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| Mist-covered mountains. -Piggs Peak [Swaziland] |
“You go back now?” came the question
I knew better than to answer the question directly. Life is simple here, but answers very complex.
I am a guest and have stayed for several days. I have been welcome, but perhaps the welcome is wearing thin. I’m also starting to feel restless and would like to get moving. However, I can’t fully understand what social obligations I still have and definitely can’t answer that question directly. I’m still a guest and know that the man I’m speaking with is an elder. It is my role to be patient. Plus, I know that he already has thought of two or three scenarios and he will know best how to handle social requirements. I only need to relax and trust.
“What do you think is best?” I respond.
The man begins talking with his “brother” in what I presume to be Shona… it’s difficult to really know as everybody speaks several languages. After a few minutes, the talking stops. There is a pause for a few minutes, and I get an answer.
“It’s too late this evening and my brother is tired. Tomorrow morning he will drive you early to the bus stop if you can help pay the gas. It will be early.”
I wanted to go to the taxi stand that evening and stay in that area to have less travel the next day, but this is more than a fair trade for me and could possibly save me several hours of bouncing around between different mini-buses. I don’t mind riding the mini-buses, but I have a lot of traveling to do to return from Harare, Zimbabwe to Johannesburg, South Africa. I estimate that it will take 15+ hours of “less than comfortable” bus rides to arrive.
“I am happy to help pay. I will be awake early and ready.”
And I am.
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| US dollar on it's last leg. -[Zimbabwe] |
On the way to the city, the elder from yesterday calls and asks us to meet him in the city. The brother puts the phone to his shoulder and asks me what I would like to do. Again, I know better than to answer directly... get moving and quickly. I know that a phone call, though only a few cents in cost, is a relatively significant amount of money and would not be placed unless there is a reason.
“I’m happy to meet him.” I respond.
The brother conveys the message.
After he hangs up, the brother tells me that meeting the elder in the city will delay my trip and he doesn’t think it’s a good idea. I respond, truthfully, telling him that I’m happy to help in any way I can. And so we arrive at the prearranged location and begin waiting.
We wait for several minutes as the brother grows increasingly impatient. I offer to go buy some breakfast. The brother agrees. Food and gasoline in the same day is too luxurious of an offer to pass. I know that it will buy me another 15-20 minutes of wait-time before the brother becomes impatient again.
I take my time to maximize the distraction before returning with oranges and crackers. While we eat, I ask if there is a route from the South African border to Swaziland without going all the way to Johannesburg. I’ve looked at the maps and I’ve asked several people, but all of them tell me that it’s not possible. I have to believe it is possible, because I can see a route on the map. But, I also know that there are too many unknowns to really make any kind of decision.
“No,” he responds. “You must go to Jo-burg (the name that locals use for Johannesburg, South Africa).”
We wait another ten minutes before the brother checks his phone and subsequently starts the car. “We have waited an hour. He hasn’t arrived. You must go.”
I’m not entirely disappointed that we are moving. It is getting late and we did wait for quite a while. I feel that I have met my social obligations and truthfully, we could wait all day and he might never arrive... after all, this is Africa.
We drive another 40 minutes across the city. We stop at two different taxi stands where the brother asks if there is are taxis to Beitbridge, the border crossing on the Zimbabwe side. Both times we are redirected to another stop, just as we had supposed. Around 11 am, we arrive at an intersection of two major highways, a “guaranteed” place to catch a bus to the border. The brother rolls down his window to ask a couple people about buses. I have my backpack in my lap, ready to go. I’ve learned that patience is a virtue for me, not necessarily for the drivers that don’t like to wait. A man points to a bus in front of us that is honking its horn and has started to move. The brother looks at me and yells, “Go!”
I know the routine. I immediately jump out of the Trooper, slinging my backpack on in the process, and begin running and waving my arms. The brother honks the horn and starts driving around the bus to get to the driver. Several bystanders join in my cacophonous arrival and also start shouting. Soon the “doorman” on the bus, the dude responsible for yelling the bus’ destination into the crowd and finding passengers, sees me... it really can’t be too difficult to see the tall, white dude with a big backpack running in front of a shouting crowd...
He says something to the bus driver as I approach the doors. The driver doesn’t slow down, but does accelerate less quickly, allowing me to jump into the open door. The brother has pulled up alongside the moving bus and we wave to each other. I thank him again through the open, moving door and climb aboard the bus. Deep down, I feel that an arrival like that should warrant some type of applause or perhaps a cheer, but it doesn’t. I evoke a few semi-interested looks, but I think it’s due more to the fact that there’s a white dude on the bus than my spectacular entrance.
I look down the aisle and see all the seats are full. I turn to the doorman, trying not to knock anyone/anything over with my backpack in the process. He points to the engine cover, next to the driver, giving me a look like, "Well whitey, you wanted on the bus, let’s see what you’re made of". I nod my head and plop on the the improvised seat. I’m happy to take the engine cover. Though it’s hot and there isn’t a backrest, I do have plenty of room to stretch my legs, a rare commodity for me on any bus.
After about 40 minutes, the doorman makes it back to the front of the bus. He’s been collecting fares and it’s my turn to pay.
“Beitbridge” I tell him. I’ve practiced the word a hundred times so that I can say it somewhat correctly.
“Masvingo” comes the response. This is another city about halfway to the border. Luckily, I’ve also practiced this word so I have somewhat of a clue of what’s going on.
I nod. There isn’t much else I can do at this point. I hand the doorman some money as I begin saying Masvingo several times for practice. The bus driver shouts that I can catch another bus to Beitbridge from Masvingo.
We continue for several hours on the old school bus. After a few hours, I’m told that I can’t sit on the engine cover any more. I’m not sure what has changed, but I'm told to sit on a seat... no more leg room...
We arrive to Masvingo as the sun sets. I’m quite hungry, but there isn’t time to buy food. I see another bus in the parking lot that serves as a psuedo-bus station. I’m told that this is the last bus to Beitbridge and I hustle with a few others to catch the bus as it leaves. On this bus, I’m lucky enough to get a seat in the very back row. I can sit where the aisle meets the back seat and put my legs in the aisle for more leg room.
