It’s 9 a.m. on Saturday morning, and I’m at the Cape Town minibus taxi rank. It’s already sunny out, and the wind is strong. My friend and I walk towards the Nyanga line, and as we approach we are beckoned into the minibus at the front of the line.

I move to the back and sit in the fourth and last row. My friend and I are squished between two Xhosa-speaking high school girls. More passengers pile into the bus. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…the rows magically accommodate more people. A man moves an orange, cloth-covered board into place in a gap in the row in front of us to accommodate yet another passenger.

All five rows of the bus are filled, including the front row that accommodates the driver on the far right. The heat inside the small bus is starting to intensify, and I can feel beads of sweat on my forehead. The open window nearest to me can’t provide relief from the hot sun beating down on the taxi rank.

We are pressed so tightly together that I have to shift my body sideways so that I can force my hand deep enough into my pocket to retrieve 20 rand to pay the driver our fare.

I notice a bright green parrot sitting on top of the driver’s seat, next to the headrest, staring down the passengers as they cram into the minibus. When we finally get moving, the parrot braces itself between the headrest of the driver’s seat and the side of the minibus—its bright green body is held sideways through each quick turn and its long tail brushes the drivers face.

I point it out to the girl next to me, and she claims she’s never seen one on a minibus before.

We drive quickly out of the station, barely allowing a glimpse of the tall office buildings and clean streets of the city bowl as we get on the freeway. Suddenly the suburbs fade away, and in their place, on either side of the N2 freeway, metal shacks are lined up as far as the eye can see. On a bright white cement wall, a black serif font with perfectly formed letters reads, “with you I am well pleased.”

We’re getting close to Nyanga now.

Cape Town’s minibuses form the dense transportation network that connects the glittering city and beaches with the abject poverty of the marginalized communities in the Cape Flats. It’s the only way to get to Nyanga without hiring a car—the metered taxis don’t drive out here.

Sitting in the bus and looking out the window, I am acutely aware that my skin color makes me a minority and that my nationality makes me a stranger. It’s thrilling to be surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces.

When we finally arrive at the bus station, we’re late for church—it’s 9:30 now.

The church elders greet us at the bus station and drive us quickly to the primary school classroom that doubles as a worship space for the church on Saturdays. The altar is a worktable covered in purple velvet, and 50 plastic chairs are assembled in three sections with aisles in between. Forty of them are filled with members of the congregation.

Two men deliver the sermon, alternating between Xhosa and English, and tell the story of Nabal and Abigail, David and the Eagle Chicken. The men go back and forth, and their intensity builds. We sing along in English, our voices mingling with the Xhosa hymns filling the room.

As the church service enters its third hour, my thoughts start to drift and I remember the bright green parrot on the minibus. I really need to start writing these things down.

Do you enjoy bus rides? Let Evan Spiegel know at [email protected].