I spent my last three years in South Africa living in Johannesburg. I therefore wanted to spend some time there visiting my "haunts" and catching up with a good high school buddy of mine, Deon. I also wanted to spend a little time in the Eastern Transvaal province of Mpumalanga. The eastern part of this province is occupied by the famous Kruger National Park, and though I didn’t want to spend time there because it was malaria-mosquito country, I did want to spend some time cycling around the highveld escarpment. In this area the highveld abruptly drops 3000ft and hence offers some magnificent views of the lowveld.

Monday, 26^th January

Got up at 7am and after a leisurely breakfast, cycled from Pinelands to the railway station in Cape Town. I wanted to give myself sufficient time to stow my bike and then to call my sister. Instead of carrying a lot of cash around with me, I decided that I would use one of her bank accounts into which she deposited my money. However, when I attempted to use the ATM card the afternoon before, I was notified that the account was "locked". She would call the bank this morning and try to sort things out before my train left, else we would have to go to "plan B". Plan B had not been determined yet.

Getting my bike on the train turned out to be more of a challenge than I expected. I had to ask three different train officials the same question before I got an answer that had any informational content. It struck me that these same white train officials who couldn’t give me a straight answer to what I considered a simple question had guaranteed jobs with the South African Railways under Apartheid thanks to the Job Reservation Act.

I was assigned to a 4-person compartment occupied by only one other person, a rather amiable fellow who seemed to know almost everyone on the train. I asked him about this and discovered he was a SpoorNet HR employee (SpoorNet is the name of the private organization running the former South African Railways)

By the time the train crossed the Hexrivierberg, left the Western Cape and entered the Karoo, about 3 hours into the trip, I’d had enough of sitting in my compartment and made my way into the dining car for an afternoon snack. There I met 4 young South African university students well on their way to "forgetting their troubles". I set down at an unoccupied table and immediately attracted the attention of Michelle, the oldest of the bunch. She was a Calvin and Hobbes fan and the tee shirt I was wearing was of one of her favorite cartoons. We started talking; they were all on a vacation from Johannesburg and were now returning home and were determined to get as drunk as possible before they got there. I was quite happy to help them in that regard. After some time I joined then at their table. "I love that shirt," she kept saying. I asked her if she wanted to trade, and much to my surprise she agreed. The thought of wearing a tiny little crop-top with spaghetti straps didn’t appeal to me too much, but then again getting a woman to take off her shirt 4 hours into a train ride wasn’t such a bad deal either. The reaction of her "boyfriend" on the other hand was quite comical, at least from where I was sitting. He was visibly upset, sulking, but not bold enough to actually say anything about it.

We then proceeded to drink round after round of beers, but I don’t seem to remember paying for any of them. First I dared Warren that he couldn’t drink a beer in less than 3 seconds, a bet I always won even though he tried several times. Then we played "coinage", a South African variation on the popular college drinking game of quarters. The twist was to make up rules that if broken would obligate the transgressor to drink. The rules could include only using ones left hand, no sliding of the coin, etc.

Right around sunset, the group retired to bed. At this point, the dining car steward was happy to see them go since they’d spilled more than enough beer on the table and floor. I watched the sun go down over the Karoo, as beautiful a sunset as one is likely to witness in any desert setting. I had decided against cycling through the Karoo because of the long distances between towns and my lack of sufficient water carrying capacity, but watching that sunset made me wish I had. After dinner, I spent hours staring up at the black sky trying to identify the constellations which were quite unfamiliar to me at this point, having spent the last 17 years in the northern hemisphere. The desert air was still and warm, and every time the train stopped at a small desert town I felt the draw of those small, romanticized rural communities. Only once during the night was a rock thrown through the train’s windows.

Tuesday, 27^th January

The next morning the gang-of-four was nowhere to be seen. Arriving in Johannesburg would be quite exciting given all that I’d heard about it. I was repeatedly deluged by tales of Johannesburg’s rapidly escalating crime rate all the way from petty, pickpocket type theft, to the more violent types of crimes. However, all the tellers were telling the stories from at least 4^th or 5^th hand experience and naturally I was skeptical, though nonetheless determined to be cautious. The chief problems facing the new South Africa are abysmally low education levels of the black population and the associated high unemployment rates. These young men living in townships surrounded by teeming poverty and squalor have very little to lose when they commit crimes—nothing new here, since we see the same phenomenon in the USA. The solution however will be THE challenge in the next coming years for the government of South Africa. That’s not to say however that all crime is perpetrated by the black segments of the populations.