This doesn’t last for long. After 30 minutes, a family of three comes to the back. There is an empty seat on either side of me. The man points for me to move to the side. I point to my legs. He points to himself, a woman, and a child. He wins and I move to the side. I cram my legs into the small space and the child sleeps on my shoulder. On occasion, so does the rather plump woman.
Several hours like this. I can never sleep while traveling, much less on a bouncy bus with the radio blaring. More people are getting off the bus than on. Eventually, the bus driver decides the time versus money ratio isn’t worth it any more. He stops and all of us transfer to another bus with more people. Two more times we make similar impromptu bus transfers. The last time, only six of us remain on the bus before we get off. As I paid the full fare to Beitbridge, I ask the previous bus driver to please pass my fare to new bus driver. He does for everyone but me. This causes a bit of a problem when the “new” bus driver asks me for money. I initially resist, but it’s past midnight and I’m tired, so I just pay the man.
We finally arrive to Beitbridge, but several kilometers from the border crossing. I’d been told that the bus would leave me close to the border, but... I get out of the bus, into a mud parking lot. Even at this late hour, I’m instantly barraged by taxi drivers. I don’t like being harassed and it’s late and I’m tired and I’ve been on buses for the last 14+ hours, and I haven’t eaten since the orange and crackers this morning. It’s not a good combination and I impatiently walk through the taxi hawkers to figure out what’s going on.
I arrive to a portion of the dark parking lot that has a light. There is another man standing there who I fail to realize is a policeman.
“It’s late.” he says.
“Ya.” I respond.
“Are you going to the border?”
I hesitate for a moment. I really don’t want to be harassed nor harangued, but this guy does seem different. “Ya, to the border.”
“Oh, that’s far. You can walk, but it isn’t safe at night. I’ll find you a ride.”
It’s then that I realize that he’s wearing a uniform. I ask him if he is a policeman and he tells that he is a night policeman. I thank him and explain that it’s been a long day. “I would like a ride, thank you.”
The original harrasser from when I got off the bus comes again. He really wants me to go with him in the car. I ask him to go away as politely as I can. The policeman is silent as this conversation takes place. “No good,” he says. “He takes people to bad places. He does bad things.”
Not sure what that really means, I begin asking discreet questions. It seems that this man helps people illegally cross the border, amongst other things. Now, I don’t feel so bad about refusing his offers.
I continue to wait as the policeman just sits under the light. It starts to rain as another taxi driver approaches, offering me a ride. I take a quick glance at the policeman who discreetly shakes his head. I reluctantly turn down the ride. It’s late and I would like to get across the border.
“Trust me,” the policeman says somewhat angrily as the second taxi driver drives away. “I told you that I’ll find you a ride.”
So we stand. I make some small talk with the policeman, not sure how he will find me a ride as he stands under the light... I had envisioned a more pro-active approach. After another 30 minutes, a beat-up two-door something-or-other drives by. The policeman waves to the driver, who stops. After a couple minutes, the policeman tells me, “go with him.”
I jump into the car and we slowly make our way to the border. It only takes 15 minutes. We arrive to a dirt parking lot and the driver points to a gate that is a few hundred meters away. “You go there,” he says.
I point to the gate and ask, just to make sure “There?”
“Yes.”
“It’s safe?” I question. It is after 2 am and it’s dark and it doesn’t look very inviting.
“Yes. Safe. No problem.”
My taxi fare is $1.25. I give the man $1.50. He is immensly surprised and happy beyond belief with the extra money. He thanks me profusely as I get out of the car. I’m amazed how so little can make such a huge difference to someone and brighten their day. Something I would just throw away and think nothing of...
I quickly walk toward the border, glad that there a few women that are also walking quickly towards the gate. “At least I’m going to the correct place and the women think that it is safe enough,”I think to myself.
I continue walking, following what seems to be the natural flow. There aren’t many people and shortly, I find myself alone. I continue walking across a long bridge crossing the river that forms the border between Zimbabwe and South Africa. As I come to the end of the bridge, there is a makeshift shelter on to the side of the road made of a tarp and a few sticks. Inside, there are 12-15 young men in their twenties. A quick calculation of darkness + poverty conditions + agitated young men + me + perceptions of my wealth add up to a very uncertain conclusion. "Well," I think to myself as videos of riots and civil unrest begin playing in my head. "This is how it ends... not a bad way really."
One of them says something to me. I keep walking as if I didn’t hear anything. Then, I have an idea, not a particularly good idea, but an idea. I pull out my phone to make it look like I’m talking to someone... "Maybe they won't think I'm rude and ignoring them and I'm talking to someone important and won’t do anything..."
After 5 minutes of quick walking, my heart rate slows to a more normal pace. Then, I see THE line. It snakes back and forth, like game in kindergarten. There are people everywhere, women with children, youth with bags perfectly balanced on their heads, men with hungry looks on their faces. I quickly surmise that there must be at least a 3 hour wait to go through South African immigration. "Wow," I think to myself[2]. "And it’s 3 am... this place must be crazy in the day!"
I continue walking past the line, confident that there must be another place to go through immigration. I put on my best “I’m a lost and confused foreigner” look and begin somewhat innocently meandering. I find a different line that is intended for bus passengers. I point and give a questioning look to one of the guards at the door, careful not to ask any questions so that I can presume that this is the place to be. He gives me a nod and I enter a rather small room that also has a long snaking line. Looks like an hour wait, "better than three hours..." comes the thought.
I’m the last person in the line and there aren’t more people coming in behind me. This makes me question whether I’m in the correct line or not. I decide to gamble and stay in the line. I’m tired and very hungry and really don’t want to wait 3+ hour in the other line. Eventually, after about 45 minutes, more people begin coming in behind me, giving me confidence that I’ve chosen correctly. I continue to wait.
When there are three more people left in front of me, a guard comes and starts moving people to another line. There are protests from the crowd, until the guard shouts something. Then, people begrudgingly move to the other side of the hall to join another line. The guard inevitably comes to me and points to the window.
“You with them?” he questions.
