“Kaap Stad, brotha?” the toothless man in the window asks as the minibus slows down to the curb.
“Yeah.” I hop in to the crowded taxi and fork over two-rand-fifty for the ride into town from Mowbray, my neighborhood. That’s less than 25 American cents. The vehicle is crowded, as they usually are. I find a place in the back corner, in between the window and a man in a tank top who glares at me as I sit down.
“What’s up,” I mutter shyly under my breath, just trying to be friendly. He ignores me, and I stare out the window as we zoom down Main Road towards the Taxi Exchange in Cape Town center. The driver is blasting Ja Rule over the bass-heavy system. Not surprising. This summer, it’s either that or Alicia Keys.
It’s a Friday afternoon, and I’m leaving my flat to meet some friends at Camps Bay to hit the beach. My backpack is filled with my towel, my cell phone, some sunglasses, sunscreen, CD player … typical beach stuff.
In front of me, a mother tries to muffle her child’s throaty sneezes. Another woman clutches her Shoprite backs to her chest.
“First national, drivah!” she says, requesting a stop at the upcoming bank. The taxi pulls over and lets her off, while the window yeller (properly called a “sliding door operator”) tries to fill the empty seat. He’s wearing a Duke hat.
“Kaap Stad! Cape Tee-own!!” he screams down the crowded street, to no one in particular. A pretty girl nods quickly and gets in. We pull off again, and I stare out the window once more. It’s hot and sunny. We zoom by meat markets, halal restaurants, car dealerships, street hawkers, kids on scooters, women carrying grocery bags and men sitting on corners, smoking cigarettes. Main Road from Mowbray to downtown is a mostly middle class area, formerly “colored” under the apartheid regime. But now, it’s totally mixed?black, white, colored, Indian. The rainbow nation, as Desmond Tutu put it.
Soon, we pull into the outdoor Taxi Station. I get off the bus, sweating from the heat, the leather seats and the sheer amount of people they can cram into these minibuses. As it pulls away, I notice the Manchester United sticker on the rear bumper. I wonder why no one supports South African soccer.
Adjusting my backpack and sticky T-shirt, I make my way towards the Camps Bay driveway. I catch whiffs of urine and sausage while hawkers try to sell me Fanta, sunglasses, socks, alarm clocks. They try harder when they see that I’m white and probably a tourist.
“Buy a hat, broo! Only 10 rand!” That’s 90 cents.
I see street children sitting in the shade, businessmen returning home, other students, people just doing some shopping. The colors are bleak and urban, just browns and grays. I walk past the buses departing for the dust-ridden townships?Guguletu, Mitchell’s Plain, Khayelitsha and other sorry remnants of apartheid, where good people live in shacks built onto the backs of other shacks.
Most everyone at the station is black or colored. They use public transportation. The white people, on the other hand, have cars and live in the northern suburbs, Claremont, Constantia or by the beach, where I’m going.
I get on the next bus, neatly avoiding the man selling sunglasses that I see approaching. After a few minutes, the minibus loads up and we pull away towards the beaches on the other side of Table Mountain. We pass through the skyscrapers of downtown, across the shop-lined Long Street and the tourist-cramped plazas of downtown. The street children are more prominent here, and they roam around in groups of four or five with their worn trousers and raggedy shirts. As we round a corner, I see one asleep in the middle of the sidewalk, pedestrians stepping over him as if he were just another piece of litter.
As the taxi begins to reach Sea Point, many of the black passengers get off, replaced by white youths or tourists. We fly around corners, and the drive begins to look like the California coast, or the Mediterranean. On my left are pieces of million-dollar real estate perched on cliffs, huge bay windows and porches, luxurious restaurants. To my right, nothing but white beaches and blue water, freckled with huge rocks. I’m surrounded by great tans, image-obsessed men and women in capri pants and fancy cars. Ted Turner has a house here. So do Margaret Thatcher’s son, Michael Jackson and Alex Ferguson. I read today that Will Smith is also shopping around.
We stop by the beach, and I step out to the sight of palm trees and mountains, trendy oceanfront bars, and one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. Black people here are few, and they’re mostly working, selling “authentic” African clothing or handmade radios, or just sweeping the street. A police officer escorts an old lady down the street. Apparently she was bothering the patrons of a popular seafood restaurant, where I hear the Mozambique lobster is divine.
I cross the road and sit down with my friends, then look around at the breathtaking scenery. 20 minutes ago, I was riding a rickety bus through what most Americans would call a slum. Now, I sunbathe among South Africa’s elite. I wonder how I’m supposed to reconcile these two worlds. Then I hear a voice over my shoulder.
“Oakleys, brotha? Good price.”
“No thanks, man.” He walks away, and I put on my headphones.
Peter Hamby is a junior in the College and an associate editor of The Georgetown Voice. Cincinnati to the Final Four, baby.