My first personal encounter in Johannesburg was with a fellow in the train station who directed me to the taxi stands. I had decided to take a taxi to my friend’s house in West Windsor, rather than risk life and limb attempting to cycle from the train station in the city center. In retrospect I would probably have been OK if I had cycled in my usual assertive and determined manner. The fellow who directed me, an old black man with only one good eye, hummed a Kenny Rogers tune as we walked. "He’s my favorite singer" he said. The taxi driver was skeptical at first, when I declared that I wished to place my bicycle into the trunk of his little car, but quick release wheels made him a believer.

Much like in Cape Town, minibus taxis are an omnipresent factor of Johannesburg’s transportation reality. They’re fairly economical, numerous and arguably more efficient than regular buses. However, the reports of unlicensed and unsafe drivers combined with overcrowding make for some horrendous accidents, which are apparently quite frequent if one believes road accident statistics. But this is undoubtedly a biased and stereotyped view of a foreigner who hasn’t actually patronized their services.

Seeing Deon again after 17 years was a pleasant experience. He lives in a pleasant town house in Windsor Park with his wife, Sue. He had changed little in physical appearance, but had obviously matured just like I had. We spent a good part of a few hours visiting our old high school in Roosevelt Park and reliving our high school days thanks to our senior year magazine—a kind of catharsis actually. We seemed to have come to the same conclusion that growing up under the Apartheid regime seriously compromised our history education and generally stunted our understanding of the reality around us. I was surprised to learn that he really hated his whole high school experience and our reminiscing was consequently quite unpleasant. I on the other hand seemed to have forgotten, one might say suppressed, the whole experience. In retrospect, it definitely seemed that the educational system was revisionist and very much dominated by Afrikaners determined to successfully implement the "final solution" of Apartheid. The concept however was very much taboo and unsuitable as a subject to be questioned by young impressionable minds and hence the teaching and dissection of the resultant realities and wretchedness was completely neglected.

Wednesday, 28^th January

Deon took the day off from work and we spent the day "touring" Johannesburg. Johannesburg is at first impression a grim place and I was confronted with the "true" transformation that is the new South Africa. Staying in Cape Town, one can quickly forget that one is in Africa and almost pretend, if one ignores the expansive squatter camps, that one is in the southern most extension of Europe. Johannesburg is, for better or for worse, the future of South Africa. The outward signs of tension are present everywhere and residents seem to have a siege-like fortress mentality. The city center, once the epicenter of business in Gauteng province, has been pretty much abandoned, a` la "white flight" from US inner cities, by whites and businesses who have moved to the northern suburbs attracting the more violent and personal crime with them. All the posh mansion-type houses in the northern suburbs are surrounded by high walls and in most cases razor and/or electrified wire, and window bars and security gates are de rigeur.

The crime which remains in the city center, although attracting a lot of international attention, is of Dickensian form. People drive fast and often recklessly and "road rage" is becoming a hip form of social expression. But despite all that, there is still optimism. Deon has lived in Pretoria, a city arguably more relaxed than Johannesburg, and claims he wouldn’t want to live anywhere but Jo’burg. The tossing out of Apartheid has really boosted the cultural scene of Johannesburg with all kinds of previously banned music forms becoming quite mainstream. And the flight of traditional business from the city center has given opportunity for the rise of museums, cafes, nightclubs etc. not to mention a real African character. There's even talk of transforming the old "John Foster Square", the former downtown police headquarters, prison and notorious detention and interrogation center and scene of many "shower deaths" under the dark days of apartheid, into an "Auschwitz-like museum".

We visited Brixton, Melville and Greymont where I learned that the famous Sophiatown, a former black township and home of Father Trevor Huddleston during the 1950’s, was razed to make way for white settlements. Northcliff, where I lived for 4 years prior to leaving South Africa was completely unrecognizable. Where once was open space is now completely developed. Expensive houses and indoor shopping malls are very much in demand, and wealth is very much flaunted. The rand attracts people to Johannesburg for the opportunity to make it is there. Unfortunately, the opportunity is not always realized in an honest fashion. While in Johannesburg I heard of several cases of armored car heists, and banks take extraordinary security precautions even going so far as to limit entry to one person at a time. Furthermore, it is in Johannesburg that the rift between rich and poor is at its greatest and the extremes of this rift are so great.