I nod and say, “Yes sir.” This prompts him to end the line with me. "Whew!" I’m quite sure that the sound is audible... the person in front of me gives me a glance after the sigh.
I quickly pass through immigration and make my way to the gate, glancing at my phone. "4 am... damn, I’m hungry!"
Luck is with me, sort of... there is a gas station/KFC combination store 50 meters pass the border gate. I quickly pass the gas station. The only food possibly worse than KFC could only be a gas station. I walk in and give the lady behind the counter a big smile and ask for a liter bottle of Sprite and two orders of fake chicken pieces.
“You hungry” she half states, half questions while smiling back.
“Yes ma'am, I haven’t eaten for a long time.”
“Good. I hope you enjoy.”
She is friendly and we begin talking. There are only a few people in the store and most of them are sleeping. Things aren’t busy and I’m most likely a welcome distraction. I take advantage of the opportunity to ask if it’s possible to arrive to Swaziland from the north, without going to Johannesburg.
“Maybe” she says, “but I don’t think so.” This is more welcoming of an answer than I’ve found yet.
“How might I go?” I question.
“The only possible way is to take a taxi to Pretoria. From there, you can take a bus to Swazi.”
That doesn’t really help me. Pretoria is only 80 kilometers north of Johannesburg and would still include a lot of backtracking. I show her the map on my phone and ask her how to get to Nelspruit (just north of Swaziland) and if I might get a ride from Nelspruit to Swaziland.<
“Maybe,” she says, not wanting to dissappoint me. “Either way, you must wait for the taxis (meaning mini-buses). They start at 8 am.”
I glance at my phone again, 4:30 am...
“OK.” I smile and thank her again.
“You can wait inside. It’s warmer inside.” She smiles and I thank her again.
I wait for an hour and then decide that it really isn’t that cold and if I wait on the road, maybe I can hitch a ride a little bit earlier. I go outside and stick my thumb out. I’m not sure if it’s the correct sign to make to ask for a ride, but "What the hell?!?!?"
I wait for about 10 minutes and it begins to rain. I wait a few minutes, hoping that the rain will pass, then put on my rain jacket and continue to wait. After another 15 minutes, I still haven’t seen a single car and decide it isn’t worth it to get soaking wet. I go back inside and smile at the KFC lady.
I wait until 7:30 and then go back outside into the rain. I only wait a few minutes before a mini-bus stops and asks where I’m going. I decide to go for it and say, “Polokwane.” This is a fairly big city and I think that from there, I can go find a way east to Swazi.
“We’re going to Pretoria. Get in.”
I jump in, glad that I’ve found a mini-bus this early, and even better, only half full! I grab a single seat directly behind the sliding door that will give me more leg room. I sit down, take off my wet jacket, and put it over my knees. It doesn’t matter much, I’m wet and cold and the window doesn’t close... this is gonna be a bit of a cold ride. I put on my black fleece beanie to help keep me warm.
We continue like this for a few hours. I’m surprised that we aren’t stopping for more people. Something isn’t quite right... and everyone seems particularly quiet. I surmise that this isn’t a normal mini-bus ride. It seems that the driver had to go to Pretoria, maybe for repairs, and decided to pick-up a few people, but only if it was convenient. He’s clearly in a hurry, "probably doesn’t want to refund money if the mini-bus breaks down". I stop my thoughts there and wait, hoping to arrive quickly to Polokwane.
After shivering through the two-hour ride, they drop me off on the side of the road in Polokwane and quickly go without wasting any words. I see a gas station a couple hundred meters down the road and decide to go there; gas stations always know how to get places and usually help to find rides.
I begin explaining to the attendant that I would like to go to Swaziland and that I think I can make it from Nelspruit. He tells me it’s not possible, just not possible. This starts a bit of a heated discussion amongst the gas station dudes. I'm sure these types of discussions take place all day, but it's still fun to watch the energy they guys put into it. Finally, one of the attendants confidently tells me that it is possible to go to Swazi from the north. He begins giving me directions.
“First, go to Mokopane. Mokopane, go to Bursfood and take taxi to Nelspruit. It is possible. Go to Bursfood.”
“Bursesfood?” I question. I’m really confused and don’t understand this name at all.
“Yes, Burlesford.”
“Buyersfood?” I ask again, trying to decipher the name.
“Yes, Bulersford.”
I ask him to write it, to try to understand, but we can't find anything to write on...
“OK. Thank you!” I smile, realizing that it is very unlikely that I’ll completely understand the name of the place.
I walk down the road, deciding to just go to Mokopane. "I’ll figure things out from there" and stick my thumb out. In a few minutes I have a ride with a trucker.
It doesn’t take long for us to make it to Mokopane. He asks me where he should drop me.
“I don’t know.” I respond.
“You don’t know?” comes the question.
“No. Where are the buses?”
This seems to confuse the truck driver. He’s the one asking questions, not me. He tries one more with some anger in his voice, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.” I respond as neutrally as I possibly can for traveling well over 24 hours in buses without any sleep.
“I’ll leave you here.” he says angrily while stopping at a gas station.
“Great. Thank you!” I like be dropped at gas stations. These dudes have a way of getting things done.
Again, I begin my story. This time I get very positive results. “Yes, you can hike (meaning hitchhike) to Burgersfort. Go to the robot (meaning stoplight) and turn right. Go on that road. There you hike to Burgersfort.”
“Oh...... Burgersfort. Ya, that’s where I want to go. So, I go to the robot and I can hike from there?”
“Ya.”
It’s still pretty vague and I’m not sure what that means exactly, but it’s progress and I quickly go on my way. I turn at the stoplight and walk about 2 kilometers down the street to what seems like the correct amount of distance. It’s started to rain again and there aren’t many people out. I find a woman with a bag of groceries and ask her where I can hike to Burgersfort. She tells me that I have to go back to where I came from and turn on another street. It doesn’t make sense and is completely different directions than the gas station attendant told me. I’m a little confused, but begin backtracking. I go about 20 meters when she yells at me and tells me that it is actually in the direction that I was originally going, I just need to cross the street. I thank her, guessing that she didn’t understand me, or maybe this whole Burgersfort thing doesn’t really exist... it does sound a bit strange for the name of town... a fort made of hamburgers or something...
