The Shosholoza Meyl people turned out to be fairly competent – and capable of responding to email, which beats the DFA. But there seems to be some vagueness as to whether there are, in fact, sleeper carriages on the East London-Johannesburg run, or whether sitters (3rd class) are the only option. Given this and the fact that time is actually somewhat limited, I have, with a deep sigh , resigned myself to taking the bus. I shouldn’t really complain; I actually quite enjoy travelling by bus, I’m just moaning because I was so exhausted after the last trip. And, on a big adventure like this, the chance to do a train-trip in SA (which, frankly, I can do anytime) is probably not worth the risk. The height of irrationality, I realise, but I feel as though there is a finite amount of luck available and I need it all for the big adventure, so small adventures will simply have to be sacrificed. Irrationality, I don’t think unreasonably, given the disasters (international, global and otherwise) that have already befallen this journey.
I am now, however, a large step closer to actually accomplishing the goal of leaving the country. Infinitely closer than the last couple of times. Of course, I’m still infinitely far away from actually leaving. I click onto the news sites each day with fear and trepidation, just in case some major event has occurred to prevent me from going. There are still so many things that could go wrong. I am still terrified of tempting the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing. I’m endeavouring not to think about it.
But some things have been achieved. I have packed, for example. Packing is a miserable job – made more miserable by weight restrictions – which makes me, at least once in every packing process, want nothing more than to throw up my hands and declare that I never wanted to go in the first place. But it’s done. For now anyway. And anyone who wishes me to add anything to my luggage is likely to meet with a sharp refusal. I cannot fit anything else in. At least not without going through this whole process again. The thought of which makes me miserable.
So this evening I will take my packed-to-leave-the-country bags, my more-tense-than-I-like-to-admit self and some fudge, and climb on a bus for the long trip to Joburg . For those who have never done it, it’s not as bad as you’d think. Plus you get to enjoy the sun setting on a winter afternoon through the red-seeded grasses, to watch the silhouettes of thorn trees and the hills of the sweeping plains carry the world into nightfall, and then to watch the night stars sparkle over a frost-dusted world. And other pretty moments between here and Gauteng.
All posts by Claire
If wishing made it so
Sometimes when all the big things seem unmanageable, the only option is to fixate on the little things that can be controlled. In that spirit, I’m ignoring the fact that there is a huge universe out there, apparently hell-bent on screwing me over. There is another option in the pipeline but I refuse to get excited. I’m not doing that again. I am holding on with grim determination to cynicism and skeptical smirks. Unfortunately, I’m not very good at it, so I’m also directing my energies to worrying about how I should travel up to Joburg. This all premised on the success of the current process requiring me to go up to Joburg, but as I cannot imagine a world in which I remain here without seriously contemplating slitting of wrists, I’m going with it.
This leaves me pondering the best way to travel from the Eastern Cape to Gauteng. Last week, I went up by plane. Which was fine. Rather uneventful, actually. I am a fan of flying. I love the freedom and the uninterrupted me-time of flying. I realise that I say this from the perspective of one who has flown within SA, and therefore flying a maximum of 2 hours at a time but still. In fact, I’m a little bit in love with flying. There are disadvantages, however. Perhaps foremost of these being that East London airport is a bit of a mess at the moment. It’s never been a great airport, although it was always bigger than Richard’s Bay, more professional than Kimberley and better thought-out than Durban – not that that’s hard. It also still has the original 1970s old SAA colours light fittings, a delightfully bit of living history. But the airport currently being upgraded. Which is taking a ridiculously long time and apparently not making all that much difference except to delay everything and cover the whole world in building-dust. This makes the flying experience distinctly less pleasant. Flying is also the most expensive way to travel and money which could probably be more productively spent settling in to a new country.
Bussing is probably the most reasonable option. It’s moderately priced. It’s not ridiculously uncomfortable and I know I can do it. I know for sure I can do it because I just got off a bus this morning. It was fine. I quite like to watch the world from the window of a dubbel-verdieping bus. It’s pretty. Yes, even in the dark. The pre-dawn landscape of the Eastern Cape this morning warmed my heart – the gentle outlines of the so-familiar mountains against the lighter dark of the sky, scattered with flickering stars and a crowned with a half-setting moon. But it is long. And you don’t necessarily feel fantastic at the end of it. I think it’s the middle-of-the-night stop in Bloem. The broken sleep is just too much. Or perhaps, this time, the waiting for an hour (the bus was stuck in traffic) in the cold of Park Station. Waiting outside because there was no indication if the bus would be 5 or 55 minutes late. And I really don’t want to get sick again. I suppose I’ll probably end up taking the bus, but I’d prefer not to.
And then there is the whimsical option. The option you know you really shouldn’t. Because everyone says it’s not safe. And it probably isn’t. And it’ll probably be a mission to take a whole suitcase. And it really takes longer than a bus. Trains. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack…I’ve always loved the idea of train travel. I have vague memories of travelling by train many, many years ago when I was a child. And loving it. There is no better way to see the world than from the window of a comfortable train carriage. At least, so my romantic perceptions of train-travel suggest. A friend is talking about doing a much longer train trip in the near future, so we’ve been waxing lyrical about train travel all week. It has affected me. I also have a feeling that it is probably the cheapest way to get to Joburg.
