Travelling

Train trip , as it was then and how it is now


East London station is appropriately enough situated on station street, across from the old historic daily dispatch building, both being more or less the same age, what has changed though is the heavy security gates in the foyer, barring entry to the platform, and the security guards denying access to any one but those who have a ticket, no more farewells from the platform, the old world magic of the onset of a train journey has been killed off, I cannot fathom why.

I recently went there to enquire about tickets from Johannesburg to Durban, I needed to book in East London because the time between arrival in Johannesburg and departing to Durban would not allow enough time to buy the ticket , I approached the lady seated behind the glass of the cubicle, she was friendly and I posed my question, after clicking and clacking on her computer keyboard she informed me that no more trains ran between Johannesburg and Durban, I was appalled, how was this possible, what happened. I asked if she was sure and she confirmed after a glance at her screen, she suggested I take the bus, but how could I explain that it was not about getting there, it was about doing the trip.

I phoned my daughter in Durban and asked her if she knew what disaster had befallen the railways in Natal, she phoned me back and assured me that there was a daily train except Saturdays from Johannesburg, I was just about to go and give the young girl a piece of my mind when I realized that she was right, Johannesburg would not exist on her computer anymore, if I had asked for Gauteng she would have been able to advise me, I reflected on her narrow mindedness, but I conceded that she did answer my query, no train will ever run from Johannesburg again, but Gauteng, well, that is another thing all together.

In 1967 I booked a ticket from East London to Coalbrook, then a small halting point near to and servicing Sasolburg, The same foyer but no security gates, no blunt and unapproachable security personnel, just the normal railway bobby patrolling the platform and surrounds, a gentleman behind the same glass partition, I booked my ticket, this had to be done a few days before the train departed, no computers then, I also bought a bedding ticket and if I recall correctly, also a meal voucher.

In 67 I made sure I was on the platform early, not for any reason other than to savour the excitement of the impending train trip, there was a model steam engine in a glass case on the platform, for one cent you could set it in motion, those years a cent piece was as big as today’s five rand coins and it was mostly a relief to get rid of them, there was a pub on the platform, but I was not allowed in, I could visit the dining hall where I bought a meat pie and gravy and a glass of orange juice, pure orange juice, not the crap you buy nowadays.

As departure time approached, the platform filled up, elegantly clad older ladies, old uncles with pipes and hats, young giggling girls and all with baskets of "PADKOS" snacks to be enjoyed on the trip, a rolled up chequered blanket here and there, the porters moving up and down the train with luggage laden trolleys, suitcases and parcels disappearing through compartment windows, grabbed from inside by willing hands, and over all of this hangs the excitement of the trip, all the way from the guards van at the back to the hissing black gleaming steam locomotives straining at their leashes in the front.

Forty five years on and fifteen minutes before the train departs the security gates open and the masses throng onto the platform to beset the train, no ambling down the platform looking for your coach number, no leisurely settling down onto leather seats savouring the unique smell of a passenger train compartment, you fight for your seat, and while trying to keep a balance between your inbred politeness and your need for a seat , you try to be considerate to the elderly, but you also fight determinately for a seat of your choice, which most of the time turns out to be a bad choice anyway, the two electric locomotives at the front seemingly trying to hide their faces from the bedlam abounding at their backs

The train leaps out of the station like a racehorse, by the time it reaches the bridge over Commercial road it is going flat out, racing on as if relieved to be free from the bounds of the station and trying to run away from the thronging mass in its tail. In 67 the train left the platform gently and stately slowly easing onto the rails and out of the station, as if trying to prolong the excitement of the departure, rhythmically clickity clacketying past Cambridge at the onset of the long trip to the Transvaal.

I found a seat at the back ,next to a window, my travel companion turns out to be a rather large lady in her midlife, she carries on a loud conversation with someone halfway down the coach and I slip my headphones onto my head seeking peace in the music of the sixties,

above my head on the luggage rack I see the head of a rooster poking out of a bag, wild look in its eye and I resolve to wring its neck if it craps on my head, hoping it was not going all the way to Joburg,, don’t think it would survive the trip.

