We took the "special" Thursday Shosholoza Meyl passenger train from Joburg to Cape Town. It was five days to Christmas and we wanted to save money. Who can afford to fly over Christmas? Not us.
So the train it was, and even shelling out for a whole compartment was cheaper than a one-way airfare for one. We could take some chow and relax and watch the countryside pass by at 60km/h and decompress. You know, let the train take the strain, or so the ad used to go.
I did not see the text from Prasa saying the train had been delayed until we arrived at Park Station. Cable thieves near Bloemhof had delayed the inbound train from Cape Town for many hours. As it had to be cleaned and serviced before it could head south again, we would have to wait. Fair enough - nobody likes a filthy train.
We all waited in the station concourse, sitting on our bags, harassing the station staff for news. A flesh mountain in a John Deere cap stared angrily at everybody; a drunk man reeled around yelling "We. Are. The. People!" A family fretted about arriving in Kimberley in the small hours.
The day was nearly gone by the time the Special - now six hours late - clanked out of Park. Tempers cooled with the breeze flowing down the corridors. A coach attendant brought bedding, the dining car gave us cider and ice. Westward we rode - Krugersdorp, Randfontein, Welverdiend, Potch, Klerksdorp - and on into the night
At every stop, my girl and I alighted to take in the evening air and stroll on the platform.
"Never mind," I joked with the annoyed passengers who had waited all these forlorn hours for their train, "your holiday just got longer, is all." None was amused.
The hours slipped away and the hubbub quietened as people turned in. We killed the lights and watched the land flash by in the dark - glimpses of lonely farmhouses, the fading red gleam of car tail lights .
At 2am, the train rolled slowly to a halt in a passing loop where a red signal gleamed brightly. We waited. And waited.
And waited.
It was a lovely, still night. The earth was enveloped in a profound silence, occasionally disturbed by the odd creaks and complaints of a waiting train. In the early morning, just before sunrise, jackals cried to each other that the night was over and the hunting was done.
At 7am, I went looking for tea and answers. The dining car was empty but for the smell of coffee. We were near Bloemhof. Thieves had stolen the overhead cables in exactly the same place as two nights earlier.
The steel coaches began to shimmer under the rising sun. We sat on the tracks, in the shade of the train. At 8am, the train manager worked his way along the corridors to tell us that the Special would go no further, that buses would take us the rest of the way.
The heat rose, and so did tempers. My girl looked at the buses and the fretful, angry people and said, "No. We stop in Kimberley".
At 1pm - 26 hours after leaving home - we took a room for the afternoon at the over-the-top Kimberley Club. The shower was bliss. We cooled off under the ceiling fan. The eye-wateringly dear bottle of champagne from the bar tasted, I imagined, like winning the lottery would.
At 5.30pm, we took a taxi to the airport and bought laughably expensive one-way tickets on the evening flight to Cape Town. Huzzah for consumer debt!
It was one of my best rail journeys ever.
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