SLEEPERS, RAILS AND BALLAST

 Phil was a white “mfana” growing up in the 1960s in Durban, near the city centre in the flatlands adjacent to the Albert Park/Maydon Wharf area. At the time it was a pretty decent neighbourhood with inner city circle buses providing ample transport. Long distance travel was largely the terrain of the South African Railways (and Harbours) which fell under the aegis of the Union (later Republic) central government. Overseas travel was mostly undertaken by boarding one of the numerous mail ships that called at the Durban Harbour almost fortnightly. Travel by motor car had slowly gained popularity, but the national road infrastructure, though improving by leaps and bounds, still left many to opt for reliable and prompt public transport systems, unlike those of the present day.

The cheerful Phil would look forward to the visits by relatives from the Cape and Transvaal who periodically had to be met at the old Victorian Durban Railway Station located at the corner of Pine and Gardiner Streets. An imposing edifice, the awe-struck youngster would make his way through the throng of bodies, clinging to parents who brought other siblings no doubt to help with the mission of hauling the luggage onto a bus or, rarely, into the trunk (boot) of a hugely over-priced taxi. This was  imperative when Grandma and Grandpa came for a visit from Port Elizabeth on their annual pilgrimage to children in every one of the four provinces, spending a week or two at each. The luggage count was always the same – eight pieces. At least two were the leather trunk variety, and the smallest was Grandma’s hatbox. On the station platform and in the main building a porter would assist with a long, two wheeled, metal trolley that he’d deftly steer through the crowds - Grandpa in a state of heightened anxiety lest the eight pieces of luggage be reduced to two, either by virtue of a kinetic mishap or the stealthy sleight of hand of some mysterious and imagined blighter of the nefarious variety.

“Mfana” Phil would look forward to the family’s turn to board the Orange Express, or some combination of sleeper trains that might have included the Trans-Karoo for the annual vacation in Cape Town. He’d look forward to the splendid trip aboard a Second Class sleeper that allowed the entire family to occupy a single compartment. That at any rate was the purported reason for Second Class travel as opposed to First Class, though economics were in all probability the more plausible reason. Third Class was out of the question as it was reserved for those with excess melanin that tainted the epidermis a smidgeon too much for the apartheid policy gurus in Pretoria. Phil had looked with envy at the First Class cabins that boasted the luxury of a ladder to reach the upper bunks, but Second Class seemed a tad better than Third Class to an innocent mind, if only because it looked a bit crowded there. The SAR logo seemed to mean “Scarcely Any Room” as far as the accommodation arrangements in Third Class seemed to be. Second Classers had to monkey their way up – usually the older siblings. Much to his disgust he’d be relegated to one of the lower bunks for fear of the effects of gravity upon a young cranium should the descent be unplanned due to sudden braking.

Those were the days of steam engine travel – diesel and electric units only beginning to make their appearance on some journeys as South Africa tentatively toyed with the concept of modern technology. Billowing black smoke would deposit fragments of soot on everything in its wake. Periodic stops were customary for refilling the cavernous water tanks and topping up the coal (or anthracite, or whatever the stokers used to stoke), in what seemed to be a foretaste of the warnings by hellfire and brimstone preachers who spread fear in young minds – should one not qualify for entry into the realm of harp mood music, but be relegated to the psychedelic zone. A young mind can veer in odd directions and a lack of understanding and an abundance of innocence conjured up such vivid images.

A fellow in fancy dress tuxedo and bow-tie would make his way, from the dining car alongside the caboose that accommodated train staff and the pokey kitchen, all the way along the length of Second and First Class playing a melodious gong. Dinner was served in two sessions and this was the ritual “Call to Dine” in what seemed to be a nod to the almost religious devotion South Africans have towards food. The Third Class presumably had to make do with self-packed picnic baskets or room service – the thought escaped Phil’s young mind entirely. 

The Dining Car was an experience of gigantic proportions. Place settings were meticulously laid out in a specific order with finely shone silver cutlery and dinner would be served in multiple courses in or on fine china or porcelain – of little consequence as it was nevertheless impressive to a little tyke. The espresso cups caused some mirth – why bother to serve coffee if the portion is limited to a thimble? What was astounding though, was the dexterity of the waiters who felt that the use of a tray would impair their dignity. The rocking train was traversed with aplomb and not a morsel or a drop was ever spilled. How the Kitchen Staff managed to produce such fine dining in their caboose kitchen only slightly larger than the ubiquitous espresso cup, remains a mystery.

After dinner, bedding would be delivered. “Bedding Boys” as they were referred to in those days, would do the rounds, deftly making beds and next morning clearing the linen for dry cleaning. The thought crossed Phil’s mind that the reference to “Bedding Boys” was rather odd – these were grown men, after all. Boys? He didn’t bother to ask for an explanation – for a youngster of kindergarten age, things just are what they are. Only in later years the questions became more relevant and the absurdity of things being “just what they are” would be subjected to ever greater scrutiny.

What did seem to be evident was the disparity in class and wealth at every level. The poor folk in Third Class appeared to have been dealt a rather awkward hand, but the snooty rich in First Class had an aura of snobbishness swirling around them as they wafted their way into and out of the Dining Car and “Lounge” – a zone forbidden to even the plebs in Second Class, it seemed. They could be seen at a discreet distance quaffing Gin and Tonic or Scotch on the Rocks late into the night. Some of these toffs had their vehicles come along for the ride in a special coach near the caboose and guard room. Somewhat bizarre to Phil, mind you. Why didn’t they simply travel in the Rolls? Never mind – perish the thought.

Sleep came easily on the rocking train. Those days wooden sleepers were placed on ballast (stones) and the rails were laid upon the sleepers, a gap between each successive length of steel. Expansion joints caused the train wheels to make a monotonous tick-tick sound (a sort of sleep inducing white noise) and the steam locomotive up front would chug away with comforting regularity.

Phil slept soundly.

Photo taken at the Matjiesfontein Transport Museum by P Haupt

©Paul M Haupt