A real skoroskoro and a conversation about religion

My problem with taxis in the mornings is that they are all packed until about 10am when they pass the point where I join the route on foot. That means I really have to walk far to the first major drop-off point.

The reason why I mention this is that I made a decision, in principle, not to take skoroskoros anymore and rather wait for a vaguely decent taxi. A skoroskoro is a vehicle that is in fact a crock and the onomatopoeic skoroskoro refers to the sound they make when they drive .... skoroskoroskoroskoro ... the 'Os' are pronounced as if they had a genuflect accent.

But I'm late for work and my principles take a hike and I take a skoroskoro when it stops. I immediately know it is a skoroskoro because the dented sliding door will not open until the driver gets out and manoeuvres it open with a secret flick of his hips ... and then it refuses to close again ... but soon enough we are on the road.

Further clues that this is the real deal in the skoroskoro category follow quickly. Apart from the skoroskoro noise my seat dumps me on my neighbour when we go around the first righthand corner and the front passenger door flies open. But we are an adaptable lot here in the south of Africa and I learn to lean left when the taxi goes right and and the front passenger learns to hold on to the dashboard with his right hand and the door with his left hand while leaning right.

I join the other passengers in silent prayer and try not to think about the state of the vehicle's brakes or shock absorbers while it careens through the traffic ... I suspect they are close to being non-existent ... which brings me to God and religion.

Now everybody knows I'm an atheist but few of you would guess that my parents and especially my father is a deeply religious person. He is one of only a handful of people, perhaps the only one, whom I know who practises all the virtues of Christianity including tolerance and forgiveness. That is why we still get along.

Many years ago when our politics also parted ways we decided to limit our conversational topics to one ... rugby where we are both on the same page ... we support the Free State Cheetahs. This happened as if we both grasped at the same time that it was the only way to keep our relationship going and no discussion preceded the event.

Fortunately we have since rejoined opinion on politics and the weather and rainfall patterns provide further stimuli for our conversations.

With my mother there is no such problems. She berates me my variety of addictions and is fearful that I'm now addicted to the internet as well ... and also hints darkly at my godlessness when she gets the chance between analysing the latest health affliction that is making her life a misery.

That was why I was shocked when she complained about being lonely instead of her normal ailing health the other day ... and being the dutiful son that I am ... took her seriously for once. Not that I could get her interested in the wonders of the internet or google ... no sirree!

For that I had to rely on my father who, after my presentation, dutifully thanked the Lord in his pre-lunchtime saying of grace "for the wonderful technologies that He gave us".

Then we had lunch and it was time for Abrie to take me back to Kruger International.

Without prompting he begins talking about how he is getting slightly irritated by the creationists and Christian fundamentalists peopling the rural community around him. He finds their blunt refusal to take any scientific evidence into account when they expound their own beliefs especially grating.

I feel his pain ... he professes to be a Christian ... but ...

I was also there once ... and for a long time ... until I realised that faith does not readily stand up to any manner of scrutiny by a questioning mind ... and once you begin scratching the surface of your religious beliefs with a vexing question you are in for a long and hard think.
FLAG UPDATE: Meanwhile it would seem that only Joburg is 'flagging up' big time. I spotted hardly a flag around Hazyview and my father quietly removed the one I put on his car. I asked Lizette in Pretoria to do a count for me but have not heard from her since and Charles Moore reported that there were noticably fewer in Cape Town during his recent visit there. Let me know if I'm wrong.

Not clear why I wanted to write about Hazyview ...

My parents live on my brother Abrie's farm near Hazyview. That's about 400km from Joburg and I'm going there tomorrow.

Initially the plan was to rustle up the usual suspects and go as a group ... my brother has a backpacker facility on the farm. After initial excitement about the prospect my so-called friends began cancelling on me ... but all was fine ... The back-up plan was that my sister Emily and her kids would go ... then Emily cancelled yesterday.

