention. The driver honks his horn profusely while the tout leans half his body out threw a windowless pane, frantically calling out, “Town! Town! Town!”
You feel an instant relief at this because you are running late and town is exactly where you are headed. And though you are well-dressed and beautifully preened, none of the nice men and women in their neat sedans and SUVs are stopping to offer you a lift.
But the joyous mood immediately fades the moment you get your kitten-heeled shoe onto the first step of the van. For before you have even had time to find your footing, the driver is impatiently revving up his engine, making ready to get back onto the main road and slice scandalously through the morning traffic. Hunched over into the low space of the kombi – and trying desperately to find a vacant seat – as well as fight the forward force of the vehicle which is in direct opposition to the course you must follow to find a place in the back, the moment begins the domino effect of bad events intended to ruin your day.
Firstly, in your efforts to reach your seat, you are very likely to either ladder your brand new pair of stockings, or acquire a weeping wound to the knee or lower-leg area. This is because these third-hand write offs they like to call vehicles usually have anorexic seats with bits of steel jutting out from everywhere like unclothed bone. Or even worse, just as you have managed to get to a vacant place without too much drama, you plonk your behind into a scruffed up seat which begins to fray the hem of your skirt or prick uncomfortably into your rump. And already you are counting down from ten, just to keep your cool.
A kombi drive is nothing close to a ride in a luxury vehicle. So don’t be too surprised if you find yourself face to face with the beady eyes of a chicken confined to a plastic bag and nestled in the lap of the man or woman sitting next to you. Also, if the kombi driver insists on giving his ‘cousin-brother’ or girlfriend a free lift, do not be too perturbed to find your hip bone buried in the side of your neighbour as you each manoeuvre yourselves to force a fifth person onto a row of seats that accommodate a maximum of four people.
And never expect the tout to be any kind of gentleman. All he wants is to get your money. Having achieved this aim, he might proceed to torment you about not providing him with changed money, and how he has none to offer you. Right then, you might start to feel your blood boil with rage – “Nine, eight, seven,” the silent countdown continues.
Mind you, all of the touts raving might be going on with his armpit over your row of seats, exuding a potent olfactory experience that could certainly kill small rodents and other creatures. And if you are really unlucky, you might find yourself in the front seat with him, your head buried somewhere between his armpit and shoulder, and his mid-section nestling over your knee. Your might try to contort yourself away from his anatomy, but alas, the 20 kg bag of sugar the woman next to you has at her feet, has clogged all thoughts of attaining some leg space.
Don’t expect any sort of ambience or mood music in there. In the claustrophobic chaos of hoarded goods and wares, rickety seats and dangerous swerves and turns, expect the poorest bleeding sound systems that were ever invented to burst the ear drums of cash-strapped third worlders. If you can wrestle both your hands free and hold them shut against your ears, this will help lessen the harm. But if you can’t, mouth along to sungura or rhumba beats.
Just like with aeroplane travel, always try to get a window seat! In our kombis, the first two seats, towards the window, are usually immovable. But the last two can be folded up so that folk can walk up and down the aisle to get in and out. Now, let me tell you, there is no fun in being stationed on one of those fold up seats and having to get up, fold it up and make space for someone further in the back to make their way out of the kombi, at each and every stop. Beside being annoying, it also adds to your chances of laddering or grazing something!
Finally, the merciless vehicle won’t even leave you at your direct destination. You will still have to face the harsh elements (blazing morning sunshine, or dreary summer drizzles) and foot your way through the city streets, probably to get another gruesome kombi ride to some other place. And unlike a trusty friend who promises to pick you up at a certain time, kombis have their own time tables, as they only get going from one point to the next when the vehicle is positively sagging with human and non-human loads. So always expect to be running either too late, or too early, but never quite on time.
Need I say more?
I just need a car.
