Every motorist on planet South Africa has a hate-hate relationship with taxi drivers.
I say this without fear of contradiction.
There is no love lost between the two groups of road runners – the public commuters versus the people carriers.
Show me a motorist who doesn’t secretly fantasise about becoming a legalised serial taxi driver eradicator by means of slow suffocation or swift and brutal throat-ripping, and I’ll bring you a saintly politician who never lies. Neither exists.
And who is at fault for this state of affairs? Taxi drivers, of course.
If they refrain from driving recklessly putting others at risk, follow the rules of the road and display common courtesy like most travellers, the hostility towards them will dissipate forthwith.
Although still firmly a member of the oesophagus-pulping brigade at times, I must confess age has mellowed me somewhat towards a more lenient attitude.
Youthful testosterone-fuelled aggro does eventually make way for a more tranquil sense of being as one matures, and at my age I’m now heavily matured.
To put things into context – I realise blanket hatred is what bedevils the world and it is not fair to dislike all taxi drivers.
I understand their need for quick turnaround times to get people to work on time, and have reached the point of actually making way to allow an illegal queue-jumping taxi in from the emergency lane if the driver courteously extends a hand to ask for it.
Waves and smiles all-round and goodwill towards all men and all that.
Until…
What instantly rockets my moermeter (aggravation gauge) through the car roof are those taxi drivers who simply try to force you out of the way by inching their Ses’fikile wagons into your path until you back off from the intimidation.
We all encounter them.
Whether it is the unexpected, perhaps even addictive, return rush of testosterone aggro which has become in short supply of late, I’m not sure, but I immediately go into combat mode.
It becomes a war of the inches – him inching to almost touching my car’s bonnet and me inching to almost touching the car in front’s bumper to keep the gap firmly closed.
Without fail I always win the battle, and with joy in my heart I leave him stranded with a barrage of (from his muted point of view) rapidly moving lips uttering insults in Greek and vigorous Latin-looking finger signs.
A beautiful, stress-relieving way to start the day.
Till we meet again for some more war games guys!
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