I cross the street in front of an abandoned real estate building that at one time, also served as a medical clinic of some sort. I see a homeless-looking guy standing in front of the building and ask him from where I can hike to Burgersfort.
“Here.”
“Here?” I question. It doesn’t look like much of a landmark, especially one that would be a meeting place for rides. And... this dude has a strange look in his eye, the one eye that seems to be functioning properly. My spider sense is tingling...
“Here.” he tells me.
“Burgersfort?” I question again, not sure if I’ve entered some type of other dimension or not... perhaps it’s the lack of sleep and food and I’m hallucinating...
“Wait. I find you ride.”
And so, I wait. I keep my backpack on, just in case I need to move quickly, and lean against the building, under the slightly overhanging roof, to avoid as much rain as possible. After a little while, two separate women come and stand in the same location. I discreetly ask one of them where she is going, not wanting the one-eyed dude to see me and potentially get angry.
“Burgersfort.”
“Whew...” I think to myself. “I am at the right place.”
“I’m going to Burgersfort also.” I say out-loud.
She just looks at me and slightly nods, then turns away as if I made some major social faux pas.
With nothing else to do, I return to my overhang. Meanwhile, a couple walks up just as a car stops. The driver shouts Burgersfort and the two quickly jump in. Me and the two ladies were too slow and none of us are happy that we just got sniped by the newcomers. Things go like this for a while. People come, cars stop, people go. Me and the ladies wait for several minutes until a white delivery van stops. The one-eyed homeless dude acts as an intermediary. The driver is going to Burgersfort and the two ladies quickly jump in. Another group of three has managed to get in front of me and starts to get in the van.
“Looks like I’ve been too slow again.” I think, not ready to start a confrontation.
But, justice is no my side. The homeless man stops the group of three and tells them that I’ve been waiting longer than anyone and it’s my turn. The group gives me an embarrassed look and steps out of the pseudo-line. But, the tables have turned against me... there aren’t any more seat left in the van.
I start to back-up, not wanting to turn and inadvertently hit something/someone with my backpack[3]. As I turn, a few words are said, and the driver points to the empty back of the van. "Sweet," I think to myself and I thank the driver. "I’ll have leg room!"
I open the back door, drop my backpack on the dirty metal floor of the van and sit down on the wheel hub. There are a few scattered boxes for different alcoholic beverages and some posters announcing a party. Looks like this dude has been a promoter for a party or booze company and now that the party’s over, he’s headed back.
I sit on the wheel hub for several minutes, the metal hitting my tired butt with each bump. It isn’t very comfortable so, I sit down on the floor to see if it might be any better. It’s not. One section of the road is so bad, that one of the ladies looks back at me. She doesn’t say anything, just gives me a quick glance. She seems scared of me and I'm not quite sure why...
We bound along for a while, when I have a marvelous idea.
"Maybe..." I think to myself. What the hell..." I realize that I can’t really get any dirtier and decide to lay down on the floor. "Maybe I can get a little sleep..." I’ve been awake since 5 am the previous day and I’m tired.
I lay on my side, using my left arm for a pillow. I put my back against the wheel hub and bring my backpack close to me and put my right arm over it so that if anyone tried to take it, it would wake me. I try to make it look like I’m hugging the bag and not defending it. "Better to look a little weird than to be robbed."
Sleep is futile. The roads are bumpy and my head keeps banging around. Plus, the driver is listening to a dance party mix, presumable from last night.  I sit up again.
It’s mid-afternoon and I’m starting to feel the pressure. It’s quite common for the borders to close down around 5 or 6 and it looks like I might not make it to Swaziland.
We’ve arrived to Burgersfort and I ask the lady in the seat how to get to the mini-bus stop. She tells me that she is going there, but nothing else. I take that as I should just get out where she does.
After a few minutes, the van stop and she starts walking. I follow her, trying not to be a creeper, but not really knowing where else to go. I follow her to a dirty parking slot that has a fence on one side and a couple of little food shops made from pallets. One is covered with a tarp and sitting on over-turned buckets in the dirt wait the drivers of the three mini-buses that are in the slots. As we approach one driver stands and gets in the mini-bus, starting the engine. "Damn, I’m going to miss it!"
I quicken my step, as does the lady I’ve been following, but to no avail. The mini-bus is full and leaves as we arrive. I walk to the next mini-bus which already has three other people waiting. With me and the lady I’ve been following, that makes five. "Well, we won’t be leaving for a while..."
I am starving. I’ve only eaten once (if you can call KFC food) in the last 34 hours. The pallet food shops look a little gamier than I’m willing to try before getting into a bus for several hours. I look around and see a grocery store and start that way. I find my way to the back of the store where there is a “deli”. They have pap and meat pies. I take two pies, careful to avoid the steak and kidney pies that are common, and grab an apple soda. I can barely restrain myself from devouring the food before I’ve paid for it.
By the time I return to the mini-bus, both pies are gone. The shock of food and drink to my system remind me that I should also use the bathroom. I stop by the fence about 20 meters from the mini-buses and relieve myself.
I optimistically open the door of the rusted mini-bus. It’s still drizzling and people shiver as I open the door. We have gained three more passengers, bringing the total to eight. Somehow, I always manage to enter a bus with only the back seat vacant and this is no exception. I squeeze into the corner seat of the back row, knowing that it will be very uncomfortable for the next few hours. I put my backpack on my lap, blocking my view to the front and sit with my torso facing forward, my legs to the side... its the only way that I can possibly fit into these seats. "At least the window opens." and I crack open a bit to have some fresh air. It isn’t long before someone asks me to close the window, it’s too cold.
After 30 minutes, we are full and the driver begins our trip. We bounce along. I’m surprised by the mountains that we cross and I’m stunned by the beauty of the region. We drive through pine forests and rocky outcrops. There are a lot of clouds and mist from the rain, but I’m still able to enjoy some of the vistas.
We continue for more than a couple hours. A couple times, I lean my head against my backpack, still in my lap, and doze for a few minutes. There is barely enough space in the mini-bus for me to breath, let alone move. The heavy backpack on my legs doesn’t help... the trip is just long enough for my legs to experience the full-range of travel sensations, moving from pain to shooting sensations to numbness.