Near Greymont, we came across a cyclist slowly riding along a fairly busy street. He had a definite "Yeah, I dare you to knock that chip off my shoulder" attitude and on closer examination it became apparent why he might feel that way. In the small of his back, in full view, was a holstered 9mm automatic pistol. I’d heard of cases where criminals would shoot and kill South African police officers just to get their guns, so this fellow’s display of bravado seemed utterly stupid to me. Driving by, one could easily open the car door, knock the fellow off his bike, take his gun and then shoot him with it. Why would someone willingly draw this kind of attention to himself?

For dinner, Deon and Sue took me to a restaurant at the Randburg Waterfront. The Waterfront is a huge expanse of restaurants, a movie theatre and amusement park attractions surrounding a shallow, artificial lake. My guess is that some opportunist saw the money being spent by tourists at the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront in Cape Town and decided he wanted a part of it. The evening’s company was wonderful but the setting was bizarre, topped off by the incompetence of our waiter who not only was having trouble with the English language but also obviously hadn’t bothered to master the items on the menu. I felt embarrassed for the poor fellow and wondered why affirmative action had to be this painful.

Thursday, 29^th January

Nelspruit was to be the starting point of the cycle tour of the Sabie area of the eastern highveld. I had been agonizing with transportation alternatives from Johannesburg. Though Spoornet run a daily train through Nelspruit, the arrival time is unfortunately 3am in the morning. The thought of wandering around a train station at that hour of the morning didn’t appeal to me. I toyed with the idea of renting a car when Deon offered to lend me his. So this was to be my first experience driving in South Africa.

In Johannesburg, more so than in the US, BMWs and Mercedes are status cars and their drivers’ insist on driving at 140km/h at all times. On two lane roads it is acceptable, and most time expected, to move over into the shoulder lane to allow cars behind you to pass. Cellular phone use is also significantly more pronounced than in the US. So, if one now imagines a BMW or Mercedes barreling down at you at 140km/h, the driver’s ear pressed to their "Sandton Earring", while impatiently flashing their highbeams and demanding that you get out of their way, one gets the picture of what driving near Jo’burg is like.

I arrived in Nelspruit around noon, parked the car in a public garage and started riding north towards the timber town of Sabie. This area is heavily forested with pine and eucalyptus plantations, so the riding was pleasant and fairly quiet. It was hot and humid and the heavy clouds moving in from the east made it clear to me that I would be getting rained on eventually. This was to be expected given the geography of the area. The humid, lowveld air is forced to rise abruptly up the 3000ft escarpment, and consequently the area near Sabie boasts some of the highest rainfall in the country. The humidity and stillness reminded me of cycling through parts of Kentucky and Missouri.

After 60km of riding and about 2000ft of climbing, I reached a crossroads. Long-Tom Pass was to the left and the road to Sabie was to the right. I could barely make out Sabie, through the clouds, down in the valley below when the rain started falling quite heavily. I waited for a while hoping it would let up, but it just kept falling. Naturally, by the time I descended the 9km into Sabie I was thoroughly soaked, including my shoes.

I found the Jock-of-the-Bushveld Caravan Park and Bungalows and took a pleasant bungalow for R60 a night. After a hot shower, and a pleasant meal at a neighboring Pizza house, everything was right with the world. I could hear the rain drumming on the tin roof all night and fell asleep hoping that the next day would be drier.

Friday, 30^th January

The next morning, my shoes were still wet but the rain had stopped. My next stop would be the tiny town of Graskop, only 30km away. I arrived there at around one o’clock in the afternoon and checked into a beautifully comfortable rondavel in the Summit Lodge on the outskirts of town. After a quick lunch I walked into town, hoping to hike to the edge of the escarpment and peer over the edge. The Jock-of-the-Bushveld trail starts at the municipal caravan park and follows a 6km loop to the edge of the escarpment and back. The fog was thick but the air still and warm and since the trail was still soggy I hiked barefoot. The feeling of black sand and water against my feet was heavenly and the smell of the native grasses and sight of sandstone rock formations brought back pleasant memories from my teenage years. By the time I reached the edge, the fog had pretty much obliterated any potential view of the lowveld, but the silence of the foggy cocoon made up for any disappointment.

That morning I’d bought a copy of a book Deon had recommended to me; "My Traitor’s Heart" by Rian Malan. The author was an investigative reporter for several top South African newspapers, and had researched several cases of "political" murders committed during the apartheid era. As a Malan, his family tree reaches all the way back to Dawie Malan, one of the early players in the rebellion which led to the Boer War, and to Magnus Malan the last secretary of defense in the South African apartheid government. The title is drawn from his description of how and why he temporarily exiled himself in the US, an "Afrikaner" with a liberal heart. The book very much resonated with me, and I happily spent the rest of the day reading.

