10 Hours In A Train

There is still something exciting about travelling by train in Africa. Whereas in Europe it is now simply an often unreliable alternative to avoiding the daily traffic jams, unless you’re on the Trans-Siberian Express I suppose, and has lost most of its appeal, in Africa it is still an almost mythical in which to explore the continent. The unreliability is definitely an issue here too, more so than anywhere else probably, but since that is part of the adventure of travelling by rail in Africa it should not present a source of worry for anybody willing to take to the tracks. I would not be too surprised if I had to wait as long for the train to arrive as the actual journey would take, which in this particular case would have been a bit frustrating (see title). Luckily this would not be the case now as, with just a half-an-hour delay the dusty but decent looking sleeper-train pulled into the Kimberley station.

I had first travelled to Kimberley because my eloquent guidebook persuaded me to do so. As painful the colonial past has been, the unethical romantic in me could not help but be swayed by the images conjured up by my irritating guidebook of colonial-era pubs, Victorian houses and (why the hell not) the slim but existent chance of finding my fortune by tripping over the world’s biggest diamond. I’d have a better chance of falling into an abandoned mineshaft or a big hole. As it turned out neither happened but the smoky pubs, Victorian balconies and down-on-their-luck diamond miners were very much present.

Not having much time to spend here before the train arrived, I glanced at some of the sights in Kimberley (most involving diamonds in one way or another) and then scurried into the nearest public house. The “Star of the West” it was called, obviously so named by homesick Europeans, and it was pretty much the exact opposite of what it name seemed to imply. Old, rough and atmospheric – it was literally atmospheric as a thick blue “ozone-layer” greeted me at eye level – this was the kind of place I was hoping to find. Sturdy wooden doors, scarred tables and chairs that looked ideal for smashing over somebody’s head after they cheated you in poker, old posters and newspaper clippings, and a clientele which looked not unlike Willy Nelson, the Star has it all. The only time I’d been in a place like this was in Disneyland’s “Wild West” area, which does lose a bit of its magic as one grows older since it’s all fake. This place certainly was not however and as I sat nursing a cold Castle lager I imagined Cecil Rhodes walking in for his afternoon tea or a lucky miner buying a round for the whole pub with profits from his claim. Apparently the Star was a men-only pub until the 1980’s…not sure why that’s relevant to mention, but I thought I’d throw it in there.

I avoided saying lines such as: “Say that to my face you yellow bellied dog”, “Draw!” and “What do you mean you don’t have sasparilla (sp?)?” and made my way to the train station to catch the Trans Karoo to Cape Town.

The First

Due to some very unreliable and highly dangerous urban trains, the railway system in South Africa has gotten an undeservedly bad reputation. The overnight trains between the larger cities are both safe and comfortable. Some of the most luxurious trains in the world actually run in the country, the Blue Train amongst them, but unfortunately my budget was a bit thin for these palaces on wheels. The more affordable trains are surely more interesting as the passengers are from all walks of life.

I was placed in a 6-person compartment, nice and tidy in a not entirely unattractive attempt at art deco. It wasn’t too busy and I was vaguely beginning to hope I would be the only person in this compartment for the nighttime portion of the journey. I do enjoy observing people but also like my own space; courtesy of being a single child I suppose. Unfortunately it was not to be. But imagine my surprise when in walks not a businessman from Gauteng or a surfer from Australia, but a slightly punk-rock looking 20-something year old blonde girl. With a nonchalant look (I think) I nodded to her and then immediately, but again nonchalantly, checked my ticket to make sure I was in the right compartment. Indeed I was, so either she must be mistaken or there was a mix-up in the ticket office (very likely). There are no mixed sleeping compartments on these trains so having Avril Lavigne’s older more serious sister walk in was unexpected.

I now faced a bit of a dilemma. Should I mention to her that there might be a mistake with our tickets since she is obviously a girl and I am (last time I checked) a guy and we are not supposed to be in a carriage together? Or should I just let it “slide” and be “cool” about it (two concepts I’m not particularly strong at)? I decide to do none of the above by taking out my Walkman, raise the volume and stare out the window. This is typical behaviour for the individualistic young European and I have perfected it. Unfortunately these do-not-disturb-insecure-young-person signs are lost on my companion and after a few minutes she begins to move her lips in my direction which (since I forgot the pretend-to-be-asleep-ploy) I cannot ignore. After realizing that I would probably understand what she is saying if I remove my earphones, I turn off some random rock ballad I was listening to and smile at her apologetically.

She smiles and asks me, obviously for the third or fourth time, if I would mind opening the window since the air-conditioning was having difficulties. Of course I am happy to do so and after picking up my Walkman, which fell off my lap as I stood up, I ask her where she is heading. The girl is also going to Johannesburg, on her way home from visiting friends in Kimberley. We sit silently again for a while and I continue staring at the seemingly endless, but not very enticing, Karoo plains. My eye-shadowed compartment buddy takes out her own headphones and I automatically start wondering about what she might be listening to: Black Crowes, Foo Fighters, perhaps Panic At The Disco. In the end I settle for Him. I then attempt to get her attention, fail, try again, and she takes her headphones off at last. It turns out she’s listening to AC/DC. As I covertly switch from Air Supply to Evanescence on my own music player I express my respect at her choice of tunes. The following two hours are spent talking, arguing and commiserating on the fate of pure rock music and childishly making fun of brainless pop celebrities. I have come across a musical soul mate and the long journey suddenly does not seem so dull anymore. The conversation eventually turns to more current affairs – the state of South Africa and the uncertain political twists-and-turns of recent weeks. She tells me that she is worried about the possibility of recently elected ANC president Jacob Zuma becoming the state president. His choice of singing militant songs at his rallies that were used during the struggle against apartheid also troubles her. As a young white person with some intelligence she realizes that she is the minority and will have to live with a predominantly black government. Her worries about Zuma’s character seem to be justified as well as the ANC leader has just been charged with fraud, racketeering, money laundering and other such shady concepts. But what my politically astute new friend is most concerned about is a possible back-lash by the Zulu population who are overwhelmingly supportive of Zuma. Regardless she wants to graduate (professional photography, very cool) and stay in South Africa, which sets her apart from most young white people I’ve met so far.

We’re now about halfway to Johannesburg, the sun setting in an unchanging landscape of flat, sparse plains. A setting sun immediately reminds me of an age-old South African tradition: sundowners. I tell the girl I will be right back with a few beers. She just smiles and nods. After a quick bathroom break – which is always fun in a rambling train – I make a selection of South Africa’s finest at the bar. I notice the train has now come to a stand-still at a tiny station, the name of which I never learn. By the time I have made my way back to our compartment – the bar wagon was obviously on the other side of the mile-long train – we’ve left Lonesome Ville behind us. As I open the sliding door the beers in my arms suddenly lose all their appeal. The girl is not inside anymore. There is however a note and a present – a slightly musky black wristband. On the note: “Thanks for the company and there’s no shame in listening to Air Supply! See you on the flip side.” And it looked like I had a room for myself after all.