Finally, we to Nelspruit. I get out and take a few minutes so I can walk correctly. This is a substantial transport station. There is a cement parking area and a metal roof to protect against the elements. There are also many options of transportation: actual buses and mini-buses and real taxis. I ask around about transportation to Swazi and I’m directed to the “international” section of the station, a dirt parking lot at the end of the road. I make my way through the mud puddles and piles of garbage, trying to maintain some cleanliness.
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| Taxi ranks. -[South Africa] |
After ten minutes I arrive. As is typical, a young man approaches me and asks me where I’m going.
“Swaziland” I respond.
“Oh, that’s not possible.” He says it with an unmistakable surety.
I’m devastated. It’s been several hours of brutal travel and it looked more and more possible as I got closer. This is the first time in several hundred kilometers that I’ve been told it’s not possible.
“Not possible at all?” I manage to ask.
“No. You can go to Mozambique. It’s less than two hours away.” he says. He can hear the disappointment in my voice and is trying to be helpful.
“No, no I can’t. I can’t enter Mozambique. I can only go to Swaziland.” I don’t really want to get into time-frames and visa problems and anything else. “There isn’t any possible way to go to Swaziland?”
“No. There aren’t any buses to Swaziland from here. And the border from Barberton (the crossing I had been aiming for) is closed.”
“OK.” I know there really isn’t much else to do.
“Just a minute.” he says as he begins dialing on his phone.
He makes several phone calls. Every once in a while, he looks at me, then says something into the phone, and then holds up his hand in a “stopping” motion to signify that I should wait. I patiently stand in the mud, trying not to be the angry, demanding foreigner guy. Eventually, I take advantage of the rest and buy a soda and relieve myself.
It’s been fifteen minutes and it’s not looking very promising. I begin getting restless knowing that its after 4 pm and time is important. Finally, he puts his phone in his pocket and approaches me. I prepare myself for the bad news.
“OK.” he starts, “you can cross the border from Malelane. It closes at six, you have plenty of time. Go back to the transportation station and take the bus to Malelane. From Malelane ask to go to Piggs Peak in Swaziland. It is different than you wanted, but you can go. You must pass before 6.”
“Great!” I shake his hand. “Are you sure?” I have to ask... so many times I’ve been told the wrong thing.
“Yes, I called my friend... he knows.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me.” I say to myself as I thank the young man again, still shaking his hand.
I begin running, as best as I can with a backpack in a muddy parking lot while both hungry and tired, towards the covered buses. I just miss the bus to Malelane, but the following bus is already over half-full, and...... the front seat is empty!!!
I quickly jump in. This is a new bus and the front seat is very comfortable bucket seat (as opposed to the typical bench seats) that has enough room for me to put my backpack on the ground AND still move my legs. I roll down the window, very tempted to buy some food from one of the many vendors, but not wanting to jinx anything. Hunger prevails over prudence and I quickly purchase a chocolate bar that is more wax than coco. Within a few minutes, the bus is full and we are moving.
Unbeknownst to me, this is the state that is the home of Kruger National Park. As such, there is quite a bit of money and the local government has made significant investments in transportation (ohhhhh, that’s why there are new buses and nice stations…). The roads are all multi-lane and wide and travel is fast. It’s the end of the day and the driver is in a hurry. I look at the signs and calculate that we should arrive to Malelane about 5 pm. That should give me enough time to make the 30 minute trip to the border. "This crazy idea just might work out!"
The bus stops directly at the next bus station, a detail that is wonderful, but somehow doesn't happen in so many places. I jump off the bus, ask a quick question, and find myself on another new bus to the border, just like that! Within five minutes, we are cruising towards Swazi!
We drive through mist covered hills as the sun is setting, creating dramatic scenery. It’s hard to believe that I’m actually in Africa and have been tromping through deserts for the last several weeks.
We arrive to the border crossing at 5:30. It’s been over 36 hours of travel in over 15 different vehicles without sleep and with very little food and I’ve finally arrived. I am energized with success and confidently walk through the exit gates of South Africa.
This is a small crossing, so small that is doesn’t have a name. There is little to even indicate that this is the intersection of two different countries. I walk into a little shed, the only thing around and begin filling out the entry paper for Swaziland.
“You don’t need the paper” the man behind the desk tells me.
“Great!” I say as I hand him my passport.
He takes a few minutes to enter my information and then returns my passport.
 |
| Border crossing. -Jeppes Reef [Swaziland] |
Time is still important. I hope to make it to Mbabane, the capital of Swaziland, spend the night there, and see some of the sites tomorrow. Then tomorrow evening, start towards Johannesburg for a flight on the following day. I need to get a movin'.
At the rusted out mini-bus parked just outside the gates, I ask how to get to Mbabane.
“No Mbabane, you go Piggs Peak. Piggs Peak, you go Mbabane.”
I point to put my backpack under the back seat and one of the guys standing around quickly tries to open the overhead door in the back. It proves to be a bit tricky...
The van is old and the outside handle doesn’t work. The guy takes my backpack and I climb in the van to open the door from the inside. I can’t figure it out. So, I get back out of the van, take back my backpack and the dude goes to the back seat. He fiddles around for a few minutes, talking to the people in the van, until he has success. I put my backpack under the back seat, being careful to note how to open the back door. There is a wire in an opening in the panel that you have to pull...
I climb into the back seat as the sun finishes setting in the west. We immediately leave even though the van is only half full.
The old van creeps and crawls along. We stop at every little intersection and pick-up every person we see. Some get on for only a few hundred meters. People are laughing and talking amongst themselves. Of course, it’s in another language and I understand next to nothing. At one point, the sliding door comes off the track and has to be put back on. I see road signs and quickly calculate that this is a slow way to travel. No worries... I’m in Swazi and I’m enjoying the slower pace.
After two hours, we finish the short trip. The van stops at perhaps the only gas station in Piggs Peak. The few remaining people in the van get out and walk to other vehicles that are waiting for them. Even though it’s not quite 8 pm, the town looks like it has shut down for the night. I put on my backpack and talk to the gas station attendant.