As we barrelled past Mdantsane, most of which was not there in 67, I catch a fimiliar whiff, someone was smoking pot, it must have been outside and the swirling eddies and currents of air created by the moving train sucked it into the coach, I recalled a time during military service when some of the guys passed a zol around, I took a couple of good drags on it but  was not impressed, I was still smoking then and my Chestefields carried a more satisfying kick, anyway, I preferred geting my highs from rum and coke, it had a double action, the high sugar content gave you an immideate rush and the alcahol mellowed you, I never took up the habit, and somehow after my military service, alcahol also faded into the background.

In 67 I ambled into the dining car and tried to convince the barman that I was old enough for a beer, he did not fall for it, I went back to my compartment, it was a coupe, and I had it all to myself, the steward came around selling sweets, then another came around asking if I was going to eat in the dining car, the ticket examiner came and checked my name against his list and after that I was left on my own to enjoy the slowly passing countryside, I let the table down over the wash basin, this severly restricted movement in the compartment, but I was content to sit there and soak up the experience.

The train jerked on in a cloud of plastic bags and paper and I realised with horror that I would not be able to go to the toilet, not if I wanted to keep my seat, later on when I scraped up enough courage to ask the lady in the seat next to me to keep my seat for me I was in desperate need, horror of horrors, the toilet was occupied, I knocked and found that an enterprising traveller had made it his own personal compartment, I indicated what I needed to do, he shook his his head and indicated up the carraige in the direction of the toilet in the other coach, I indicated to him to move aside while opening my fly, he got the message and moved out while I did my thing.

The train sped past weed covered platforms and ruins of station buildings as if it was scared of the ghosts of yesterdays memories, since 67 I travelled this way a few times, once in a troop train, but that holds memories of its own and not particularly related to the beauty of the country side. During my stint as a fireman, I worked down this way often, bringing down loose engines from Queenstown to the workshops in East London, these trips where a pleasure, a steam loco traveling light does not need much work and the frequent stopping to allow other trains to pass gave enough time to brew a mug of tea or to converse with the station forman, also to admire and experience the beauty of the surroundings.

The many tunnels along this way was a pleasure, the harsh sunlight would suddenly be replaced by the soft glow of the compartment lights, sound would become muted and the walls of the tunnel seemed to be a mere few inches from the window, even in a light engine it was an experience not to be missed, the blast pipe was close to the roof of the tunnel causing every beat to create a back pressure that travelled all the way down the tubes and shot flames out of the crack of the partially closed firebox. Nowadays the lights in the carraige only gets turned on after sunset and one is suddenly plunged into blackness accompanied by the screams of terrified young children and shouts of older people for whom it was a first time experience.

Stopping at a station , one could hear muted conversations taking place in the next door compartment, nowadays, the cacophany of sound that assails your ears is flipping unbelievable, conversations taking place at high volume, monotonous music palyed at the top of the scale your brains struggling with lyrics repeated over and over until it numbs the senses, sometimes a few ladies would break into a religious hymn and that would bring relief as you listen to the perfect harmonizing of the voices.

A long thin man comes down the carraige, selling chips, gin and beer, R100 for a halfjack, about seventeen dollars in todays exchange rate, he does a brisk trade, but ill be hanged if I am going to pay his prices, a young lady accompanies him, she sells porridge covered by fatty beef stew and the occasional fly, I decline the offer, most people bought their own food and in my immediate vicinity I recognise Kentucky fried and various pieces of fried meat purchased from street vendor around the station, of course there is also the boiled head of maize that is a popular food stuff, this all gets eaten with the bare hands and goes down accompanied by many a smack of the lips, how different to the old dining cars of the past, vegetables in season, fish, soup and desert at the end of it, all this could be enjoyed over a bottle of wine, if you where old enough to buy it of course.

The bedding attendant came around and made the beds, crisp clean sheets and thick blue blankets, creating a warm nest after your body had warmed it up, what a contrast to today, as sleeping time approaches, bodies slump in seats, rolled up in blankets completely covering the head, then you become aware of the bouquet of odours and aromas that abound, as if the settling silence gave way to a different experience. I spent a great deal of my formative years in the Transkei and am quite at home with the smell of smoke filled clothing and even the aroma of freshly slaughtered animal, but the smell that comes wafting along often defies identification and it is not from farting either,