So, provided I can get around the safety concerns, and provided I can convince anyone at the Shosholoza Meyl to give me information, and assuming that the trip is not at all time-sensitive, I am searching for a way to explore, for one last time, the route from the Eastern Cape to the economic hub of Africa, from the window of a train. Wish me whimsical luck and the echo of the clickety-clack across the plains of central SA…
Other people
Preparing to move half-way across the world (quite literally) can be a little daunting. Particularly when everything keeps going pear-shaped (and elephant-shaped and emu-shaped and penguin-shaped). A friend was describing his experience of a similar move and mentioned that it’s hard to visualise being in another country that is completely different to your own. No matter how much you learn about the place, you cannot truly picture what it’s like to be there because it is completely unknown. Which makes it more complicated to prepare yourself psychologically. Moving to Cape Town was an upheaval but I already knew what Cape Town looked like and ‘felt like’ and had friends there and places that were cool to go.
The closest to my current dilemma was probably going to varsity for the first time. Those who didn’t go away to varsity will not have had this experience. In fact, those who didn’t attend a residential university probably can’t understand that incredible other-ness of the first few days of varsity. The night before I first went to Rhodes, I spent the evening at a typical Stutt party with friends. Then I got into the car with my folks and headed off to Grahamstown. I’d been there before, of course. On a school trip in Standard 3. And briefly to visit the varsity in matric. But that was it. I didn’t know the place. I didn’t know what to expect. I remember feeling quite terrified. Everything else about those first few days is a bit of a blur. A snippet here, a scene there. I remember sitting on the grass in a circle ‘getting to know each other’, I think with one of the House Comm, but I can’t remember which bit of grass. I remember the early-morning wake-up to be serenaded by the boys’ reses. Which day? Which reses? I can picture sitting in the common room drinking coffee. I remember feeling terrified and exhausted. I remember being out, until 2 in the morning one night, with some people from res and some of the people I’d known years before in Queenstown, and then walking up the hill with someone. Candice? I’m not even sure where we were. The Rat, I guess. But it’s not clear. I remember meeting a boy. On Valentine’s Day. The memories are like a mixed up pile of old photographs. Later, of course, I settled very happily and have many, many happy memories from Grahamstown, all of which fit into somewhat more logically organised chronological order. In many ways it became home and I still feel comfortable there. But the beginning was terrifying
Going overseas feels like that. I suppose partly because it’s the first time in many, many years that I’m committing to being somewhere I don’t know for a significant period of time. And because I don’t know anyone. I’m pretty shy at first and not particularly good at meeting new people. I’m bad at beginnings. I quite like to be familiar with the place I’m in. I suppose it’s a control thing. I hate feeling at the mercy of fate and, well, the mercy of strangers. I know the kindness of strangers is fantastic and inspirational and supposedly what makes us human – but I hate to be dependent on it. The idea of getting on a plane to another country doesn’t scare me. The idea of landing in another country does. I fixate on the little things – what will the airport look like, who will meet me, how will I get from the airport to my apartment, how will I know how to get from my apartment to the school. I get nervous about the little things. I get nervous about being out of control. And when I am by myself, I get more and more nervous. I start to panic.
Short-term travelling is less scary. Less scary, I suppose because you don’t need to be competent – because the loss of control is unavoidable and, to some extent, the point. There is no sense of having to settle and fit in and know your way around. The alienation of travel is a shelter – because you are only passing through, you don’t need to know your way around or be in control or know people.
This past week, I’ve spent time with friends. Some of them have known me since those first crazy varsity O-week days. Some know me from work, often from work-related travelling together. Many have travelled with me to various debating events. Some have been travelling companions on recent meanderings. All of them are close and important and with each of them I have shared some new beginning or experience. And their company and advice and the sheer joy of laughing together make the prospect of a totally foreign new beginning less terrifying. Of course, those who have done this themselves and who can reassure and share knowledge are also particularly precious. And very much appreciated.
It’s important sometimes to be reminded that these people (‘my people’) are still here. I sometimes think the secret to life is to remember that friendships and support structures and community are not place-bound, at least not any more. These same people, and with whom it is precious to sit down and talk and share a good bottle of wine or a good coffee, are the same people who are just a phonecall or an email or an sms or an online chat away when I’m in another province or another country. That the same conversations and the same ordinary everyday things can still be shared no matter how many miles lie between us. Many people lament the loss of personal contact that they feel results from facebook and blogging and gchat, etc. I think they’re wrong. The joy of face-to-face, real contact is still there. But the reality – at least for my generation and at this time – is that we’re scattered over many continents, through many countries, so for us, the ability to carry on ordinary, everyday conversations, the ability to chat about the mundane and the ridiculous, as well as the existential and important, is crucial. Perhaps it is this ability to stay in contact – with no fuss and without the weighty importance of elegantly scribed letters – that makes the incredibly movement of a generation of people possible. Perhaps it is simply what makes it bearable.
New beginnings in new places with new people will always be a little terrifying for me. But the continuity, the ongoing ordinary conversations with friends and family, make them bearable. The secret for me, I suppose, is other people.