“Not possible.” comes the response to my question.
“No bus?” I ask, point to the three buses that are parked near the pumps.
“No, no go tonight.”
“What to do?” I ask shrugging my shoulders and lifting both of my hands, palms up, towards the sky.
“You wait. Maybe ride to Mbabane.”
“OK.” I have no choice but to once again put my trust in fate.
The gas station attendant talks to a few people as I walk inside to buy some crackers and juice. I’m very hungry and thirsty. Luckily, I can pay in South African Rand. The cashier has trouble making change, even the little amount that it is. She has to ask another guy for a few Lilangeni (the currency of Swaziland).
I thank her and take my crackers outside. I inhale the food, barely pausing long enough to slurp the juice in a few gulps. There isn’t much traffic and it looks like my might be here for quite a while, perhaps the night. I’m starting to wonder about the thoughtfulness of coming to Swaziland. In less than 48 hours, I have a flight, a flight that I really shouldn’t miss as there are several plans pending on my timely arrival.
As I stand, leaning against the building with my backpack on, the attendant talks to a four-door Toyota truck that is filling up with gas. After a few minutes, he approaches me. “They go to border, close to Mbabane. They give you ride for 80 Rand.”
“That’s good!” I tell the gas attendant, while smiling to the driver.
Now, I must wait for attendant to speak to the driver. This is the process. The gas station attendant does these negotiations. It’s natural for him to ask drivers where they are going and then he can facilitate transportation. He waves me over, it’s been a successful deal!
I climb into the back seat of the truck, happy that I have a ride, and even happier that the truck is clean and I have plenty of leg room. I shake the hand of the driver and introduce myself. There is a another passenger in the front seat. I try to introduce myself to him, but he’s not in a full state of awareness.
We begin driving toward Mbabane and the border. They are listening to a football (soccer) game on the radio in a mix of languages. Swaziland is playing someone else and is getting trounced. It does make conversation difficult, but I keep trying. Every so often, between sips of some sort of drink, the passenger makes, what I can only expect to be, completely random comments in what sounds like at least two different languages, slurred together.
The driver is happy to go slow, to be careful, he tells me. Along the way, I find out that the driver is the Minister of Health for the entire country of Swaziland. He laughs as he tells me he is in charge of the current family planning campaign.
“Why is this funny?” he questions me. “This is funny because I have 14 children. Me. I have 14 children and I do family planning!”
It is funny, but not nearly as funny as me hitching a ride with the Swaziland Minister of Health with his drunk assistant listening to a football game and being politely lectured to on the virtues of sportsmanship, family planning, and driving the correct velocity. It’s a moment that I pause to relish.
“Why you go Mbabane?” comes the question.
I explain that I wanted to see a few things there, but have limited time.
“Better you go to the border. Too difficult. You go to Johannesburg.”
And you know what, I agree. I decide to take the ride all the way to the border, after all, he IS the Minister of Health.
“What time does the border close?” I ask.
“It’s open late.”
“Well, OK then.” I think. “Late is good for me.”
We arrive to the border and I give my phone number to the Swaziland Minister of Health, he wants to check on me in the morning. I quickly go through the Swazi side of things. I walk towards the next set of buildings, but miss the appropriate door to enter. I have to turn around a few times before I find the correct place. The South African side takes a bit more time; they are always a bit more careful with their paperwork.
I finish the papers and go to the window. The woman gives me a strange look.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Johannesburg.” I know that’s not was a local would say, but she has my passport and already knows that I’m not local.
“Why?”
I’m a bit set-back by this question. I’ve left and entered South Africa several times now and I’ve never had a problem.
“I have a flight in two days from Jo-burg.” I answer, using the local terminology.
“Why are you crossing?”
“To find ride to Jo-burg.”
“But you can't go to Jo-burg. There aren’t any taxis from here.”
I’m not sure where all this is going. She is still holding my passport and hasn’t stamped it.
“You should stay in Swazi.” she says.
"I’m being denied entry into South Africa. I can't believe this is happening." The thought keeps racing through my mind.
"I don't understand. I can't enter?". I ask.
“You should stay in Swazi. It's not good here.”
“But I can’t...” I politely remind her that I am currently stuck in-between the two countries and I can’t return to Swaziland.
“You can’t sleep in South Africa. There aren’t any hotels. It’s not good here at night.”
“OK. So what should I do?” I ask.
I understand that she’s trying to help me, but this is becoming more difficult and complicated than I would like, especially when an immigration officer is holding my unstamped passport.
We go back and forth for a few minutes. I tell her the only thing I can do is enter South Africa, then turn around, leave South Africa and re-enter Swaziland. It’s 9:40 pm and the borders close at 10 pm. Then I would have to sleep in Swazi and re-cross in the morning after the border opens at 8 am. Even then, there still aren’t buses in the morning. No matter what happens, I need my passport to be stamped so I can enter South Africa.
This is as far as the conversation can go. She stamps my passport and reluctantly hands it back to me. “It’s not safe.” are her final words to me.
All this seems like way too much hassle. I decide to tempt fate even further than I have in the last two days and quickly walk along the dark streets to the only store. The store clerk gives me an incredibly suspicious look as I walk in the door. I get the distinct feeling that I’m the wrong dude in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t like how this is looking.
I ask about transportation to Jo-burg and hotels. I’m curtly told that nothing is available. Not feeling any love, I thank the clerk and walk out the door. I don’t know what to do.
I stand outside the door, which still provides some light on the dark streets, to collect my thoughts and see what options I have. I have to say, there aren’t many... I’m stuck in a border town in the dark of night without a place to stay, without a ride, and without food. Several locals have told me this is a dangerous place and I haven’t slept in nearly 42 hours, which doesn’t help with my reactions and mood. It looks pretty bleak.
I see a couple of guys in uniforms about 100 meters away and decide to ask them about options. I get the same response and same reminder that this isn’t a good place. As they turn to enter a building, one tells me that I might catch a ride at the store. I explain that I was just there and he only shrugs.