The lights stay on during the night adding to the discomfort of trying to sleep on a cramped hard seat, but neccesary for the contingent of police that regularly patrol up and down the train, in the good old days I used to turn the lights out and stare out into the blackness at the occasional pinprick of light from a distant farm, or the sudden rush of a well lit station as we slid on our way into the night, I remember while working as a fireman at night I used to stare at a light in the distance, far off towards Tarkastad as we made our way up Boesmans hoek, a farm  isolated by the countryside, I used to reflect on the person who chose to eke out a living there, far from the town, beset by problems unique to his environment, I would be secure in the comfort offered by the warm glow of the fire in the firebox and the soft light that flooded the cab, and I was sure that in the same way he and his family would be comfortable in front of the coal stove sitting at the kitchen table, maybe listening to the radio or just discussing the day amongst themselves.

The rythmic click of the wheels over the rail joints would eventually rock you to sleep, but nowadays you travel on continuous welded rail and the only click you hear is from crossing badly maintained points at the entrance to stations.

My country is truly a beautifull place, it offers much to the eye and has a richness in culture that can only be found here, if ever you should decide to visit us, please know that you would be welcome and welcomed with open arms, enjoy the raw harsh beauty of our coast, the majesty of our mountain ranges, but please, please, do not travel by sitter train, pay the extra money and enjoy the country from the luxury offered by our premier class trains, be adventurous and take a trip on a luxury bus, for if you use the sitter, you will not return here for a second visit, and you will forever denounce us when you get home.


The passenger who was not there


Two things made me decide to leave the railways, the inactivity and boredom of working on a Diesel locomotive was one. The other was the fact that I was notified by the military that as I held a key position, I would not have to do active military service, this did not sit well as the military was definately a field that I wanted to explore, Ah! the folly of youth. The station foremen on the line to Burgersdorp sometimes had a very lonely life, stuck on a station halfway between towns, wonder how their sanity held up, this question was partially answered many years later. I was returning to Queenstown from Oudshoorn where I attended a training course , at Rosmead I had to lay over the night for a train through Steynsburg to Stormberg where I would have waited again to hook up with the Joburg EL passenger train. It was frightfully cold and I did not relish the wait on the bare lonely platform, I noticed two 15AR's hooked to a load and recognized one of the drivers as a Burgersdorp man, I went to the guard van and recognized the guard as having worked as a foreman on one of the stations, he did not recognise me, but I asked him if I could ride in the van to Stormberg, showing him my military rail pass. The guard van had a pot bellied stove and it was glowing red hot, I settled down on the hard seat, more or less in the middle because the guard had to use the mirrors on both sides from time to time. There I saw for the first time, contrary to popular belief that the guard had quite a busy time of it, as we moved through the night he would sometimes come and sit down and strike up a conversation, I soon noticed that it annoyed him if I responded, it was only after Steynsburg that I realised he was not talking to me at all, but to someone I could not see, a silent someone. It was with relief that I got off at Stormberg and asked the foreman if the passanger train was going to stop there


Traintrip

Bloemfontein station on a rainy morning after an eventfull overnight trip

The train became the focal point of my exitement as I stepped onto the platform, I have been looking forward to this trip for many years, the few weeks preceeding it was like a century, and now I am here. This was a sitter, which means I was going to have to sit in a chair all the way to Joburg, and try to sleep sitting upright, but the excitement of the impending trip masked the possibility of discomfort and tribulation.
Taking Mark's advice I chose a seat in the last coach of the train, I chose one with a clear view through the window and then discovered that the windows cant open, well that certainly is different to what I was used to as a child, I remember driving my mother insane by leaning out of the window and catching a couple of sparks in the eye at the same time.
A contingent of police climbed on and took seats in the space allocated for the guard at the back of the coach and the train started filling up until there was no more seats available and still it filled up till people where left standing in the passage between the seats, I reflected on how fortunate I was on arriving early, surely most of these passengers will get off before Queenstown.
The train slid out of the station and I felt like a kid again, last time I was on this track in a train was as a fireman on a 15AR shovelling coal as if my life depended on it. Fort jackson came and went, Berlin was a mere whisper as it slid past and then the shit started. Near Keiroad the train stopped and slid forward with jerking motions then slipped backward jerked to a stop and moved forward again just to repeat the whole sequence again, to say that this alarmed me would be a contadiction in terms, it actually left me scared shitless for a while, this is the same sequence of events that happens if the train jumps off the track.
Thank goodness this did not happen in any of the many tunnels on the way, dont know how I would have reacted. The trouble was apparently caused by the electrical supply fluctuating and causing the unit to stop and start, this lasted for about an hour and then on we went again.
Drifting down from Birch to Queenstown was a very emotional moment for me, I was a young fireman when last on this track and the memories of bringing the Qamata mixed back along this way flooded back and I looked out of the window as we slid past the loko and I felt a pang of heartsore for the years gone by and the friends no longer there and if I closed my eyes I could visualise a double header standing at the points waiting to leave the loko bound for Burgersdorp, my brother swinging down from the cab to throw the points and get the tablet and me in the back engine leaning out of the window with a piece of waste clutched in my hand,