Saturday, 31^st January

The night before I was undecided as to whether to continue onto Blydespoort and view the Blyde River Canyon, whether to continue onto Pilgrims Rest, or whether to stay put and hope that the fog would clear and I could get another chance at a view over the escarpment. I was fascinated by the book I was reading and combined with a little laziness I decided on the last choice. By noon, the heavy fog had dissipated and the rain had subsided sufficiently to allow for a short bike ride. A short 20km loop starting just north of Graskop takes the traveler right up to the edge of the escarpment past some of the geological formations this area is famous for; the Pinnacle and God’s Window. The latter is formed by the steep walls of a narrow canyon and one can thus look, as if though a window, down at the lowveld below. By the time I got there, the fog had lifted enough to provide a spectacular view. Wind borne clouds were being blown vertically through the gap and up over the edge. Due to the high humidity and the large amount of moisture this area receives, the vegetation near the escarpment is almost tropical in nature.

A quick fast descent later and I was back in town. After dinner, I settled in at a corner table in the bar at the lodge I was staying. The bar was almost completely deserted. I was enjoying my book and the Castle on tap tasted delicious. At around 8pm the bar started filling with teenagers. A while later someone fired up the jukebox and techno-music filled the air. Much to my surprise, the teenagers were dancing a fast dance with a waltz-like 3-step. I later asked someone about this and they explained that it’s called "lang-arm" dancing and is quite popular among Afrikaner teens.

On my way out, I struck up a conversation with a tipsy teen who described himself as a "poor white". He worked as a manager at a local restaurant and earned R1000/month and claimed it was difficult to live on that little money. I asked him what the typical black fellow working for him earned, and he indicated it was R300/month. I asked him why there were no blacks in the bar. Eastern Transvaal was Voortrekker country and consequently quite conservative, but the segregation was quite surprising to me. His answer was even more suprising; "Racism I guess", he replied. "If they know what’s good for them, they’ll stay away!" I guess I was just being naïve.

Sunday, 1^st February

The day dawned bright and warm. I was planning on returning to Sabie this day, a very short ride mostly downhill, and thus was in no hurry to leave. After spending a couple of hours reading and generally lazing around, I finally got on the road. The air was humid and smelled of clean rain. On the way I visited the Mac-Mac falls, an impressive 150m waterfall. By the time I got to Sabie it was one-o’clock in the afternoon and being a Sunday most shops and restaurants were closed. I again checked into Jock-of-the-Bushveld and talked the owner down to R50 because I was a repeat customer. I had discovered that bartering is definitely acceptable in South Africa, and unlike in the US serious offers are usually accepted.

At the local Seven-Eleven I bought a can of sardines, bread, cheese, a small bottle of Cabernet, some tea biscuits and a box of Rooibos tea. Truly a feast fit for a king. The bungalow where I was staying had a wonderful raised patio with thatched roof and lunch would be served in style. I set out a tea tray, with two place settings, boiled some water, poured milk into the creamer and arranged the tea biscuits on a separate saucer. Soon the cleaning lady appeared and I asked her to join me. Her name was Margaret and she told me that she lived in the "location" just outside of Sabie. She said she lived in a room for which she paid R12 a month. I didn’t ask her how much she earned but I realized that the R50 I was paying for the room she would be cleaning the next morning must be a significant amount of money to her.

Monday, 2^nd February

The next morning I got on the road fairly early. It was 70km back to Nelspruit and from there a 350km drive back to Johannesburg. Climbing the hill out of Sabie was very pleasant this time around. From the top I saw the Sabie Valley and the surrounding mountains unobstructed by rain clouds. Despite the clearcuts it was a beautiful sight.

The next 60km went by in a blur, mostly downhill and quite fast. It was exhilarating to be cycling in the warm, still, pleasant smelling air. Nelspruit on the other hand was HOT. I retrieved Deon’s car from the parking garage, which was thankfully still there and unharmed. I’d been having visions of the car being stolen or vandalized, after all it would have been standing there for 4 days.

My upbringing was filled with warnings about not picking up hitchhikers, probably with good cautious reason. Additionally, since I’m a fairly solitary person, I generally don’t like to pick up hitchhikers anyway because the thought of speaking to a stranger for a hour or more in the confined space of a car seemed invasive of my person space. Today however, I decided to experiment with my fears and feelings of discomfort and pick up people needing rides. Who knows, I might even learn something. The fact that my car only had one available seat made it easier for me to justify picking up singles only.