Without any other options, I walk back to the store. I feel like a complete idiot, waiting for a ride at a closed border crossing, but don’t really have many options. I stick my thumb out to a truck that passes, but he drives past me and then parks on the opposite side of the road. He's stopping to sleep.
Another car, passes, but they are local people. Another car comes through the border gates. I glance at my watch. The gates should have already closed and that must be the last car for the night.
I stick my thumb out, but the driver ignores me. He stops in front of the store and enters without saying a word to me. Another guy walks out of the store and stands on the other side of the door. This all has the feeling of a gang movie that goes bad and I’m in the role of idiot traveler that is making all the wrong decisions.
The gentleman from the car leaves the store and gets back into the car; the other dude standing by the door also enters the car. They both wait for a few minutes before the passenger rolls the window down.
“What are you doing?” they ask me.
“I’m looking for a ride.” I respond.
They both just look at me. Nothing is said and this is all quite bizarre for me. After a few minutes, the passenger gets out of the two-door car and pushes the seat forward. He looks at me and say, “Well.”
Not sure what to do, I get into the car. I’m sure that this will someday be shown as a public service announcement to school children around the world about what NOT to do when a stranger in a “bad” area of town somehow offers you a ride in the backseat of his car in the middle of the night. But, I figure, if this is going to go bad, let’s just get it over with. "Anyway, I’m too tired to fight."
I start making conversation to build the human connection between us. I want human connections with these guys. The talk is really slow and I’m not getting much of an answer to anything.
After 10 minutes, the car stops and the passenger gets out. He leaves the door open. I still don’t have any idea of what is really going on nor where I’m going with the gentlemen. The driver looks at me and tells me to get into the front seat. I do so, leaving the door open. I still don’t know what’s going on.
“Let’s go.” he tells me.
I finally get it. We just dropped off the other dude and now we are going. This actually isn't some elaborate scheme to kill me... I close the door and we begin driving. On the way, he asks me where I’m going. I explain that I don’t really know where I’m going. I need to go to Johannesburg tomorrow and tonight, I’m just looking for a place to sleep. I hoped to go to Ermelo to find a bus the following day. It’s still on the highway and looks like it a good place.
He tells me that he has had an emergency and he can drop me in Carolina, a small city off the highway. He assures me that there are some places to sleep there.
"Sounds good to me!"
We arrive and he drops me in the part of town “that has the hotels”. The driver points me in the correct direction and I walk 100 meters to the house that has been converted in a bed & breakfast of sorts. As is the custom, there is a cinder block wall with razor wire around the property; the only opening is a wrought-iron gate that moves across the driveway.
I walk all around the wall, trying to find a way to enter... looks like my only option is the gate. I pull it back and it moves about half a meter and stops. Only then do I realize that it is a mechanical gate and I probably shouldn’t have forced it open. Opps... I enter the yard and walk to the house. I can see a reception, but everything is locked. I try the door a couple of times and then walk to the back door to see if anything is open. It’s not. "Damn it!"
Not sure how to find a room, I exit the lot and walk 500 meters down the street to a small, local convenience store that I saw while driving into town. The shop is still open and there’s a man that looks like a large version of a red-headed Keebler elf, complete with one of those plaid Scottish looking golf hats.
I ask if there is anywhere to stay in town. He is Afrikaans and speaks in broken English. He struggles to direct me to the bed & breakfast that I just left. I tell him that nobody was there. He takes a few minutes to find the phone number of another hostel, across the street from the bed & breakfast. He writes the number down on a piece of paper and hands it to me. I explain that I don’t have phone credit and can’t make any calls. He offers to sell me credit and I buy the smallest amount available.
I’m starving and look around the store for something to eat. There is little available. I settle on the last two “Russians”, some horrible-looking croissant things that apparently have a Russian sausage (meaning hot dog) inside.
It’s almost midnight and they are closing the store. He tells me that it isn’t safe and I shouldn't be out. I thank him for his help and leave, walking back down the street towards the hostel and bed & breakfast. In the process, I add the credit to my phone and call the hostel. I wake the manager and he tells me there aren’t any rooms available any more. I ask if there is anywhere else to town and he also refers me to the bed & breakfast across the street. I told him that I already checked there and nobody was available.
“You must call.” He tells me with a thick Afrikaans accent.
“What is the number?” I ask.
“On sign. On sign.”
I thank him and hang up. “What sign?”
After further investigation, I find the sign in front. I’m surprised that I didn’t notice it before, but then not really... its midnight and its been nearly two fulls days since I last slept and more than that since I’ve had a decent meal. I feel like I’m one of the walking dead in a really bad zombie movie.
I hesitate to call the number on the sign. I really don’t want to wake anyone, and I’ve possibly ruined their gate. It only takes a few seconds for me to get over my qualms. I call and wake a lady that sounds like a Dutch grandma. It’s very difficult to understand her. She is trying very hard to be polite, but I just don’t understand. Eventually, I gather that she also doesn’t have any more rooms available.
“Shit...” I think to myself, almost saying it out-loud.
She continues talking. After she repeats it three times, I realize that she is telling me that she has another hostel and there are rooms available there. She tells me to walk straight for six streets and then turn right.
“But, how do you know I should walk straight? That could be in any direction!” I’m not trying to be difficult, but it is a good point.
“You only walk straight for six streets in one direction. This is small town. Walk towards the robot (meaning stoplight). There is only one robot.”[4] this comes as more of a reprimand than advice, like I should know the layout of the small town.
I thank her, happy that we managed some sort of communication.
I cinch up my backpack and start making the 2 kilometer walk to the next hostel. On the way, I see two guys walking towards me on the opposite side of a very dark and dirty street. They cross the street towards me and my senses grow even more alert.
"Maybe they just want my two “Russians." I laugh out-loud at my own joke.
I try to stop this train of thought and act calm, but it’s too late and I’m too tired. Using humor as my personal defense mechanism, I continue, "I bet they do. I hear they’re great! They must of heard that I have the last two in town and are coming to politely ask me if they might purchase them.
I say goodnight as I walk pass them, grateful that I can see the sign in front of the hostel.