Queenstown station

We stood at the platform in Queenstown, my carraige next to the old Qamata bay, I waited for the overflow of passengers to get off, but to my surprise more got on than off and the carraige was becoming hot,humid and stuffy, on the loaded atmosphere I could taste that somewhere in close proximity a baby had shat itself and I prayed the mother would change it but then I realise that if she got up she would lose her seat and I turned my head and tried to live with it.
Sliding out of Queenstown and the trip was becoming a bit tarnished, coupled with the dissapointment of seeing the decay at Queenstown station and the sight of the weeds and bush that had invaded all the stations along the way, I slowly began to realise that the days of train travel as I knew it, was over, and I could still taste the baby shit in the air.
At Sterkstroom a lady with a baby got on, there was no place for her to sit and she stood with the kid in her arms as the train swayed out of the station, I asked and she said she was on her way to Germiston, I gave her my seat and made myself at home on the floor of the passageway, I found the dirty nappy then, two seats away, on the floor, it had slipped open on one side and revealed the source of the smell, I got up and made my way as far back as possible then I took my sleeping bag out, laid it down and tried to sleep, I looked towards the door and saw that it had no lock or handle, it was held closed by a piece of rope.
Somewhere after Burgersdorp I became used to the Police stepping on me as they made their rounds and fell asleep. I woke up stiff,cold, tired and bleary eyed, we had stopped, This was Springfontein, we stayed there for three hours waiting for a Diesel sent from Bloemfontein to come and collect us, the electricity had failed or something along those lines,I moved the small kid that had fallen asleep on top of me gently out of the way and sat upright I made myself a cup of hot choclate from my flask and silently repeated to myself that this was an adventure and I should enjoy it, but I think somewhere between the age of 55 and 60 an adventure changes into something else, your mind may think "this is great" but your body says"good God man, are you mad", we slid into Bloemfontein like a wet fart, it was raining but it was not cold, the young lady I gave my seat to gave me a pear and a peach.

