After two weeks’ introduction to Cape Town, we’ve reached the juncture at which we’ve completed our touristy exploration of the Western Cape, and we’re beginning to settle into a comfortable rhythm, here in Rondebosch. The little things, now, have begun to add nuance to our impressions of the city – the minibus taxi rides, the interactions with local vendors and urban commuters, and our experiences moving around in the suburbs and the city.On Friday, we had our first completely unstructured day of the trip. We’d completed our first day of classes on Thursday, and had in mind for the next day a relaxing afternoon at the beach. We’d visited several prospective destination beaches during the orientation week, and we’d familiarized ourselves with the process of taking the minibuses, so the trip to the beach was hardly one in which we’d expected to do much cultural learning.
But one thing every study abroad student must understand is that every experience abroad is culturally relevant – even the most mundane of activities, like riding public transportation.
As one group set off to Muizenberg beach by train, five of us picked up a minibus outside of the Red Cross Hospital, headed for “Clifton 4”, a beach known for the beauty of both its landscapes and its sunbathers. But the story of the day was hardly our sun-drenched siesta in the sand; the most notable aspect of the little trip was the time we spent en route. It was the way we navigated the downtown minibus terminal during rush hour, through the disorienting sea of bumper-to-bumper vans, staccato car horns, and shouts and whistles. It was the speed and precision (and gumption) with which one driver maneuvered our minibus across three lanes and over a sidewalk to get a few cars ahead. It was the way another of our drivers was caught by the police, attempting to avoid midmorning traffic by cutting the wrong direction down a one-way street.
Before we arrived here, we had a chance to talk with students from last spring’s semester in Cape Town, and the minibuses were a frequent topic of conversation. Their memories of the minibuses always elicited grins and eye rolls, and to those of us who’d never experienced a ride on one, it felt almost like we were missing out on some complex inside joke.
Now we’re beginning to understand…
During rush hour, the downtown terminal – the hub of the minibus taxi service – is an intimidating place for anyone unfamiliar with the cacophonous gridlock and 22 different bus routes. Minibuses are the most affordable means of transportation in Cape Town, and therefore cater to a largely working-class crowd. On the way home from Clifton, with our sandy beach bags and sunburned faces, the five of us could not have looked more like befuddled tourists. We skirted between the tables at the adjacent local market, and then dodged minibuses as they jolted forward to fill every inch of space behind the vans in front of them. The smell of exhaust mixed with the cooking steam rising out the back of a market canopy, and the minibus horns and shouting from the hawkers (the people who are responsible for getting minibus customers and collecting the fares) echoed off the metal canopy roof.
The atmosphere was a little disorienting, but also exhilarating, even as we searched in vain for a minibus headed to our stop: “Rondebosch. Red Cross Hospital.” We attracted many curious and amused eyes, and hawkers leaned out of their vans – even those that were already bursting with passengers – asking us where we needed to go. Every time we answered, they threw up their hands and gestured right or left, rattling off a different lane and route number, and we picked our way back through the minibuses and streams of passengers in the indicated direction. At one point, four or five different men were trying to lead us to what they believed were the “correct” minibus lines. The five of us squeezed along the narrow passages in as tight a group as possible, worried that we might never find one another if separated. But once we finally made it to the Hanover Park minibus, we were ushered on board with an enthusiastic beckon. “Red Cross Hospital? Yes. Yes. Get on.”
On the sardine-tight ride home, we had some time to reflect on the ten minutes we’d just spent in search of our ride home. Mashed in shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip and knee to knee with 18 other passengers, I felt unexpectedly content. I considered the range of factors that had led the drivers and patrons to help us find our way: the genuine desire to help a confused group of “foreigners”, the desire to turn a good profit as minibus drivers, the simple curiosity of finding out where we were headed… But regardless of their motivations, we’d had ten or twenty individuals go out of their way to help us get safely home. And this experience exemplifies the demonstrative character that we’ve encountered time and again from the people of Cape Town.
If any of us came into this abroad program with expectations of animosity from the locals due to the color of our skin, our American accents, or our lack of cultural understanding, we have only seen it disproven, so far.
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