For once, Michael does not plan; he simply takes a Kombi-taxi into the city centre, walks to the West Street taxi rank and searches for signs reading ‘Noordgesig’. He sees people queuing, wearily patient, like experienced commuters anywhere in the world. But there are no timetables or maps, and to the uninformed traveller, the constant movement of people and vehicles seems chaotic. Michael is wary of asking for help: he has heard that anyone who betrays ignorance about the rituals of the Kombi-taxi is marked as a ‘moegoe’ and becomes ready prey for the thieves who frequent the taxi ranks. The image of sly vultures comes to mind, their smiles fixed and deceivingly benevolent. He pauses, amused by this grotesque conception of the dangers of township travel, mythologized at dinner parties by those who have moved out of the townships and now seek justification for their migration.

In the end, he asks for directions, and is told where to wait. Soon he is in a Kombi, sitting quietly as the driver waits for the seats to fill up. The journey itself is unremarkable, frantic bursts of speed, sudden stops, people getting off and on with remarkable rapidity, destinations confirmed and fares exchanged with quiet efficiency. It is as if unseen hands direct everything, some intelligence out there, controlling this world without fuss or fanfare. Later, he will admit that this is a romantic view of the struggles these commuters face every day, that their lives are in constant danger, that there is nothing wonderful about being crammed together, breathing in each other's nervous sweat. For now, he is transported into a forgotten world, one that he suspects Silas rarely sees these days.

They leave the city, turn off towards Soweto. Michael peers ahead, looking for landmarks. He vaguely remembers New Canada station, and, when he sees the community clinic, much smaller than he remembered (and derelict, as he will discover when he gets off), he signals to the driver, who does not seem to acknowledge his request. Michael is afraid that the driver will ignore him, that he will be taken into ‘deep Soweto’. He is angry with himself for this instinctive sense of dread, the continuing, stereotypical quality of danger inherent in the term ‘deep Soweto’, but is relieved when the driver pulls up two blocks further, at a designated taxi stop.

‘This is not a stop-anywhere taxi, sonny,’ the driver says, as Michael gets out. The other passengers laugh good-humouredly. Michael feels foolish, he knows that all he had to do was speak in a firm voice: ‘Driver, stop, I want to get off,’ and the taxi would have slewed to the side of the road. An empty space is always welcome, it makes room for another fare.