Years ago, I was traveling by myself in Peru, hiking part of the Inca Trail at Machu Picchu, taking an eco-tour down the Amazon River and exploring the neighborhoods of the capital city, Lima. My very first day in the country, when checking into my hotel in Lima, the desk clerk warned me about not walking the streets near the hotel alone. Later that day, as I was about to ignore the local’s advice and head out to explore the city on my own, another hotel employee stopped me and urged me to let him arrange a driver for me. Having seen a bit of the world, I thanked him and said I thought I would be fine. Less than ten minutes later, on a deserted street somewhere in Peru, I found myself face-to-face with a young man wielding a knife with two accomplices on either side of me.
The men had orchestrated this type of mugging before. The three of them were quickly herding me towards a waiting vehicle where a fourth man sat behind the steering wheel of a running car. When one of hoodlums opened a door and began to get in, he created a momentary opening where there was no one in front of me. I grabbed the opportunity and ran from the two men who were about to corral me into the backseat. I rushed past the car and back towards the hotel. I heard car doors slamming and the car screeching, but I didn’t look back to see if they were pursuing me or if they were off in search of another victim who hadn’t heeded good advice. I didn’t stop running until I saw the very uniformed hotel employee who just minutes before had implored me to take a taxi. After I caught my breath and wiped the sweat from my face, I asked if he would please arrange a driver for the duration of my time in Lima.
Ever since that I experience, when traveling to parts of the world unfamiliar to me, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers and, more importantly, the advice of locals.
When the idea for writing “Black and Blue in South Africa” came to me, I knew I would need to solicit input from locals before unknowingly putting myself at risk for some unforeseen calamity that could befall me. I began to engage South Africans in discussions about train travel in their country. I knew it was safe to travel on the luxury trains like the Blue Train or the Rovos Rail, but what about the Shosholoza Meyl – the train that the majority of locals depend on? Were there any issues with taking a train that cost about 1% of what those high-end trains charged?
To find out, I headed to the Cape Town Station, a train depot that was, at that time, in need of a facelift. (A renovation that did come in time for the opening of the World Cup soccer tournament hosted in South Africa in 2010.) Like train stations in all major metropolitan centers, the Cape Town Station was abuzz with activity. People were everywhere: hurrying to catch trains or rushing to make connections to mini buses that would deliver them a bit closer to their ultimate destinations in the city.
I wandered through the station, following the signs to the Shosholoza Meyl counter. There, I waited in a queue until a customer departed and I could approach a ticket window and talk with a representative about this most affordable railway. I had done some homework before arriving at the train station and had learned that there were various options for traveling on the Shosholoza.
In the Premiere Class, travelers enjoyed a private sleeper berth with meals included in the cost of the ticket. In Tourist Class, passengers shared a sleeping compartment with no food. In Economy Class, there were no sleepers or food – just a cushioned seat in an un-air-conditioned car with 77 other passengers per carriage.
The cost of a one-way ticket on the Premiere Class was approximately $300. The ticket to the same destination in Tourist Class was about $75. In Economy, it was less than $25. There were also the options of the Blue Train or the Rovos Rail, but the cost of each of these luxury trains was exorbitant.
When the queue before me had disappeared and it was my turn at the counter, I greeted the agent with one of the few words I know in the Xhosa language, “molo,” and asked to please have a copy of the schedule for the Economy Class departures between Cape Town and Johannesburg. Looking at my white skin and hearing my American accent she said, “That’s not for you. You take the Rovos or the Blue Train.”
I said thank you very much but explained that those options were too expensive. What I was really interested in was the Economy ticket. “Not for you” remained her response.
“But there is an Economy Class?” I inquired.
“Yes, but not for you.”
“Is there a schedule for the Economy Class?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“May I have a copy of the schedule, please?”
“No. That train is not for you.”
By now the queue behind me was growing, but I had nothing but time that day. I sensed that this Shosholoza employee was trying to do for me the exact same thing that the employees at that hotel in Lima, Peru tried to do; to protect me from some danger that I might not be aware of. Still, I wasn’t going to leave the counter until I knew how often the Economy Class departed Cape Town and what the stops were along the way. I tried again.
