On the road of life

The Cyclist

I used to service cash registers in the rural Transkei, and my travels took me to beautiful places and caused me to meet interesting characters, The road into the country side from Umtata down to the coast was for as  long as I can remember rugged and quite dangerous in places.

The trading station I visited on that day hugged the road with the front veranda close to the road, offering just enough space to park my vehicle, locating trading stations so close to the road was a custom followed by the old white traders who settled this country years ago, I suppose it was easier for the transport riders to get close enough to the shop to unload stock.

I stood outside the shop with the black shop owner going through the greeting ritual, any body that was ever in the Transkei will know about the series of hand manipulations that accompany a handshake, The rural Transkeian is a very friendly and respectful person and I was loath to cut short the ritual even though I was in a hurry.

The road drops away from the shop towards a curve that snakes around a small hill, appearing again before it loses itself in the distance, just as I was sure that he had greeted all the greeting out of himself, a bicycle came swishing down the road, as it swept past me I read Rudge on the cross bar, it had thick wheels as opposed the the normal thin ones, what we used to call a "dik wiel", the rider had a harmonica jammed into his mouth on which he wheezed a monotonous two note melody that only he knew the lyrics of, strapped to the crossbar and sticking out from underneath the seat was his stick "kierie", a tradition in this area was to carry sticks, traditionally they used to carry fighting sticks, but nowadays usually only one.

Strapped to the carrier was a white flour bag from which peered a rooster, the man looked carefree as he swept past us, at peace with the world and as free as his red blanket that fluttered behind him like the cape of a superhero, the rooster looked decidedly alarmed though and cast anxious glances first to the front then to the back.

On the bend in the road the gravel had worked to one side, creating two pronounced mounds in the road as the wheels of numerous vehicles had hurled them to the side. It was on the bend in the road that fate took a hand, I could see that the front wheel of the bicycle was drifting on the loose gravel, and I realized at about the same time as the rider that he was not going to make the turn.

A few feet from the start of the bend the locals had walked a path down the hill as a shortcut, this path was also used by cattle and through the years had become quite deep, the rider took this option and dove front wheel first down the path, the harmonica stopped its cacophany of monotony and I heard a strangled "JHOOO" a bare foot appeared momentarily above the rim of the road, another shout and I was convinced we would have to go and pick up a dead body.

At the moment when I felt the urge to rush to the edge to see, the rider appeared again on the other side following the path going up to the road in the distance, a few seconds and the harmonica started up again, then the pedaling, the rooster was looking straight up into the sky, as if he was praying.

I realized I was still holding the shop owners hand and I saw his mouth hanging open as I am sure mine must have been.

Later, picking my way around the potholes and pigs in the road I reflected on a people for whom life was so uncomplicated and simple that small issues like nearly wiping oneself out did not matter at all just as long as the outcome was positive, I would have liked to get the roosters opinion on that though.

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 A Hamburgers worth of blessings

Windmill busstop in East London

The Windmill roadhouse in East London is also the bus stop on the route from Cape Town to Durban, I waited for the Durban bus and bought myself one of the excellent hamburgers on sale there. As usual I went and sat on the low wall next to the pavement where I could watch to see when the bus came into view.

There was a fellow sitting a little way from me, dirty, unkempt obviously down on his luck and I thought about how difficult it is to climb back once you had slipped down to his level, his eyes darted from one person to the other and I knew he was well aware of what was happening around him, and I knew he was looking for a mark, a person with a soft touch, there where too many mirrors in my past that could reflect that scene and I went up to him and offered him my burger.

He looked at me and accepted it with cupped upturned palms as if he was making a bowl, I realized by the colour of his palms that he was white, a fact that was disguised by the sun burnt skin and layers of dirt. He looked me in the eye and said in Afrikaans "God bless you sir", I watched him from a distance, he was eating slowly, enjoying every mouth full, chewing long as if to get the maximum enjoyment out of the experience.

I had quite forgotten about him when he came up to me and said that he wanted to thank me for the food and wish me another devine blessing, then he asked me for some money "asseblief oom maak n las ", please sir give me some money, I knew he thought he had found his soft mark, but I did not mind, I gave him a two rand coin, he cupped it in his hand, making a fist around it and said God bless you sir, then he paused and said, but not as much as for the food.

I looked away across the sea, I did not want him to think that the smile on my face was intended as appreciation, it was not, I was thinking that in these bad economic times everything had a net worth, even blessings, and I thought that when last did I buy myself a hamburgers worth of blessings and got two for the price of one.

Sad grandure

Port Elizabeth station in 1877

The railway station of Port Elizabeth is there, right there, and there is no better way of explaining where it is. It lies next to the harbour, at the tip of what used to be Port Elizabeth's elegant hub of business of days gone by.
It is steeped in old world elegance and reeks of arrivals and departures that fades away into the mists of time.
It speaks of feet that passed along its platforms, of bitter sweet goodbyes and joyous welcoming arrivals,
The bustle of porters pushing stacked baggage wagons and the gleefull shriek of the train whistles as they lurch out of the station on their way to who knows where.

And today there is nothing, it is as empty as the inside of my wallet, benches dating from before my birth adorn the platforms, but the tracks lie forlorn, pointing off into the distance.
Openly displaying their wares like aged despairing whores, thirsting for the press of the mighty engines on their bosoms.