My first "victim" was a middle-aged man carrying a toolbox and a gallon jug filled with gasoline. He wanted to be dropped off about 10km down the road. He told me that he was a car mechanic by trade but had lost he job recently and was eager to get back to work. He asked me if I had a job for him.

The second, was a teenage male. He mumbled something that I didn’t understand when I asked him where he was going. I asked him to repeat and when he indicated he didn’t understand me, I repeated the question in Afrikaans. Again, he just shook his head. Apparently there are people in South Africa who spoke no English or Afrikaans. So, I resigned myself to driving in silence. I could sense that he was just as uncomfortable as I. I turned the radio on to break the silence, and hoped that he would indicate when he wanted to be let off. So we drove in silence for about 70km. I started wondering whether his destination was further than I was planning to go, and pulled into a petrol station and asked one of the attendants to interpret. The attendant was quite accommodating and a while later I had the answer. He wanted to go as far as Middleburg another 100km down the road.

About an hour later, we passed the first of the Middleburg exits and the sprawling "location" could be seen on the western edge. My passenger indicated that he wanted to be let off there, under the overpass. As he was getting out, he offered me R10. I must admit that at that moment I felt very embarrassed by my selfish desire to drive a car alone, the somewhat lofty desire for solitude. Instead I offered him my hand and he reciprocated with the "ANC solidarity" shake. As I watched him cross the highway and disappear into the bushes, I hoped the handshake was a genuine expression on his part.

Up to Middleburg, the surrounding countryside is green rolling hills, but urban encroachment has reached the western edge of Middleburg. The highways gains a lane and traffic density picks up. More BMWs can be seen, driven very fast by important people talking on cell phones. My desire to get back to Deon’s house before rush hour was not satisfied and I spent an hour driving the last 5km of D.F. Malan Dr. into Randburg.

That evening we had dinner at a pleasant Indian restaurant in Melville, where our car was watched by unofficial "car-watchers" who demanded money for their services. This did seemed a mite extortionist to me, and I wondered if we didn’t pay whether the car would be there upon our returning. Fortunately it was, but the "car-watchers" were nowhere to be seen.

Tuesday, 3^rd February

My train wasn’t scheduled to leave for East London until one o’clock in the afternoon, so after a leisurely breakfast with Deon and some delicious French-pressed coffee we walked over to the neighboring Cresta Center, a fancy indoor shopping mall. It’s another symbol of the dramatic growth undergone in the northern suburbs of Johannesburg. When I left in 1981, the whole area occupied by and surrounding the center was open space.

Deon kindly drove my bike and me to the train station, where another encounter with the ineptitude of train bureaucrats was required. After explaining that I wanted to bring my bike on the train with me, I was told to find the baggage room. There I was told to lean my bike against the wall and was assured it would get on the train. "How do you know which train?" I asked the officious looking fellow. Only then did he ask for my ticket and proceeded to fill out a baggage tag. He repeated to me that it would be taken care of and asked me to leave. "Not until I see that tag on my bike", I said. Grudgingly he attached the tag and I examined it closely. He’d written Messina, in the northern Transvaal, as the destination. This was going to be more exciting then I’d thought. There’s no way that bike is going on the same train as me, I thought. I pointed this out to him, which seem to totally confuse him. He again asked for my ticket and admitted a mistake had been made. He corrected the tag, and I left still wondering whether my bike would make it on the same train as me. I found my platform and stood debating with Deon whether I should go get my bike and take it with me personally when a porter came down the stairs carrying my bike. "I really would feel better keeping the bike with me" I told the porter, and was directed to the train manager. This guy seemed a little more with-it but insisted that there was no space in the compartments and the bike would have to go in the baggage car. I pointed to the compartment assignment and explained that no one else was assigned to my compartment. Fortunately, he relented and as soon as the train arrived I dismantled the bike and Deon helped me get it through the window into my compartment. Another disaster narrowly averted. As the train started moving, I said good-bye to Deon. It was really nice to see him and to finally meet Sue after all these years. He explained that he would be down in Cape Town the last week of February and would call me there. He works for the government and is part of the team organizing the Freedom festivities and activities surrounding President Clinton’s visit. Friends in high places.

Unlike the train to Johannesburg, this train was quite uncrowded. However, the dining car manager was much more anal and insisted on running the dining room like a rolling 5 star hotel. Upon entering I was instructed to take off my hat, and when I sat down was promptly reseated at a different table of the manager’s choosing. I guess a night of beer drinking and drunken tee shirt swapping was not in the cards this time. Well, I still had my book to finish

Copyright 1998, Radek Aster