Bloemfontein station

We where stuck in Bloemfontein for three hours, the electricity at Theunisen had dropped out and this was causing havok with the running times. I asked the lady to keep an eye on my stuff and went in search of the dining car, it opened at seven and it had a queue as long as two carraiges. when I made it to the front they wanted R14 for a packet of simba chips and R15 for a can of coke R35 for pap and meat stew, just about enough to use as snuff and then only for one nostril, this pissed me of to a great extent and I was not complimentary at all, mind you, this stuff was selling like hot cakes, seems everybody else did not mind being ripped off, I went back to my stuff and opened up a door in the back of the carraige, to my great surprise I found a room with two empty seats and nobody around, this nearly incensed me, here was relevent luxury, I could have enjoyed it if I knew about it, instead I slept on the floor like a spartan.
Something I found strange was that while making my way towards the dining car I would be stopped and people would voice their displeasure at some aspect of the trip or the carraige, one old lady complained bitterly about the leak in the roof above her head and asked me what I was going to do about it, I realised that because I was the only white on the train, they thought I was in charge, seems sixteen years is not enough for a mindshift to happen, on my way back the old lady thanked me, I realised it had stopped raining, and it was dry all the way to JHB from there.
We rolled through the plains of the Freestate with the far off hills in the background, the fields wearing its distinctive browncoat, here and there a green pocket where some farmer was battling to make a living, the windows in this hidden compartment could open and I hung my head out of it, like when I was a kid. Then at Theunissen we waited again, nearly an hour, the police came and chased me out of the compartment, I waited until they left and went back inside, later near Kroonstad they came back, I gave them the "dont fuck with me" look, and they left me alone, I caught a glimps of my reflection in the window, I looked old, tired and dirty, maybe it was this that made them decide to leave me alone.
By now there was no doubt in my mind at all, this trip had turned into a torturous ride from hell, my body ached, I was tired, I was hungry, I sat on the seat feeling quite out of sorts when the door opened and a tired old black man stumbled in, he was well dressed and greeted me politely, he sank down in the other seat and I heard his spine creak as he went down, his name was Benson, he was from Idutywa and like me this trip was a sabatical for him, to remind him of times gone by when he rode this train to the mines, he told me it was not the same anymore and I agreed with him, with all my heart and my whole being.
Maybe it was the tiredness or the ache in my body, for instead of renewing old memories as we flew past Sasolburg and trundled into Vereeniging, I was filled with a morose sadness when I recognised fimiliar sights and identified places I walked as a kid, I tell you, the feeling was low as I saw the now largely unfimiliar skyline of Joburg appearing in the distance, all along the tracks was the evidence of poverty excentuated by the throng of people living in squatter huts within touching distance of the tracks.
My memories of park station has always been that of overcrowded platforms, throngs of people waiting for trains that would vomit up people like some sick snake, and the bustle of humanity like ants scurrying along, only the good lord would know where to and where from, memory of the foyer huge and cavernous. What a difference, all the platforms where empty, I wondered where the people where, maybe no one uses the trains there anymore, I found them as I came up the steps from the platforn, millions of them thronging around, nobody is allowed on the platform until half an hour before departure and the hall was packed, in an orderly fashion, lots of security around.

The foyer of Johannesburg station

The train ran late leaving me an hour before the Durban train departed, I was hungry and thirsty and bought two cokes and two sausage rolls, I started eating the roll as I left the shop and bit into putrid rot, I went back inside and told the man it was rotten, he said his stuff is never rotten I was making a mistake, I asked him to eat one, he said he was not hungry but he said it was because they where cold, I said" christ man, just take a fucken bite and see for yourself" or something to that effect, he refused, a crowd of interested people had gathered around us by now, he relented and offered me anything in the shop to the same value as the rolls, I took biscuits and as an afterthought some apples, I later gave the apples to some kids.
This guy had a scam working, people buy his stuff for eating on the train, then it is too late to return them, they lose, he scores, I was not going to back down on this one, I would have stuffed that roll up his arse and not regretted it at all.
Nobody goes down to the platform until the security guard tells them to go, there was a black lady behind me, she had lots of luggage and a smile in her eyes, she was different from the others around me and I greeted her, she replied in the most perfectly articulated english I had heard in a long time, she was from Zim and we had a long chat, Bob or his politics never came up, I told her I wanted to go to Zim sometime, she said that there is no direct train to Harare, she had to take a train to the border, then a taxi to the other station and get onto a Zim train, a long tiring trip lay ahead of her, I wished her well and as she left she turned and said that I never mentioned if I thought she was welcome in my country, without hesitation I told her that I personally would welcome her into my country anytime it was hard to believe I was talking to a black woman.
Platform 14 was where I would get onto the shosholoza sleeper to Durban, I went and had a look at the booking schedule pasted up on the notice board and to my surprise I found that I was to be alone in a four sleeper compartment and this in a suposedly fully booked train. I remember when I booked my ticket in EL I asked for a compartment on my own but changed my mind when the lady told me the price, seems she charged me for a single bunk but forgot to reflag the other bunks as available, my everlasting thanks for that oversight.

Four berth cabin on the shosholoza meyl

A young girl came around offering stew and rice for sale, I thought, yes now the rip offs start again, I bought it at R14 and was amazed, it was a hell of a lot and quite filling, seems the rip off crews only work the eastern cape section, I made my bed, lay down and was asleep before the last grain of rice had passed my epiglottus. Travelling in a sleeper is the last word in luxury as far as the shosholoza meyl is concerned, there is nothing to beat it.
I wanted to be awake as we went through Newcastle, and I woke up as we came down the mountains that forms the barrier between the Transvaal and Natal after about five hours of fitfull sleep, I hung my head out of the train as we left newcastle station and briefly, just briefly, I relived the time I used to wake up at night and listen to the far off hammering of the steam trains as they passed in the distance, just a boy in a roadcamp prefab house but already with a fierce wonderlust, I missed Clenco and Ladysmith but I woke up as the sun revealed the lush green of Natal, I saw Mooiriver and Escourt, I was lost in the magic of the countryside as we drifted down towards Pietermaritsburg, I marvelled at the neat well kept stations on the way, the people living along the snaking line seemed to be a different kind to what I knew, industrious, friendly everything neat and tidy.

