If the first taxi war had been embroiled in the political violence of late apartheid, the second, from 1994 to 2000, was more a product ongoing social tensions in the country, in particular the growth of organised crime. During the uncertainty of political transition, when resources were scarce and attention often focused elsewhere, the controlling ‘mother bodies’ extended their power dramatically. Special presidential task forces set up to investigate the problem revealed that taxi organisations were soliciting the help of Cape Town’s most feared ganglords – the Sexy Boys, the Clever Kids and The FIRM (For It Requires Money) – recruiting professional assassins from skilled international crime syndicates, even hiring out police weapons to be used in hits and in some cases policemen themselves as bodyguards for senior taxi executives.
After five years of ongoing conflict with monthly shootouts all over the Cape peninsula in which ordinary commuters were inevitably caught in the crossfire, some measure of cooperation was achieved only as the taxi organisations united against a rival state-subsidised transport company in 2002, at one point punching through a bus blockade on the highway with automatic weaponry. This marked the final phase in the conflict, eventually brought to heel as the government declared a partial state of emergency, patrolling ranks with soldiers and suspending traffic on the highways at night. Researchers conclude that there are cycles of revenge and reprisal entrenched in the industry which are by now almost impossible to explain or understand, but ten years after the first democratic election, the taxi wars finally seem to have subsided.
Getting into his stride, our driver charges fearlessly down the hard shoulder, then simply hoots when he needs to re-enter the flow. Another taxi holds up the lane so we can slip in front, then pulls out himself and carries on this high speed game of gaining ground, threading a web of rogue driving and pure fear through the daily traffic.
Watching the taxis create their own left-margin lane like this, a virtual law unto themselves on the roads, the South African poet and MP Jeremy Cronin, following the ideas of Peruvian economist Hernando de Soto, saw them as part of the ‘extra-legal’ present throughout the developing world, a social and economic domain that is, in its sheer scope, beyond regulation or taxation (‘A Dangerous Mirage,’ Mail and Guardian, 1 June 2004). Hernando writes that to call this the informal economy is misleading: ‘In fact it is legality that is marginal; extra-legality has become the norm.’ He goes on to argue that the poor are owners of vast untapped resources and capital that could be realised if brought within the remit of the formal economy.
But as Jeremy points out, the South African taxi industry seems a good deal more complicated, and a caution to the idea, often voiced by free market optimists, that enterprise of the so-called ‘second economy’ could be the remedy for social ills. During rush hour at the taxi Deck, long queues of passengers develop at every stand; minibuses swing in like racing cars into a pit lane, loaded and ready to go in a minute. But during the long stretch in between – mid-morning, midday, mid-afternoon – there is little demand. Hundreds of vehicles wait in storage, many of them being cleaned by women while the men lounge in the sun listening to music or catching up on sleep. Moreover, the industry’s own internal regulation has been fierce, as the long history of taxi conflict shows.
Nevertheless, in 1994 the government drafted an ambitious plan to overhaul the industry entirely, and ten years later the ‘recapitalisation’ of South Africa’s taxi fleet at last seems poised to happen. 130 000 ageing and unsafe 16-seater minibuses are to be phased out and replaced by 85,000 purpose built and safer 18 and 35-seaters. The new vehicles will be diesel powered, with slick advertising on the sides and electronic payment systems. Drivers will work ordinary shifts, with changeovers for long journeys, and those who lost their jobs, the government claims, would be absorbed into maintenance, rank management, marketing and services.
‘Bullshit,’ says our driver, ‘It’s bullshit. The government is just sour they don’t make any money from the taxis.’
‘And how long will it take to fill a 35 seater?’ asks the conductor, ‘Why do they want timetables? You can get a taxi anytime on the Main Road.’
It seems unimaginable that the industry could be dismantled, this mighty, irrepressible fleet taken off the roads. If and when it happens, the obituary would chart a deeply troubled lifetime from the earliest days, and in a city with so many First World aspirations, eager to present itself to the international community as slick and modern, the taxis are still a reminder of a deeply polarised reality. Seen through the window of a taxi, Cape Town’s famous cultural diversity often seems only a matter of social distance. But if the industry is going to be regulated, and these crammed, dangerous vehicles replaced with roadworthy, custom-fitted buses, smart card technology, timetables and all the rest, they also deserve some kind of farewell ode – to the blown subwoofers pumping out decades old acid house, the slam of their sliding doors, the fat women wrangling with skinny operators over their shopping bags.
Arriving at the Deck for the last time, the smell of exhaust is worked deep into my clothes, and I notice an international film crew – ubiquitous in Cape Town – setting up to one side. Most of the taxi stands are empty now, but lone vehicles are still operating, and will probably carry on late into the night. ‘Five Rand, ok? After hours price.’
The last taxi of the day. The driver, fez-wearing, old and gentlemanly, says he is only in the business part-time, meandering down back alleys, angling for customers until people start complaining about how late it is, and that they want to get home now. To the left I try in to catch a glimpse of the sea between the warehouses with broken windows, but can only make out the silhouette of cranes and oilrigs under repair; to the right, the Mountain, no longer spot lit by night for the tourists but a dark mass against the sky, slowly changes its shape.
Additional Research: Sean Christie. Photographs: Blane Venter