About two weeks ago, my friend Scottish Dave and I took a southbound train overnight from Vic Falls town to Bulewayo, Zimbabwe. For Dave, anything that is good is “the way forward,” and when something is taken care of, it is “sor_ed” (sorted). And sometimes butter is sal_ed.
In the afternoon before boarding we talked about how nice it would be to relax in a railcar and read our books. We arrived at the train station at about half past 6, and stepped aboard the boxcar sauna. The brown metal train had been sitting in the afternoon African sun for over an hour with all the windows closed. We opened as many windows as we could, though some windows were stuck.
There were places on the floor where there was no floor. The wood had been rotted away so that you could see clearly to the tracks and gravel below. In it’s prime, this train was a part of the luxurious Rhodesian Railway, and probably hosted hordes of wealthy white colonialists. But now the paint on the outside had been overtaken by rust, the doors and windows often got stuck, some of the fold-down beds wouldn’t fold down, and the fold-out sinks in the first class cars probably hadn’t produced a drop of water in many moons.
And the lights in the cabin cars were non-existent. There would be no reading of books, only moonlit darkness. But we did not despair. Instead, we exalted. I’m not sure why, but a strange joy soon consumed the both of us. As the sun neared the horizon, the train lurched forward and rumbled slowly down the tracks. We hung our heads out of the open windows and sang our praises to the rising half-moon. A glowing star assumed to be Jupiter was rising too, and the darkening air was cool. With our heads hanging out of separate windows like exuberant boxcar turtles, we conversed in raised voices over the sounds of wind and rail. Saying, “this is what life’s about.” Dave told me about a book--whose title and author escape me--in which the author says that life is best defined by the cumulative combination of strange moments such as these, where everything seems simultaneously absurd, poignant, and profound. Like when you see a stranger in a parking lot and they mumble something to you that rocks your world and possibly changes you for good.
So down the tracks we would go, into the great Zimbabwean countryside at night, hanging out of windows on a rusty train. And then we’d spot a rock-outcropping or branch or sign alongside the tracks and approaching fast, and we’d turtle back into the train car corridor….woah, that was a close one. And just as quickly, we’d lean back out of our window-shells again, as all exuberant turtles must, returning to the cool air and wonderous night on a southbound journey.
The moon was perfectly half full and surrounded by a holy halo. Under its light, I sat on the old green bench in the cabin car room and scribbled in my notebook.
And the train rambled on, stopping every now and again in the middle of nowhere, no sign of a town or village for miles, only bush. But there would be music. And there would be people getting on and off the train. Where are they coming from and going to? And what do they carry?
Eventually, the joy wore me out and I fell asleep. I slept like a baby in a honey-coated dream. Cool air rushing in around me. The gentle rocking of the cabin car. A rambler’s rest.
It was one of the best nights I have had in Africa. Nothing extraordinary happened. It was a just a train ride. But that‘s the trick: euphoria in simple pleasures. Like walking barefoot upon soft earth. it’s the way forward.
No comments:
Post a Comment