Somewhere near Pietermaritsburg in Natal

Pietermaritsburg station holds bittersweet memories for me, it is here waiting for the train to Newcastle after spending the night on the overnighter from Kokstad that I finally realised that we would never go back to the mist filled valleys around Tabankulu, I realised then that the day my grandpa died he closed a door behind him and we all had to leave, my Fathers business failed and we where heading north,call me a sentimental old fart if you will but I could still see my mother surrounded by our stuff, my sister next to her and Rudolph still a baby in arms, me and Manie running up and down the platform.
We snaked into Durban and it was somewhat of an anticlimax, the big city with its smells and sounds appeared like sacrilage after the splendour of the countryside. and then the trip was over and I stood in the empty foyer of Durban station mentally planning my next trip, but this time not by sitter, never again by sitter.


From Durban to Johannesburg
I have never been to Standerton, and it holds no specific interest to me other than that it was here that it became light enough to distinguish the surrounding country side, miles and miles of mealie lands (corn fields), the Vaal river runs past the town and I believe it has a great golf course, according to Google it has many bed and breakfast guest houses, so my guess is that it does attract visitors, I am going to make a point of visiting it, I am thinking of kayaking the vaal in this region sometime or other.
Between Standerton and Heidelberg I read the name of a small settlement from the ramshackle ruin of the station building, it said Greylingstad, I had always been under the impression that Greylingstad was somewhere near Kimberly, maybe there are two of them in south Africa, the country side was wet, water puddles every where, no sign of the drought, this part of the Transvaal was wearing a green coat interspersed with the cosmos flower that seems to proliferate throughout the Transvaal.
From early on in the morning we where passing teams of workers building new tracks and doing maintenance on the old one, the heavy ballast tamping machine was busy shoving ballast stones under the sleepers, I remember in my younger days, working a ballast train in support of the machine in the Eastern Cape, it is good to see that there is development taking place, heartening after the obvious decay of the railway system in the Eastern Cape region.
Heidelberg slid into view, last time I was here was in 69, to be more specific, at the army base, think it was the Army Gymnasium then, we had come from Wits Command to do some shooting there and I remember as the convoy of Bedford trucks rolled into town I was charmed.
The town is nestled among rocky outcrops, or should I say that one section of the town straddles a rocky outcrop, I looked out for obvious signs of urban decay and renewal, but saw none, I think one has to walk through town for such evidence, but from the train it looked as quaint as it did in 69, I could not identify the old army base, but I saw the massive school, I forget what it is called now.
Heidelberg lay on the left side of the train as we passed and I looked to the right, I was amazed to see a mine dump, reasonably fresh, it had no growth on it, for the life of me I could not remember a mine in this area, though it does lie on the reef, through my binoculars I could see the mine heads of Benoni in the distance, so who knows, maybe a new mine in the making.
There is a low mountain to the right of the track that stretches for about ten kilometers, I recognized the pattern and clicked that it was an old mine dump, overgrown and part of the countryside but the evenness of it contours underscored the fact that nature had nothing to do with it.
Every so often now I could see some kind of factory in the distance, then as you get closer to Alrode the factories stretch for miles and miles over the horizon, surely everything used and sold in South Africa must be made here in whole or at least in part, with the factories the garbage and litter seems to creep into the country side as well, my daughter was visiting in Alberton at the moment and I wondered if she was close enough to the railway line to see the train.
The filth lay heaped alongside the tracks but as we rumbled into a station, the pristine neatness seemed to contrast tremendously with the rubbish outside, like small pools of hope in an otherwise hopeless situation, between Jeppe and Johannesburg station the garbage has won the battle of possession, I counted five dead dogs sticking out from under the plastic bags and waste that infested the area, what else lies hidden under all that stuff.
This time I was determined to explore Johannesburg station thoroughly, the shops are all expensive, from the chicken places to the steak places, you pay more there than in any other place in South Africa, I am convinced of that. The Station Precincts are clean and tidy, the toilets are clean and smell good, but some of them don't work, my advice is to test them before you recline, it will save you some embarrassment, O yes, take your own paper.
What I call the traditional exit of the station, the one into the CBD, is filled with stalls where you can buy an amazing array of cheap crappy merchandise, I passed a pleasant hour browsing through them. I looked into the centre of the city at the teeming throng of people and the filth that accentuated the urban decay of the area, once proud buildings weeping through broken windows and grimacing from dirt filled entrances, an overwhelming smell of urine hung over the place, Shosholoza meyl's web site discourages visitors from entering the CBD, but I looked at the people leaving the station and thought that maybe they did not have the internet to be forewarned of the dire consequences of what they where doing, in my youth there was a subway that connected the station entrance to the busy CBD, it has been sealed off, no doubt because of the crime, I crossed the street and looked at the park, it is not worth the effort and I returned to the safe haven of the station foyer.
There are people working the foyer for a living, they prey on the unwary and I identified a few of them, one of them comes up to you and flourishes a container of perfume in front of you, "two hundred rand" he says " but I have had a bad day and you can have it for fifty", wonder if he sells any of the stuff. There is a young lady, she is a pick pocket, she turned around me once or twice but I let her understand that I knew what she was up to, then there is the one who walks up to you jiggling some coins in his hand, he tells you he is four rand short to buy something and I fell for it, bugger it if he did not try it on me again later in the day. Then there is the jovial one, I must have been an easy mark, standing gaping at everything while every body around me was on the move, he comes up, puts his arm on your shoulder and remarks on how the station has changed, then after chatting for a while he informs you that he missed his train to where ever and that he has to buy a new ticket, forty rand will see him through. The little druggy with the watery eyes and the unkempt appearance approaches you directly and asks for money, a negative will make him hangs around trying to establish eye contact, I am a sucker for this and he walked away with a few coins.
The time had come for my train down to East London, it was a sitter, and I headed down to the platform to face another night of sheer torture.


