A ROUGH RIDE TO CAPE TOWN
Even some staff abandoned the Shosholoza hell
WE set off to Cape Town on the Shosholoza Meyl, me a proud host itching to show off my beautiful country to a New Zealander on a gap year.
We discovered, to our delight, that we’d been assigned a whole four-person compartment to ourselves. The carriage shower was clean and the water delightfully hot. Who cared if the basin was waterless, the toilet nose-holdingly awash and the drinking fountain at the end of the corridor blocked … we were away on our summer holiday.
Bowling along through the Highveld, the blue skies alive with birds and puffy white clouds, we stretched out and unwound with biscuits and cool drinks.
My Kiwi friend was awed by the new African experience that unfolded in the dining car. What seemed like the train’s entire staff and a good contingent from the SAPS were already in situ in various states of relaxation.
Four large, brightly garbed women at one of the tables were quaffing their drinks and engaging in high-decibel chit-chat with the entire crew. Who would have thought we would have in-house entertainment with our toasted cheeses?
Back in our bunks, lulled by the rhythmic clickety clack of the train, we slid into sleep.
But in the middle of the Karoo, a different musical beat brought us rudely awake. We had stopped and a rich voice outside our window was singing “Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you … ”. We leapt off our bunks and peeked through the blinds — the singer was one of the police contingent. They ride shotgun for passenger safety and hop off at every station to guard the train. When their midnight watch stretched into the wee hours, though, it was our turn to sing. “Why are we waiting?”
The answer came back. “We’re waiting
Hot gossip shimmied up and down the heat waves
for the taxi to bring a new driver. Train shifts switch every three hours.”
At least the un-air-conditioned train was able to cool down in the night air.
Back on track but three hours late, we revelled in a picture-postcard sunrise as the train snaked through hamlets, valleys and vineyards flanked by arum lily-filled vleie— all to a magnificent backdrop of purple “Pierneef” mountains.
The sun grew hotter. There was lots of traffic to the dining car for cold drinks, ice and water. With all the windows open, the rush of air made the heat bearable. When the train stopped at Huguenot, tempers rose in direct relation to the temperature. Outside it was 38°C. Inside the train, with the sun beating on the windows, it hovered somewhere between a searing 40°C to 50°C.
Passengers melted onto the platform and lay or sat in the shade of the train in various states of undress. Train staff ducked and dived as passengers collared any and every “official-looking” person to discover what was causing the delay. No one seemed to know. Rumours were rife. Hot gossip shimmied up and down the heat waves.
Cops arranged themselves on each end of the platform, surreptitiously looking at their watches — was it the end of their shift?
Tempers frayed, especially when the train manager refused to open the dining car to serve parched passengers water or cool drinks. Disgruntled mamas gave train staff colourful pieces of their minds before moving purposefully down the platform to one of the solid, old SAR wooden benches outside the station office.
Hefting it easily between them, they plonked it down in the shade of their carriage and settled down in comfort. Gradually the station emptied as disgusted passengers taxied or bused themselves to Cape Town or persuaded friends and relatives to fetch them.
At 6pm some of the train staff, suitcases in hand, also abandoned ship.
“Hey, waar gaan julle?” the mamas shrilled.
At 6pm, their shift was over. They were not paid overtime and were going home. This apparently included the train driver.
We finally limped into Cape Town station at 9pm, six hours late.
You need an adventurous spirit to travel on the Shosholoza Snail. Even if “things ain’t what they used to be”, it’s never boring.