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By Rahsaan Maxwell
[05/04/00]

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The train begins to move again, this time with more of a sense of purpose. We clear the platform and then the station, and for the first time in more than an hour I can breathe easily. But it proves premature because, just then, the door to my compartment opens suddenly and two people enter, one a tall man in his 30s, the other a girlish-looking fellow in his late teens. For a moment I think I'm hallucinating -- that lack of sleep again -- because they're lugging two very large, very ornate mirrors, which they stow in a luggage rack. And then, without speaking a word (they act, in fact, as if they haven't noticed me), they leave.

I have only just made this observation when they appear again, pulling two enormous cardboard boxes held together by pantyhose. The boxes bulge alarmingly and must weigh a ton. When next I glance in their direction -- I've been pretending to read my paper -- each box is lounging in a seat of its own and looking, I might add, very comfortable.

Not the men, though. They've turned a bright purple and, for a moment, I think their hearts are about to fail. But they recover and set to work again, turning up over the next half-hour with six folding chairs, a badly rusted toaster oven, a family of battered suitcases and finally their provisions for the trip: six plastic bags crammed with food. By now, I have come to admire them and find myself awaiting each return with some anticipation.

The chairs and cases are heaped on top of the boxes, both of which now slump in their seats and appear to be deep in slumber. The food bags are suspended from hooks above the window. This leaves the oven. It's apparent that they attach some importance to this object, and a discussion ensues as to whether it should be placed with the mirrors or stowed beneath a seat. The first option is ruled out as dangerous -- were the train to brake suddenly, the oven might be tossed to the floor -- and the second proves impractical: The oven, being rather large and everything else being rather low, refuses to slip under anything. I notice that they're eyeing me.

"We were wondering," says the teenager, trailing off.

"We were wondering," says the older one, "if you'd watch this for us. We want to go to the bar."

Alone now and with the oven nestling in my lap, I gaze out the window. Cape Town is long behind us, and we're crossing open country. Eucalyptus trees line the railway track and, in the distance, I can just make out the silhouette of a windmill. We pass a brickworks, a pond filled with green algae and a settlement of whitewashed houses. A group of farm laborers, each wearing blue dungarees, ushers home a herd of cows.

We come in sight of a shantytown: several hundred shacks, their walls made of abandoned wood and their roofs nothing more than plastic sheeting. They are everywhere in the new South Africa, these shantytowns, just as they were everywhere in the old as well.

The conductor enters and asks to see my ticket.

"Kimberley," he says. "Eighteen hours to go." Then, spotting the oven, he raises an eyebrow. "I'm going to a wedding," I say. "It's a present."

I'm growing tired of this monstrosity. But where to put it? Not on the seats -- they're full. And not in the luggage racks -- full as well. Which leaves the floor. But that doesn't seem right. They asked me to take care of this thing. I decide to wait until they return. But that doesn't work either because, when they do turn up, they're as drunk as skunks and, ignoring not just me but the oven as well, fall instantly asleep.

While my companions sleep, we are joined by another passenger, a black man who, fortunately for all of us, is traveling light. His name is Pele, he says; he's a Zulu and is going to Johannesburg to visit relatives. Then, lighting a cigarette, he lapses into silence, the very picture of a man in despondency.

The sleepers awake and, seeing Pele, pull a face. They seem not to like him. "I'm hungry," says the teenager, stretching himself. The older man rummages in one of the bags and brings out several Scotch eggs, two crescent-shaped meat pies and a packet of cookies called Eat-Sum-More. He extends the cookies in my direction, but put off by the name, I shake my head. Pele, he ignores. "You forgot our friend," I tell him. But before the older man can respond, Pele waves dismissively. He seems not to like these people any more than they like him.

Next page | Witchcraft and the death of Pele's sister