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t’s early evening and passengers on the northbound train to Musina are pouring through Joburg’s Park Station. Endless red, white and blue nylon bags march towards the platform: On heads, on backs, dragged by tired children; all filled to capacity with everything from rice and oil to blankets and boxes of fake Nike trainers. Expressionless travellers file through the gates as the guards scream, shout, prod and push them like unruly cattle. “You don’t know where you’re going. Why didn’t you check the board? You people never check the board. You never know what’s going on,” howls the Musina train conductor, his breath thick with brandy. Passengers spill onto the train, throwing their luggage up the impossibly steep steps and scrambling to find a place to sit. The third class carriages are packed and the air is already stale and sour. It’s hot, and bewildered children wail while adults raise their voices to counter the interference. Amid this chaos, the heavenly quiet of the deserted first class compartments with their smell of old leather and their shiny bathrooms is well guarded by the conductor. They will remain empty. The commotion reaches fever pitch as the whistles blow to announce our departure. Everyone’s nervous. Everyone’s suspicious of everyone else. We’ve all heard of tsotsis, pickpockets and scam artists, so we find the place where we feel least threatened: Shonas sit with Shonas, old men with old men. Pedi with Pedi, ZCC with ZCC, huddling together, checking and rechecking luggage. I join a cluster of women. One is young and pretty, one is middle-aged with a big smile and a strange sock on her head, the other is old and stares fixedly out of the window. “Don’t mind her,” says Sock Lady. “She hasn’t said a word to anyone. Miserable cow. Come, give me your bag, there are some troublemakers on board tonight.” The younger woman nods her head in agreement and hides my bag under the seat behind a blue plastic box. “Have you got a blanket? It’ll get cold soon.” ”I asked the guard for bedding.” “The man’s a pig. He’s as drunk as a skunk,” says Sock Lady. I laugh. “He is, isn’t he?” “Pig. If they don’t bring you bedding, don’t worry I have extra.” The sock lady says everyone calls her Sis Jean. The young one is called Orinah. (No, it’s not from the Bible. No, she doesn’t know where it’s from. She suspects her parents might have made it up). ‘Miserable cow’ refuses to give her name. She just keeps staring out of the window as if there’s anything to see besides an empty railway track. Sis Jean is deeply offended. “Huh, we’re going to be on this train for another 17 hours you’d think she’d make an effort. Bloody church people are all the same.” The old woman is wearing a ZCC badge, which Sis Jean refers to as the Zulu Cricket Club. Orinah, lovingly clutching a black leather Bible, tries to put in a good word for the ‘church people’, but Sis Jean’s not having any of it. “You can convert mankind from the waist up and nothing more. From the waist down we answer to only one thing,” she declares. Poor Orinah opens and closes her mouth like a desperate fish. “But Sis Jean, the good Lord…”
“And those bishops of yours flocking to church to watch the choir leaders wiggle their backsides – disgraceful. And don’t tell me it’s not true because you’d be lying.” Orinah gives up. “Very well, but you can’t tell me you don’t enjoy the hymns. The singing is glorious.” She breaks into a hymn and Sis Jeans joins in. They finish and smile at each other in satisfaction. As the train starts moving, everyone settles down. Each carriage has an unwritten order; men occupy the back seats with the luggage while women sleep along the walls and on the seats, with the children curled up in the aisles between them. But it’s almost impossible to sleep for the noise and the lack of space. The train lurches into a station every half hour; Hammanskraal, Bela Bela, Naboomspruit, Mokopane, Polokwane, Soekmekaar, Mokhado (although everyone still calls it Louis Trichardt pronounced ‘Loose Treshjard’), Mara, Mopane and finally Musina. “Won’t get much sleep tonight,” Sis Jeans sighs as the throb of music from a sadly incapacitated CD gets cranked up beyond distortion. The former nurse lives in a large four-bedroomed house on the tree-lined streets of a once-fancy suburb of Harare. Her shimmering blue swimming pool - her pride and joy - is now empty. “It cost too much to maintain and that’s only if you can get chlorine, which is impossible now. I’m thinking of filling it in, but I can’t bring myself to. Who knows, maybe Uncle Bob will step down and I’ll be able to get chlorine again? Sis Jean has five sons, all university graduates, spread across the globe. “My eldest lives in London. My grandchildren are English now. And why not? The world is a global village now, isn’t it? Look at me. I’m Xhosa living among Shonas with a best friend who’s Jamaican and my grandchildren are English. It’s the future.” Orinah is from Bulawayo. She’s a poet, but makes a living as a parking attendant at Park Station. “Some days I earn R40; others R100 but no matter what I earn I always save R5. If I can save R5 a day for a year
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