A visit to my elderly parents is really long overdue ... I was last there two years ago ... so I decide I will go alone and book a ticket to the somewhat pompously named Kruger International outside Nelspruit in the Lowveld. The last time I was there it looked more like the Kruger Backwater, but that was some time ago and things change ... sometimes for the better ... one can only hope.

With the main leg of my trip taken care of I phone my brother Abrie to hear if he'll come and fetch me ... no problem ... farmers are always looking for an excuse to go to the nearest big town.

Now it's time to train my considerable intellect on the vexing problem of getting to the airport from my house ... I am loathe to ask one of my so-called friends to take me and averse to spending a fortune on a real taxi ... that means public transport in the form of minibus taxis...

When I faced with the same problem coming back from Oyster Bay I even wrote a blog about the lack of public transport to and from OR Tambo International ... your gateway to the nearest traffic jam ... but that was before I knew about the only 'real' public transport here.

A kindly reader then sketched the route for me and said a trip to the airport should come in below R20 if you know where you are going ... So once again I'm faced with a three-leg voyage before I can embark on the second leg of my real trip.

First I have to get to Park Station in Joburg Central ... from there I must take another taxi to Kempton Park and from there another one to the airport. I'll start out early....

Now Hazyview is somewhat of a tourist destination itself. In itself it has all the charm of a gigantic but poorly planned shopping mall, but there are more types of accommodation to suit every pocket and people use it as a base-camp to explore the many natural delights of the Lowveld about which I will write at length once I am there.

Where am I going with this blog? That is my more immediate concern ... my view has indeed become very hazy about that. I could swear I had a point when I started out... seems to have deserted me ... I'll just publish and be damned .... and such a poor piece on top of Rian Malan's must-read piece of earlier today... I'm shooting myself in the foot. What the hell maybe inspiration will hit me in Hazyview .... and then again not ... the locals call it Lazyview in the Slowveld...

Welcome to Rachel Tolton... and Hazyview.

A minibus taxi user guide and more

To hail a minibus taxi just point in the direction you want to go. There are a number of finger signals that you may use that have the same effect, but avoid the middle finger since this signal is reserved for other motorists who have to deal with the taxi's erratic behaviour.

Five outstretched fingers will get you to the main railway station, Park Station and three fingers will get you to Bree Street in Joburg's CBD.


Once aboard the taxi start praying ... even atheists may do this apparently there is a special permit for them to pray in taxis. The standard fee seems to be R7 for a trip on one route. This may go up during the World Cup ... or a dual payment system will be designed to rip off foreigners.


You can pay on getting on or just before getting off. If you are in the back of the taxi, you tap the person sitting in front of you on the shoulder and hand him/her your money.


That person will pass it on to the next and so on until it reaches the driver ... who will briefly interrupt his cellphone conversation to fish out change from the vehicle's ashtray, before sending it back the way it came.


Some drivers expect the front-seat passengers to deal with the money matters while others clearly don't. Surprisingly enough I have seen no disputes over money going missing in this to-ing and fro-ing of money.

Once you have paid start praying again, because by this time the vehicle's obvious defects would be obvious to you too.

Too get off the taxi just shout out the point where you want to do so. Like: "Next robot..." (Traffic lights are often called that here and if you are a World Cup visitor asking for directions you should know that.) Or shout "shopping centre" ... or "Garage" as filling stations are called. You can shout anything really as long as the driver hears you and knows what you are talking about.

When you get off, sigh a deep sigh of relief and think of buying a car. However, millions of people use minibus taxis and survive. Meanwhile a pseudo Frenchman in Fouriesburg told me that communal taxis are the only form of public transport that is profitable in the world. I somehow believe him. I call him a pseudo Frenchman because we spoke French ... it turned out that he is a 'Norman' from the channel island Jersey.


My next blog will be about the different kinds of porn favoured by different nationalities. It is PG18 and sensitive readers must please abstain.