Safe havens?

The farmer dropped me off at his gate while there was still some light, I walked a way down the road, knowing that the chances of getting a lift this late on this road was slim, The darkness finally caught me and I walked over to a clump of trees, I started putting on all the clothes I had with me, it gets cold on the plains at night, I lit a lucky and put my fags down on a flat stone next to me, I rolled myself in a ball and slept with fits and starts until the sky started turning grey at the foot of the horizon. I lit my first of the day and in the light of the grey dawn I saw that I had been sleeping next to a grave, I bent over to read who my host for the night had been, he had left a long time ago, I shook the cold out of my body, packed my stuff and walked down to the road to be in time for the farmer traffic on their way to the market. A graveyard is the safest place to sleep, or at least it was in my day, now a days I believe you get mugged just visiting the place


 Cycling around

My tent at backpackers Bloemfontein

Cycling in the freestate is a real pleasure, all the roads are flat and it does not matter in which direction you go, you end up nowhere anyhow.
Camping out in a tent is not recommended, not if your body aches from the stress of pedalling all day long, there is a foto of my tent at the back packers in bloem, must be the lumpiest ground in the world, I had lost my sleeping bag, so that was a further blow.
 I slept on the platform of bloem station waiting for the jhb train that was coming in the next day, you have to go through a gate to get onto the platform and next to the gate there is one of those bins where you can get condoms from, a young lass took a handfull and stuck it into her boyfriends pocket, me thinks she over estimated his libido by far, I think the poor bugger is going to know what it means when the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.
 I made my bed on a bench and settled down, I woke up at about twelve and there was a small black boy standing in front of me with his finger up my nose, no bull shit, I got such a fright that I bellowed, the poor little bugger took off howling, I went to his mother to apologise, and gave him some biscuits, his mother said it was OK she saw what he was doing and wanted to see what would happen, apparently I snored, and that is one thing I can do with great devotion and total abandonment, appears he was trying to block the hole where the noise was coming from, seems like his mother has a sense of humour.
 The bouts of flatulence that I was suffering from for the past two days was turning into something serious, I was starting to sweat and feeling quite weak, took a great effort to lug my kit down the platform, when I got to Jhb I was shaking and sweating and I was terribly bloated, I found some Jamaica Ginger and emtied the bottle down my throught, DONT EVER DO THAT, it took my breath away and my guts went into overdrive, I had spots infront of my eys and the stuff was burning a vitriolic path of hell from my mouth to the lowest part of my guts, I checked the dose, it said two to three drops in a glass of water, I saw that it was 95 percent ethanol, I knew I was going to die, I felt awfull, I chained my bike and kit to a bench in the foyer, stuffed my wallet and cell phone into the bottom of my kitbag,pulled my jacket over my head and layed down,
I must have passed out, I woke up a few hours later, hungry as a siberian wolf, my bloatedness was gone, so were all the people around me, my shirt was drenched and stank of ginger, I hauled a clean one out of my kitbag and changed right there in the foyer, I threw the soaked shirt away and went in search of some serious food.
 The hotdog vendor was not there anymore, in its place was a neat little take aways and there was a fresh little fifty five year old behind the counter, I sidled up and she took a step backwards, I realised that I must be smelling like a dead chicken, I said the worst thing I could under the circumstances and announced that I dont always smell so bad, not a very good pickup line, not going by the look she gave me, but she could have crapped on me for all I care, I needed food not compliments.
