It's over!!

Pop the corks!  The strike is done!  When I first heard the news I was thrilled, but then I had to laugh: I was excited to get back on the same Metrobus system that has let me down so much in recent months with its inconsistency, overcrowding and unprofessionalism?!  It was like celebrating the reunion of an abusive relationship.  But then I thought about it more and realized that having an operational bus service – flaws and all – is infinitely better than no bus service, and now I can again focus on highlighting room for improvement.

I really am very excited to get my routine back.  I’m so tired of my stop-gap measures for getting to work and can’t wait to take a Saturday bus again.  I’m curious to see the drivers who get assigned to my usual routes – and really hope it isn’t the popsicle eating/cell phone talking driver who can’t find her way out of Fourways Mall parking lot.

Putco earned my respect, even if the drivers never wanted to stop for me in the morning.  It presents itself as a well-run company and makes me sing a little song of privatization when I think of how it puts Metrobus to shame on so many levels.  Yes, they also face overcrowded buses, but their buses are designed to seat more, and I even checked out one of the new double-length buses (popular in San Francisco and other transit-forward cities) and it was wonderfully spacious.   Many of their buses are very nice indeed.  One recently even had a sweet stereo unit and the driver was blasting Toni Braxton and Michael Bolton.  At Fourways Mall, Putco has a roving dispatch man – something that Metrobus does not – who everyday would tell me which bus to board for Rosebank.  He seems to only have two teeth – the two canines on the top, which are extra long, and look like wolf fangs.  I built up a good rapport with him through these five weeks although I had to scold him today for sending me on the wrong bus Tuesday.  Instead of going near Rosebank like he promised, the bus went a totally different direction.  I jumped off in the nick of time on Barry Hertzog in Emmarentia before it headed further west.  I had to walk back to Killarney from there in a light rain a few days after losing my umbrella.  I may even miss the unsolicited compliments from the Putco drivers.  Today one seriously said this, “Those two buses leave at the same time, but you should take that one because you’re beautiful.”  I don’t understand that logic, but I’ll take it, Mr. Putco driver.  I’ll take it.

I also took minibus taxis twice with the ever-helpful Yara as my guide.  Let me tell you, those things have so many systems all their own and I would have been clueless without her.  From navigating the Bree Street taxi rank to knowing how to pay – for those also uninitiated, you pass the money a few people at a time to the person in the front seat (the banker) and I’m SO glad I didn’t jump on the urge to sit front seat on my first ride – to how to request a stop (“Steps!”), it’s just a whole world unto itself.  The minibuses still worry me as imminent deathtraps, but they sure are a faster alternative to walking from Helen Joseph to Killarney and a wonderful peek into colorful neighborhoods that I rarely visit: Brixton, Mayfair, Fordsburg, then through Newtown on the way to the taxi rank. 

It’s been five weeks of making do, figuring out alternatives, getting frustrated, being late, walking a ton, and finding new adventures.  Ultimately I feel more self-sufficient and knowledgeable about my city for having gone through it.  So, thanks Metrobus.  Ha, yeah right.  Now can you please just get back to work?

Getting by

It's now coming on four weeks that the Metrobus has been on strike.  It's been interesting to observe how little attention the strike gets.  In that sense, it feels like it could go on forever.  I mean, what are the striking bus drivers doing?  What is Metrobus doing?  Certainly not updating their website with any news -- not even a single mention! -- of the ongoing strike.  There's just a feeling of ambivalence and listlessness.  Even news outlets seem to shrug.  Every couple of days I do a Google search for Metrobus news but rarely find anything worth reading.  On 702 one morning, John Robbie read an SMS from a disabled Metrobus rider asking for an update on the strike.  "It's still on."  Thanks for the insightful update.

I'm not ambivalent.  I actually miss the Metrobus.  I miss knowing my routes and the freedom I feel, particularly on Saturdays, when I can hop on and go anywhere.  I've been getting to work in the same piecemeal fashion described before, but it gets pretty tiring.  The excitement of the new challenge has long since worn off.  The Randburg CBD, through which Putco buses detour, ceases to be interesting after the tenth or so trip and reveals itself to be a bit of a dive.  I miss being able to use my pre-paid Metrobus card (with unused credit on it) and am tired of always having to have R10 and R20 notes on hand.  Going past Gandhi Square a couple of Saturdays ago was surreal: barren, but for some people and pigeons. 

But thank goodness I still have my trusty two feet, which I've been relying on more than ever.  A couple of weeks ago, I got stuck in one of the scariest, yet wildest and most exhilarating, thunderstorms I've ever seen, much less been trapped in.  Just as I was halfway along my hour-and-a-half walk from Helen Joseph to Killarney, lightening started striking all around me followed by instant, terrifying thunder.  Then the rain came and made quick work of soaking Westcliff Drive.  Within a few minutes, the road had enough standing water to rival a wading pool.

Trapped as I was and freaked out by the lightening, I pushed up against a cement wall, hoping that in some way it would protect me. I let some ivy form a rain barrier around my umbrella, although by then nothing could keep me from getting soaked.  There is a certain point when stuck in a rainstorm that you just have to embrace it and have a big laugh about how drenched you are and how flooded the roads.  I hid in my little leafy enclave for nearly 30 minutes until the rain finally slowed, and then sloshed through deep puddle after deep puddle on the way home to a dry bathrobe and a glass of wine.