I strive to peer between elbows and shoulders out the window of the train. The compartment I’m in is filled to overflowing. Young men are literally hanging out the open train doors clinging to the passengers inside the train, their fingers grasping for purchase. A tendril of wind curls through the compartment from the doors and windows. It stirs the collective smell of body order and chips. A woman near me munches on a packet of Nik Naks (South African equivalent of Cheetos) smacking cheesy remnants off her long dark fingers. A press of moist limbs squashes against me. Suddenly a new smell enters the compartment. Smoke.
Looking out the window I see that the grass we are passing is scorched black and wisps of smoke issue from the parched ground. The land was recently on fire. This is not uncommon during the summer. Grass fires are frequent, their choking reek commonplace.
My train reaches Bellville Station where I disembark. “Fresh fish! Fresh fiiiiiiiish!” comes the cry that greets me upon exiting the train. A man with a large crate of fish stands beckoning to passerby enticingly waving one of the creatures in question in front of them as they extract themselves from the overcrowded train compartment. The fish’s bulbous eyes stare liquidly at potential customers, its limp body jerking with the movement of the vender’s arm.
The summer heat is oppressive but the wind offers some relief. It stirs a strand of sweaty hair from my neck and breaks the stifling heat for a moment or two. As I make my way to the taxi that will take me home to my shared apartment a woman approaches me with cries of, “Suckers, 2 Rand. Sucker sisi?” I glance into a box supported by her sinuous arms and see orange popsicles. As tempting as something cold is, I turn down her offer and seek my taxi.
I crowd into the minivan with 15 other adults and 2 children (the taxi is only supposed to hold 12 individuals) and we speed off. The taxi driver impatiently honks (or as they say here, “hoots”) his horn at pedestrians and vehicles alike vehemently exclaiming and shaking his fists. The sooner he drops us at our destinations the sooner he will be able to solicit more costumers and make more money. This is rush hour after all… best get the getting while the getting is good!
We stop at a traffic light (known as “robots” in SA). While stopped I glance at one of my fellow passengers. He is sitting two rows of seats ahead of me, in the passenger side of the front seat. His nearly baldhead is sparsely covered with stubbly bristles and a single drop of sweat runs down the back of his neck. And in that moment, watching the sweat dribble down his neck I had the surest feeling that he was beloved by God. I turned to look at the other passengers and knew that they too are precious to God.
Thomas Merton once shared a similar experience he had. "In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers…. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun."
In the muggy cab of that taxi after an afternoon of cramped travel, I felt incredibly connected to my fellow human beings and knew beyond a doubt that each one of us is precious to God. The men hanging out of the train compartment, the woman with the cheesy fingers, the fish vender, the popsicle pusher, my taxi companions, and me… each precious, each valued, each loved. I left the taxi feeling more at peace than I have in a long time.
