Kelly Vinett

It’s usually the passenger whose trip takes priority. But what about the person behind the wheel? Fifty-one-year-old Virash “V” Tiloki has been driving international visitors in South Africa for thirty-three years, and he’s had quite a journey.

“I was born in Durban to a family of two brothers and a sister. My dad passed away at an early age. We grew up in a poor suburb called Chatsworth,” Tiloki says.  

Going to school didn’t come easily. “I never really enjoyed school much back then.”   

Tiloki attributes this to being the youngest in the family—kids would bully and poke fun at him in the schoolyard.

After dropping out of school, he says, he started working as a shoe salesman “at R5 a day”. But privately, Tiloki had plans in the works.

“I said to myself, I’m going to achieve every single dream of mine and prove everybody wrong.

“I could show them that without education, if you put your mind, you put your heart and soul into anything, into a dream… (that dream will come true).  

“Driving has become my passion.”

Tiloki puts his other hand on the wheel, “You know, I’ve only read one book in my entire life.”

But his lack of formal literacy hasn’t steered him away from learning.

“My passengers are my teachers. I’m passionate about learning. I want to learn about anything and everything that comes my way.”

As a boy, Tiloki wanted to learn to how to read and play music in the footsteps of his father, who died when he was just 8.

However, the local music teacher turned him away because he didn’t have an instrument. His family was too poor to afford one.

But driving musicians on tour in Durban has given him  a taste of the music scene his father introduced him.

“I ended up meeting all of my favorite singers from India. I met every great Indian artist and got to interview them personally.”

Then he tells another story about how his love for space travel unexpectedly rocketed into his backseat.

In 2004, he drove one of the Columbia Space Shuttle commanders for a week but conversation never led to revealing his identity. One night, the man pointed out Mars to Tiloki from the car window. He wondered why his passenger would mention such a trivial fact.

When the visitor forgot an important parcel that Tiloki was able to return to him, Tiloki discovered the man was as an astronaut.

And soon after the man returned to the US, Tiloki received a letter in the mail.

It read, “To V, thank you for returning my present. If you ever come to Cape Canaveral, the tour’s on me.”

“I got the shock of my life,” he says.

Moments like these are what makes this Durban driver happy to be on the road.

 

Cato Manor can be chaotic. Houses undulate on uneven ground with rainbows of laundry drying on the line. On weekdays, dogs bark the neighborhood to sleep. On weekends, electronic music reverberates to the beat of flashing lights and honking minibus taxis filled with people. I’ve never seen them with open seats.

Last year, a man in the community died tragically. His family slaughters a cow and rents a tent to celebrate the anniversary.

My host sister sings all the time. Cooking hot dogs for breakfast, mopping the floor, fidgeting on her phone, there’s Sisi singing Christian gospel.  

Inside the family home, there are no closed doors. They’re seen as rude, against the Zulu tradition of an honest and transparent way of life, I am told. There’s no hiding here—especially from my Zulu mama.

Most of the time she sits on the sofa engrossed in South African soapies. She prefers to speak isiZulu so she barely speaks to me. She’s not afraid to show her frustration when I don’t finish dinner, come home late, forget to unplug the toaster. Electricity is something to save. However, I see her smile for the first time when I show her a portrait I have drawn. Then she commands, “Draw me.” After a week living on Deeside Drive, this brutal honesty isn’t offensive anymore—it’s genuine.

In Cato Manor, I can go for a run down the street and return having made five new friends. I join a soccer game on the street. A neighbour comes out to complement my sneakers.

One night there is a birthday party—a massive barbeque event. Cow (inkomo), chicken, and sausage are grilled over flaming coals until well-done and, well, burnt. I take a bite of the sausage. Coriander and clove explode on my palate. Wait, I wonder, could that be nutmeg?

I say it’s the most delicious thing I’ve eaten in South Africa so far. “That’s the only thing us black people love about Afrikaaners,” a guest says in reference to the boerewors.

Despite moments of feeling welcome, Cato Manor is not my home, however much I try to make it so. A man at a coffee shop warns me, “It isn’t safe there. Bad things happen.” One Uber driver dumps me out of the car before we reach my stop in fear of getting shot. My friend gets drugged at a combination car wash-club and we swerve through late-night traffic to save her life. Locals show their kindness in concern, coming to the silly foreigners’ aid.

This place is somewhere in between feeling safe and scared every day.

By Kelly Vinett

When Lipuma Thabede discovered the hospitality service as a teen, she booked herself a life-long reservation.

Lipuma, now 21, is a first-year student at the International Hotel School in Westville, just a short drive away from Cato Manor which is a working-class township in Durban. Her older siblings –too many to count, she says– have all moved out. The only child left, Lipuma lives with her retired parents in their immaculately clean, bubblegum-pink home. This place is all she knows, but she’s more than ready to leave South African suburbia behind.

Usually sweet and soft-spoken, Lipuma transforms when she speaks about the hotel industry. Just think of the opportunities for travel, she says. She leans in a few inches, puts her elbows on the table, and lists all of the cities she hopes to explore.

“I could travel the world and get out of South Africa, I could earn real money, I could meet new people.”

Then she reveals, “I’ve never been out of Durban or South Africa before.”

Living at home can feel constricting for someone with such wanderlust.

“It gets kind of boring and lonely. When something goes wrong, your parents always blame you.”

Lipuma’s escape route is coming, and soon. On the brink of leaving the comfort of family, and girlhood, she’s ready to make her own rules.

 

Her degree is going to force her to leave the only territory she’s ever known. “The hospitality industry is not that big [in South Africa] so there’s no room for growth. In the U.S and in Europe there are more opportunities.”

Maybe her first destination will be to work on cruise ship.

“It’s like a mall that’s on water.”

Or perhaps, she’ll work in a hotel in Paris—five star.

This small town girl is hungry for the spotlight. She wants to be her own boss, an entrepreneur.

“Kitchens, they’re okay but they’re not what I want to do,” she proclaims, “I want to be an owner. I don’t want to be behind the scenes.”

Lipuma has a practical exam next week where she’ll be mixing and serving cocktails to hotel customers.

“I’m excited because it’s a totally different experience. I’ve never done it before. Never.” Her voice commands the space, she’s going to run the room.