“Can you give me information, please, for all classes of travel on the Shosholoza Meyl?”
Finally I got, a more promising response. The woman passed me a glossy brochure with colored photos that detailed travel on the Premiere Class, along with a single sheet of paper that listed departure times for every town between Cape Town and Johannesburg in Tourist Class. Now we were getting somewhere.
I thanked her in Xhosa, “Enkosi kakhulu,” and said, “Now, may I have the same schedule for the Economy Class?”
She just looked at me. She sat on one side of the counter and I stood on the other, both of us silent. The clerk seemed set on not giving me the information and I was determined not to leave without it.
Throughout our entire exchange there was a man behind the counter, wearing a sweater with the Shosholoza Meyl logo on it, doing paperwork. At some point in my conversation with the clerk, the man started paying attention to our conversation and occasionally looking at me. He was also paying attention to the line of customers behind me that was getting longer and longer with each minute I remained at the counter. When the clerk and I had reached our impasse and were doing nothing more than staring at each other, the co-worker walked up to the window, a piece of paper in his hand, and gave me a schedule that looked identical to the one for the Tourist Class, except on the top of it was the heading, Economy Class.
The clerk remained silent, but I had what I had come for. I thanked them both for their assistance and left the Cape Town Station with all of the logistical information I needed. But I also now had a concern. The clerk was adamant that I not take the Economy Class of the Shosholoza. Was that just because people with some means didn’t do that since there were other affordable options for a middle-class American? Or was there some other reason, perhaps personal safety, why I shouldn’t take the least expensive train?
At this point, I had been coming to South Africa for nearly a decade; staying in Cape Town and working in the townships of Guguletu and Khayelitsha which are located just minutes from the train station in the center of the city. I had developed a network of colleagues and friends from all walks of life. I turned to them for advice as to whether I should travel in Economy Class of the Shosholoza.
The first person I went to for advice was the very first person I met when I came to Cape Town in 2000. The Rev. Spiwo Xapile is a Presbyterian minister in Guguletu. When I described the interaction I had with the clerk at the station he reflected for a moment, as is his way, and said, “Oh, yeah. No, it is fine for you to take the Shosholoza.”
I then went to Mandla Majola, a community and AIDS activist who lives in Guguletu, but whose works impacts the lives of thousands of people throughout the townships and whose opinion I greatly respect. If Mandla said I shouldn’t take the Economy Class I would have to reconsider the project.
Majola laughed when I told him about my encounter with the clerk at the train station. He replied to my question by saying, “My friend, it is OK. Sit by a granny and have time on your mobile phone, but no, it is fine. And bring some food with you.”
Those were the assurances I needed to move forward with my plan to travel in all classes of trains between Cape Town and Johannesburg. Which is not to say that I got the same response when I told white people about my intentions.
Nearly to a person, my white friends and colleagues in the United States, asked the same question: “Was it safe for me to take the trains in South Africa?” The conversations with white friends and colleagues in South Africa were similar, but more nuanced.
Some assumed when I said I was taking the Shosholoza that I would be in Premiere Class, the train they have occasionally taken in South Africa. Their concerns became apparent only when I explained that I would actually be in the sitter cars, or as they referred to it, third class. Some confused the Economy Class with the Metroliner, the commuter train that connects the townships with the city and has a reputation for crime. Everyone cautioned me about not taking the Metroliner. A few suggested that I travel with someone from the township, at least on my first trip, to see what the experience was like.
I welcomed all advice and was grateful to have a circle of friends and colleagues diverse enough to give me an accurate picture of what I might expect on the trains of South Africa. I also appreciated that they wanted the results of my travels to be a book titled “Black and Blue,” and that I not end up bruised and black and blue from some situation I might unwittingly get myself into.
If only I would have been smart enough to take the advice offered by locals on that trip to Peru years before.
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