All aboard for sermons and small talk – and unscheduled stops in tunnels
MY DAY began with an unusual excitement and slight tension, it was my first time on a train – kinda – I have heard many tales of crime on Prasarun locomotives.
It was unlike my first trip on the Gautrain last year, where I felt good, like a boss – as it glided through from Park Station in Johannesburg to Hatfield, Pretoria.
But back to the tatty yellow coaches.
My colleague Nkululeko Nene and I were sent on assignment for the Sunday Tribune.
We boarded a train scheduled for 5pm from Durban Station to Kwamashu.
Return tickets cost us R15 each.
Had we commuted by taxi, we would have paid R64 each to-and-from the station.
Arriving at Durban Station reminded me of my first flight, oddly, it felt like King Shaka International Airport.
The excitement and nervousness, that is.
Young and old women and men – some wearing construction site overalls – whistled and shouted as the train arrived at the platform.
“Yima” (stop), they shouted and as it came to a stop, they raced towards the coaches they had spotted that were emptier.
The hustle and bustle to get in is not for the fainthearted. Men wrestled their way through the small sliding doors, pushing over any and everything in sight for first dibs at a seat.
I cannot imagine the sickly surviving in such conditions, maybe during off-peak they have a chance.
Inside and on the platform there is a hive of activity – vendors selling snacks and airtime.
The coach was so full, “Mr Airtime” had no space to manoeuvre, he was forced to take a standing “seat” like the rest of us.
There must have been nearly 200 of us in that coach, packed in like sardines.
Then a lone voice abruptly started preaching about HIV/ Aids.
The gentleman, in his early 40s, whipped out a bunch of condoms, the Cyril Ramaphosa kind, called “Max” – much to the entertainment and bemusement of some of the passengers.
As the train lurched on, it got increasingly darker, stuffier and warmer. The privileged seated few started nodding off…
The man preaching about HIV/AIDS was gaining momentum, getting louder and more explicit.
He cautioned men on extra-marital affairs, stressing that committed men who engaged in unprotected sex would harm their spouses back home.
The messages were aimed at men who live at Kwamashu Men’s Hostel, near Duffs Road station.
Many passengers were entertained, some were nodding mildly, others laughing and a few stern-faced in response to the voice of the man with an Afro preaching.
That man, who carried a towel around his shoulders, eventually disembarked at Temple Station and there was blissful silence.
But it was short-lived as the train came to a complete stop near Avoca Hills for nearly 10 minutes in a dark tunnel.
These are the sort of stoppages that have angered commuters in the Kwamashu area.
It got stuffier and people became irate.
“I wonder how long this train is going to stop here?
“Sometimes we wait for three hours. It’s our daily life,” said one of the grumpy passengers to another.
There was no apology from or explanation by the driver over the train’s speaker system, only silence.
“One day we will burn this train like they did in Umlazi,” said one angry woman in her early thirties.
“They (Prasa) are now scared of them (in umlazi) because such a thing does not happen to them.”
Eventually, the train rumbled on, I took some pictures on my smartphone of the packed carriage. Nervous as I was, I pretended I was taking selfies.
As the passengers got off in droves, finally, some air, and “Mr Airtime” could again walk around, tempting passengers to part with their money to top up their phones.