Jozi

You don’t have to travel far in South Africa to be out of your comfort zone. In fact, for most people, a few hundred metres would take them into a world that they’ve never experienced before. For us, Park Station in Johannesburg was one such area we had never encountered. And while we can safely say we’re not the kind of people that have never been into town, it’s definitely not the first place you’ll find us.

On a trip like the one Rob, Jordz and myself find ourselves on, you catch yourself thinking that the adventure will start as soon as you cross the border out of South Africa. Sitting in the train in Joburg I found myself immediately thinking of the subways in London, where people were getting agro if they waited for more than five minutes for a train.

Here in Joburg it’s 4:15 pm and our 3:50 pm train to Boksberg is as still as the building in which it stands. Africa time! It’s loud and we’re a little but unsure of what’s actually happening, our only other train experience coming from our overnight train trip from Durbs to Joburg way back in 2010, where we nearly froze ourselves to death.

This train is filled with work commuters at the end of their long, tiring day. Hawkers walk up and down with an air of everydayness that is hard to explain. Ice lollies R2, five plums R2, two pineapples R4, five little red apples R4, grapes R2,50. Even the Daily Star newspaper, marked down a Rand from the customary seven. Then there’s also the non-food hawkers; Vicks, Zambuk, earbuds, nail clippers, ID holders, ear phones, pens, the list is endless. Everyone is selling the same thing and they all know each other, creating a friendly competition.

A young school boy only two bricks high walks with a gangster limp, shouting at all the grownups “make space!” which later just becomes “space!”.

We stop at about ten small platforms along the way to Boksberg East. At each point more and more people clamber on, until we’re all shoved together like too much stationary in an over eager school kids space case, where the zips won’t shut. Neither will ours. The doors are stopped from closing by whoevers feet are closest. The total disregard for safety in South Africa is one of my favourite things.

As more bodies clamber on my eyes are drawn towards an elderly man. I’m tempted to give up my seat, but I’m semi-stuck with all the bodies and my big bag against me. The old man is wearing a white knitted shirt with a zip that he has left open, creating a v-neck like collar. He’s wearing silky navy pants, light-brown leather shoes and a similarly coloured leather belt. His white knitted shirt neatly tucked around his ‘mkhaba’ (his boep). The open v-neck shows a red and white beaded necklace strung around his neck. He’s also wearing a brown hat with a reddish orange feather in it. He has a very short, almost stubbly beard, greying slightly with dead yet kind eyes. He reminds me of an old 'Drum' era writer.

As anyone who has travelled the third world will tell you, the contentment and joy poor people show is truly challenging and heart-warming. This beauty of poverty is something I cherish most deeply as someone growing up in Africa.

Of course this is true, yet in isolation, the naive idea is short lived and the harshness of poverty is quickly shown. A middle aged cripple man drags himself along the floor with his arms, pushing a tray ahead of him collecting coins and pieces of fruit from whoever is willing. I am reminded of India and the similarities shared between the two places.

We get out at Boksburg expecting a busy platform, but are instead greeted by remains of what could have once been a busy station. It is quiet, empty and completely unmarked. We pick a direction and walk confidently, agreeing that such people don’t get robbed.