I arrive the hostel and ring the bell three times before the security guard opens for me. We exchange a few words and then he shows me my room. It isn’t much, but it looks wonderful!!!
I drop my backpack on the floor and start peeling off my wet clothes that I’ve been wearing for the last four days.
There's a shower! And it has hot water!!! I let the water heat up for a few minutes while I inhale one of the “Russians”. I jump in the shower for the first time in four days. It’s been over a month since I’ve had a hot shower and I thoroughly enjoy just standing there and letting the hot water hit me in the back of the neck.
After ten minutes, sleep begins to overpower me. I turn of the water and dry off, collapsing onto the bed.
I wake in the morning unsure of where I am. I love that feeling. Those few brief seconds where I’m completely disoriented and could be anywhere in the world...
It only takes a second for my brain to start replaying the recording from yesterday. I quickly realize where I am and decide to treat myself to the luxury of another hot shower. This time I shave (I hate shaving with cold water).
My clothes have dried out enough to cram into the backpack. I pull out a new change of clothes from my backpack and take a moment to enjoy the smell of "clean" before I throw them on.
 |
| Sunday morning church. -Carolina [South Africa] |
I walk back down the street towards the only stoplight in town. From there, I begin look for food. Yes, FOOD!
There is an open door down the street that looks promising. Well, let me rephrase that... it looks like they would have food.
I walk in the door. They have previously-cooked food under a glass cover and there’s a microwave on the table against the wall. "Beggars can’t be choosers."
I order the fish and chips for breakfast, not typically my first choice so early in the morning, but I haven’t eaten for several hours and there is really much else to choose. The man pulls out the styrofoam holding the fried articles from the previous day and peels back one corner of the saran wrap before plopping it into the microwave. The bell dings and the man hands me the reheated fish 'n chips that have been covered with a deep maroon Indian chutney. I shrug to myself and think, "Down the hatch." I devour the "food" in a matter of seconds, along with an orange soda.
The total is 31 Rand. I only have a 50 Rand note. The Indian attendant doesn't see the practicality of returning 9 Rand in coins and asks me twice if I have one Rand. I don't. He asks the person behind me, a complete stranger, who doesn't have one rand either. I don't say anything, just shrug... I also don't like the idea of all the spare change either. It will only clank around in pocket and eventually fall out. After a moment, he hands me a 20 Rand note and waves me away.
Not one to linger when fortune has come my way, I quickly exit to I walk outside and down the street about 20 meters. I begin waiting to hitch a ride where the gas station attendant instructed me, next to the only stoplight in town.
This is a decidedly blue-collar town on a Sunday morning, and there are more semi-trucks than personal vehicles. I wink at three black ladies riding in the back of a pick-up truck, bundled in blankets, and evoke a hearty laugh from one of them. They are wearing the white head shawls of a local church that is a mix of traditional beliefs and what I'm told is Apostolic. When I ask what that is, I get varying answers.
I wait for two hours, nothing... Other people keep getting rides, but they are all going to another town. I return to the gas station to speak to the attendant again.
“Am I doing something wrong?”
“Sunday” he responds.
“Oh,” I somehow understand. “No traffic?”
He simply nods. It still seems like there’s more going on than “no traffic”.
I begin contemplating whether I should backtrack, perhaps I'll have better luck going back to the border or highway. As I sit in indecision, the unexpected happens, an Afrikaans man stops and rolls down the window of his truck.
“Where you going?” I ask.
“Get in,” he tells me. “this is not nice place.”
I begin to open the door, to which he responds, “bag in the back.”
I comply, understanding that he might take-off as soon as I put my backpack in the truck bed, but I do need a ride.
He immediately extends his hand and says, “Leon.” It is one of the few times in the last several weeks that the conversation immediately feels natural.
“You look different, foreign, and you don't understand that this is a bad place,” he offers as an explanation for stopping.
We move through the rolling fields as he talks about farming, the history of his people, traditions, politics, the economy, the Black Empowerment policy (BEE), apartheid, and the removal of white people from the economy. Much of it I don't agree with, most of it is incredibly racist. I fight the urge to respond... I've learned that it's better to listen, only asking the occasional neutral question for clarity or to develop the conversation. Eventually concludes that the Apartheid policies did some wrong things. All people wanted was the freedom to be with people that they could communicate with and had a deeper understanding of. I can finally agree, positively reinforcing an idea that I think is an important theme.
He drops me at an all-in-one truck stop/gas station/shopping center off the highway and instructs me that this road will go directly to Johannesburg. I'm back on the beaten path! I offer to pay, as is my perception of the custom. He matter-of-factly refuses, saying “No, no, this is my pleasure.” Again, a natural response for me and where I come from. I walk away glad that Leon has stepped out of his comfort zone to give me a ride and I've been able to hear another side of the story.
I go to the highway entrance and begin sticking thumb out and survey the landscape. It's beautiful farm country with rolling hills. The rain clouds from yesterday still fill the sky, to create a dramatic landscape. There is an ostrich pecking the ground and several kudu relaxing next to a waterhole. They have had their morning meal and are now digesting. A group of eight rhinos are on the move. Two adolescent males jostle with each other. It's playful, but practice for deadlier moments later in life.
A group of bikers ride by, one points to the back of his bike and laughs. I laugh also and give him a “thumbs up”.
I suddenly feel very “at home". This could be any entrance ramp along any interstate and I, any ordinary hitchhiker; not a strange man in a strange land. The sun feels good on the back of my legs and my backpack has a good weight to it and sits comfortably on my back. After 54 hours of non-stop travel, it’s 11 am and I’m waiting for a ride to Jo-berg, now only 200 km away.
 |
| Hitchhiking. -Carolina [South Africa] |
Footnotes:
1. Several years ago, after devastating inflation, Zimbabwe changed their currency to US dollars. Now, they use the dirtiest, most tattered and illegible dollars that you have ever seen. -return to the story
2. What can I say? I think to myself a lot... and quite often find the conversations rather stimulating. -return to the story
3. Known as the backpack dance. -return to the story
4. That sound like it should be a line out of a bad sci-fi movie... "Walk towards the robot... the only robot... that is the answer to save the universe." -return to the story
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