Sunday, 13 July 1986: Leaving Cathy and Hoping for a Seat on the Train

On Sunday morning I finally get through to the train reservations.  The train that afternoon to East London is full they say.  Cathy says I should have expected that since it’s the end of a school holiday.  I ask if she can take to me the station anyway.  If I can’t get on, I suppose she could drop me off out at the farm.  She gets nasty and says I keep changing my plans; yesterday I told her I was going on Monday.  That’s not true but I decide it’s not worth arguing about.  She says she’s not a taxi service to which I reply matter-of-factly, “Okay, I’ll call a cab.”  I don’t get mad or try to work things out with her.  I decide I’ve had enough of her and won’t be treated badly.  I say nothing but take a shower, pack up, call a cab and give her money for my phone calls.  She is very quiet and is burning several candles in the place.  I wonder if that’s to “absorb the bad energy” or some other esoteric shit.

“Thanks for your hospitality,” I say.  “Sorry we don’t understand each other.”

“Mutual, I’m sure,” she replies blankly.  “Take care of yourself.”  She barely will shake hands.

I’m trying to get a seat on the Amatola Express from Johannesburg (via Springfontein in southern Orange Free State) to East London on the Indian Ocean

I go out and lie on the lawn next to the street waiting for the cab.  I feel good that the thing with Cathy has ended and I haven’t become emotionally upset about it.  It’s an issue of self-respect for me.  I don’t care how much the cab will cost.  It would be worth $100 just to get away from her immediately.  Having a sexual partner is only worth so much grief.  I handled it well – feel like I’ve finally grown up when it comes to women or something like that.  Blame isn’t necessary.  Just get away from a bad situation and don’t take any shit.  I really hadn’t wanted to continue the relationship for much longer anyway.

The taxi, a late-model white station wagon, finally shows up after 20 minutes.  I was getting worried because the dispatcher told me 5 or 10 minutes.  Turns out he got lost.  Thank god he found me.  I didn’t want to have to ask Cathy to use the phone again.  He doesn’t know the area very well.  There’s not much business out here because everyone has cars.  I tell the cabbie that I needed a cab because of the abrupt break-up.  He laughs and so do I.  He tells me about this hysterical fare he had yesterday.  She whined when giving out her address.  Her boyfriend had just left her.  The cabbie told her to find a new one.  God knows he’d have been interested if he were still available.

The cabbie is an Afrikaner around my age, but his crusty face makes him look older.  Turns out to be talkative and full of interesting tidbits.  He tells me about problems with the escort service girls who call cabs in the suburbs.  They’ll tell the dispatcher they’re going downtown, then it turns out they only want to go a few blocks.  So he only gets a R2 or R3 fare and loses money.  It’s tough to complain to the police about this sort of thing. 

“How much is it for a trick with an escort?”  I ask.

“R120 to R150 when things are busy plus the agency fee,” he says.  “Sometimes you can get it for R50 if business is slow.”  He says there are cabbies in Jo’burg who specialize in hookers.  There are also those who sell drugs, though he’s quick to point out that he wouldn’t.  The cops have a hard time pinning prostitution charges on the girls if they keep going to different places.  Recently, a magistrate (judge) threw a case out because the girl didn’t have a regular place of “business”.  The cabbie tells me that all races are available from escort services.  I’ve seen their ads right in the classified pages of the Star.  It’s good to know that the world’s oldest profession is flourishing here in prudish South Africa.

I tell the cabbie about my problems with the train reservations.  He says that’s bull shit – They lie.  “Are you prepared to grease the conductor’s palm with a 20 rand note?” he asks.  If nothing else, there are always extra spots in compartments reserved for the crew.  One time he got some Americans on the Blue Train at the last minute.  “Fold up the 20 rand note,” he says, “and slip it to him discretely.”

“I thought Afrikaners were too ‘pure’ for that kind of thing,” I comment.

“Nonsense.  It goes on everywhere,” he replies.

We arrive at the Jo’burg station and the fare is $12.  I give him an extra 2 bucks for his entertainment and advice.

I laugh as I walk into the station.  If I can’t get on the Amatola Express, so what.  I’ll get a cheap room downtown, then get a plane to East London tomorrow.  It’s only money.  Besides, I’m $550 richer after having received word from the States that the IRS missed the deadline for collecting the extra tax they claimed I owe.  Besides this is a good adventure; a great experience.

I’m sitting in the drab train station cafeteria writing all this down.  A fuzzy-black-haired white woman is seated a couple of tables over.  She is wearing a blue sweat shirt, light slacks and has a red purse with “Jesus is my lord” printed on it with a black felt-tipped pen.  She’s about 35.  Looks like she’s with her working class parents.  Corny folk music is playing on the PA system.  Middle-aged Afrikaners are bitching about the slow service to a black female cook.  They want to see the manager.  The cafeteria has an interesting slice of white, mostly working class, humanity present.  A brown-haired lovely in a canary skirt and sweater and I momentarily catch each other’s eye.  She’s in the cafeteria line.  I won’t bother trying to approach her.  What would be the use anyway?  Besides I’m too shy or too afraid of getting shot down.  It’s now 12:30PM.  I need to get down to the platform at 1:45 to beg and cajole the conductor for a seat.