The Road is Long…

So I boarded the green and yellow machine, both excited and anxious for the journey ahead. The heat was stifling; the idiot in charge had obviously decided that air was not a basic need for lower class travellers who couldn’t afford air travel. S waved to her smiling father through the plexiglass whilst a small cockroach drunkenly navigated its way along the gritty windowsill. Good times.

Let be known that despite the bitter edge to this beginning, this trip was symbolic of too many positives to dampen my spirits. It heralded my burgeoning emancipation from a life I had allowed to atrophy; from a city that during winter, insisted upon pretending it was much further north of the equator, and from a job that was starting to gnaw at my delicate nerves when I wasn’t looking. S and I finally agreed on a pair of seats and settled down amongst our comforts; the engine rumbled to life, and we were off.

As we trundled through the desolate landscape, my thoughts exhaled and settled into a comfortable chair (no relation to the one I was on, by any means). If this was a movie, would it be the beginning or the end? Who would play me?

 A large Indian man who smelled of Axe and mutton curry pushed his ample frame past me, painfully reminding me how ridiculously narrow the aisle was. In the spirit of camaraderie borne of a ridiculous need to connect with one’s fellow travellers (I get this from my mother, I think), I looked up and smiled, silently assuring my new friend that I was okay, that I had another shoulder which I was sure would see me through the next four years or so. He stopped and gave me the once over, instantly causing a sensation in my stomach similar to that which the window cockroach had instilled earlier. He grinned, and I was somewhat reassured that should this prize and I hook up, fall madly in love and live the rest of our lives together, I could save most of the African countries from starvation if I just sold one of his teeth on the black market. Suddenly, I missed the cockroach…

An hour later, S and I had exhausted her writing reader as well as all 6 nursery rhyme books that weighed a ton and that I had cleverly (or so I had thought) lugged along in my handbag. At this point, I was desperately grasping at the age-old tactic of “Gasp! Look there S! What’s that?!” which had seized to distract her at least a year ago. Her responses were mildly interested and always the same, “Ummm…cows, Mama??” After settling her bored frame down again, this time with a game on my cell phone, I looked around. A lady slumped across the aisle wrapped in a tartan winter blanket (no, seriously), clutching a Tropika in one hand and a large packet of Simba chips (a necessary accompaniment to previous) was staring fixedly ahead, a frown of intense concentration on her forehead. I followed her gaze to a small TV screen mounted on the roof a few seats ahead of us. A baby hollered somewhere behind us. I could smell the strong onion stench of stale sweat from the man in front of me, and the seat I was occupying was clearly manufactured for people with irregularly shaped backsides. But as I watched the familiar Paramount peak appear, I realized that escape was a hand. I stared at the screen and waited…

There is something to be said for owners of these ‘luxury coaches’ in that they have mastered the art of deception. Sorry, the art of advertising. Learning the language of marketing is relatively easy. The course consists of a practical component only and is only a day long, but once you pass, you have the distinguished accolade of being able to for ever see through those nauseating TV advertisements heralding the ‘New Era In Luxury Travel’. This is just a sampling of what I learned:

1.      “…Our new fleet of luxury coaches…” actually means, “…we have resprayed all our old busses…”.

2.      “…Affordable travel…” actually means,“…we have priced it to just below the cost of a plane ticket, which we know you can’t afford so quit whining and buy it.”

3.      “Our highly trained crew who are always at your service…” actually means “…at the very least, they are all wearing the same uniform, so you will know who to scream at when your bus arrives an hour after its scheduled time”.

4.      “Full on-board facilities for your convenience…” actually means “…” Our toilets are small enough for you to urinate in only. Whilst standing. Without being able to remove your pants…” (which, if the smell emanating down the aisles is anything to go by, is what everyone does anyway).

5.      And finally, “Our on board entertainment will accompany you throughout your journey…” actually means “Our on board entertainment will accompany you throughout your journey…” They are not kidding about this. Knight Rider-The Movie was followed by Terminator 3, which was followed by Mad Max 1 AND 2, all played at ear-splitting volumes calculated to terrify the most placid of weary travelers, on equipment specifically designed to not handle speed bumps. Or DVDs.

Our Friendly Driver Zayne, stopped at a Shell Ultra City approximately 2 hours away from our destination, for the purpose of ‘additional refreshment’. The nature of this stop was to supplement the original refreshments which were served an hour before (a packet of artificial biscuits and the smallest cup of instant coffee I had ever seen, the latter filled to the brim so that its drinker is completely incapacitated once in possession thereof, and where one’s only reprieve is to quickly sip the offending brew, which quickly results in a scalding that will guarantee one’s inability to taste anything for a the rest of the day, which makes the biscuits edible; a cunning plan, I know). Sofiya and I decide to make the best of the 20 minutes we were given. Gathering our essentials, we raced across the parking lot to the store (pant! pant! 15 minutes), frantically scanned the junk-laden shelves, picked up junk, then abandoned them in favour of other more nutritious-looking junk, then left the lot, and settled on other junk, then took our place in the queue to the till (pant! sweat! Eeeek! 8 minutes). Sofiya then decided to abandon her mother in favour of cashew nuts causing her mother to lose her place in the ever lengthening queue (gasp! 5 minutes); we rejoined the queue, paid a whopping R21 for a 30g bag of chips and a small packet of cashew nuts, then raced back to our Innovator in Luxury Travel with seconds to spare. We were stopped at the door by Our Friendly Driver Zayne (well, actually, it was the Attar of Roses and the stench of all the dead and decaying small animals that had accompanied his journey from the orient) stopped us in our tracks. He beamed beatifically (Ghana, Angola, Ethiopia at a push, I mused) and happily said, “I’m making good time eh?!! After leaving so late an’ all, I’m making good time??!” I nodded and smiled, sheepishly doing what I always do when put on the spot with no words to save me, “Say hello to the nice man Sofs..” He ignored my attempt to deflect his charm and flicked his head at me, “Where you from?”

Now I have always toyed at possible answers to this question, often in the privacy and safety of my own thoughts. “Outer space” has often topped the list, followed by a possible “the loins of my father”, with “the joy is in the journey, not the origin nor the destination” coming in at a close philosophical third. Thankfully, people were starting to return from their spending sprees and I was granted reprieve from Florist of Arabia.

The rest of the trip passed in a blur. I have a vague memory (I’ve blocked it out, I’m sure; the mind is a wondrous thing) of the smell of deep-fried chicken and greasy pies, S laying across my lap, breathing softly, the sexy sounds of REM in my head, pleasantly drowning out the horror of Mel Gibson revving his road warrior in all his pixellated glory. I recall how my spirits lifted as Berea Phamacy, Stanger  Street and Ilanga Wholesalers flashed past through the grimy windows. I could smell the salty air and breathed again. A nasal voice droned through the coaches speakers, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Durban. Please make sure that all your belongings are with you when you leave (as opposed to with someone else, I supposed). We hope you enjoyed your time with us. Thank you.”

Sigh…

– That was four years ago and S is now 7 years old. She has no memory of the day. And we didn’t go back.