The Durbs train left late, the locomotive gave a creak, groan and a wheezs and died down completely as it wanted to pull off, we waited for two hours for a replacement, I really need to stress that travelling by sleeper is the ultimate, they have a great cuizine, not like a five star hotel, but filling and nourishing, had a problem with getting my bicycle onto the train, me being sick I missed the deadline for the baggage compartment,
I took the bike down to the platform with me and walked into some serious redtape, I showed the ticket for the bike and threatened to take it into the compartment with me, after much talking amongst themselves someone left to fetch the baggage attendant, it was all my fault really, but it sorted itself out in the end.
 We rolled into Durbs five hours late, thats another thing I love about the sleeper, it always runs late, extending the pleasure of the trip, I hit the road on my bike and promptly got lost, what can I say about cycling through Durbs other that "Our father which art in heaven. Stopped to ask directions in a part of Durbs where there was a lot of big trucks parked, before I could speak the young lady gave me a breakdown of her products, her price per item as well as her bussiness address, I declined explaining that I was not shopping, merely wanted directions, she ignored me completely.
 As I cycled away I could for the life of me only recall three items on her list, felt like turning around and asking if she had a brochure or something, then I thought that maybe she modified her list to suit my obvious age. It is a business I suppose, wonder if there is any pleasure involved, must be heavily dependant on throughput, or should that be input, christ, we live in a sick world.

Somewhere in Durban lost and buggered

 Finding your way around Durban as a stranger to the town is a bit problamatic, I knew the direction, but the way seems to be blocked by fly overs and highways and you are not allowed there on a bicycle, after cycling for about an hour I landed up at the harbour, I thought OK I know where I am now, it was to be another three hours before I reached my destination. The road I chose led me up a hill and to a signpost that said Pinetown, no, that was not where I wanted to go to,
 I turned back, after a while I saw the harbour again but it was on my wrong side, the sign posts said I was in the Bluff, wrong again, I turned around, but this time I seeked advice, a wise old indian (there seems to be a hell of a lot of them around here)told me that there is no point in approaching your destination in a direct line, you have to head away from it, then when it least expects, you circle around and blind side it,
 He pointed me directly north, I needed to go south, but I followed his advice, repeating the direction he gave me over and over again. I muddled up the directions and sat down halfway up a vicious hill, completely lost and totally knackered, I decided to continue up the hill and turn around at the top, I lucked out, I saw a street name that the old indian mentioned,
 I carried on and came across Coedemore road, now I knew exactly where I was, but still a hell of a long way from my destination.
Coedemore road leads past the cement factory over a bridge to the start of probably the most vicious hill in Durban,
 I was sweating and puffing up the hill, the humidity was high and my water started to taste like piss from the heat, I took my shirt off,. some young arsehole in a BMW shouted a rude comment out of his window, fuck him, would he still be able to slog up a hill like this when he turns sixty, got some appreciative looks from some of the females though, they must have been admiring my bicycle.
I coasted down the road into woodhaven and turned into the comlpex where my daughter stays, in the days to come I want to explore Durbs and vist some of the nearby small coastal town, just trying to work out a route with the least uphills.