Traveling in Zimbabwe: Chicken Bus or Luxury Coach? An Informal Review of Zim Buses

Bus #1: The Madman Preaching TV – Citiliner

On a Sunday morning, we arrive at Park Station, ready for our two-week trip to Zimbabwe.

Joburg-Harare, 330 Rand. Done.

We are there at 11am. The bus is supposed to depart at 12.30pm, so we have a coffee. Sam spills some on the ground and his sock, while we read a randomly found leaflet on how to find God in your life. At 11.45, we join the queue. After half an hour of pushing forward our bags cm by cm, we check in (“passport number?” “telephone number of next of kin in case of emergency?”) and board the bus. Citiliner assigns seats, but a woman and her bags have already taken ours. She does not want to move, because “that is not how you do it.” We sit in aisle 8 instead, until chaos prevails, and the driver yells at everyone to get the hell into their own seats. The lady moves to the back, obviously annoyed, while we guiltily take our 5a and 5b seats.

5c, 5d and 5e are occupied by three women who could be twins. And they brought identical snacks for the ride: a loaf of bread and drinkable yogurt. They tie three loafs in plastic bags to the handles on the three seats in front of them, so that they dangle by their faces, readily accessible. Then they each begin eating the yogurt, using the lid as a make-shift spoon. Vanilla-flavored. It looks like a girls’ night out but on the bus.

There are babies strapped onto women’s backs, wrapped in towers. They look at me stolidly, and I try sticking out my tongue, winking and cross-eying. Sometimes it makes them smile just a tiny little bit. The bus aisle is narrow and as people squish by me to get to their seats, I am slightly overwhelmed by the omnipresence of huge, soft asses that constantly press against me, my shoulder and, sometimes, my face.

When everyone has at least sort of found their seats, the bus departs. On time. 12.30pm.

There is no bathroom on the Citiliner, and it will be five hours from now until we stop for a loo break (and everyone runs for their dear life!).

The entertainment program on the TV just below the driver’s head at the front of the bus is what makes this particular bus ride memorable. At first, we watch gospel music videos. The beautiful singer with dreads sings of Jesus Christ, at times in Shona, at times in English. How he is the savior of Africa and is going to return, although apparently nobody, not even him, knows when. So we all have to be prepared and ready. She looks very serious and nods in tact with the background flute. The music clips are at times interrupted by skits in Shona. They always involve a young woman and man sitting side by side on chairs, calmly speaking into the camera. Sam reads a book, I study GRE vocab, and we both munch on our snacks (carrots and billtong) and curiously glance at the screen from time to time. All is well.

But then, the preaching starts. The bus driver turns the volume up. On the screen, a screaming man appears. He is on a stage, dressed in a smart suit and extremely agitated. I mean, really agitated. He screams and screams at the people gathered in front of him. For the next three hours, he does not stop screaming. All around us, women and men listen to the screaming man and occasionally mumble “Amen.” Not being able to understand an endless tirade might be one of the most torturous things on earth. We try sleeping. We try reading. And finally get a headache.

We reach the South African border, Beitbridge, around 11.30pm. The S.A. Border exiting point is located in a tent. It looks like a quarantine tent, as if to protect from diseases of some kind. We stand in line and look up to a tree full of tiny, round birds, in disguise between the yellow leaves. They look down at the human, passport-equipped queue, trying to get a stamp, and they seem to wonder what we strange creatures are doing, why we are complicating things so much.

We make it back to the bus and drive through “no-man’s land,” the place between the two countries that does not really belong to anybody. A week later in Harare, Zimbabwe Deputy Country Director of NGO “Save the Children,” Lynn Walker, will tell us stories of children who try to cross over to South Africa illegally. Most of the ones who do not make it get caught in this very space, the inbetween. So-called Gumhagumhas, who are supposed to take them across in exchange for a bribe, sell them out. Sometimes to border control, sometimes to human traffickers. The 25-30 children who “Save the Children” hosts in a nearby refugee center represent maybe 5% of all underage border crossers. Most of them are between 12 and 16 years old.

We reach the Zimbabwean side. 30$, tourist visa, get it no problem. Back at the bus, we collect our luggage from the bus trailer. Everyone is holding on to a blue declaration form. Many declare their massive plastic bags filled with crispy snacks to be sold on the street Zimbabwe and electronics for waiting families. Everyone opens up their bags, ready for inspection, but the immigration officer only briefly glances over them.

From then on, until we reach Harare around 9.30am (four hours late), we pass out, shifting back and forth in our seats. And then — Harare. I look out the window. Reymond, a Zimbabwean friend from Joburg, is already waiting for us. He waves and smiles. Exhausted but happy, we wave back. We’ve made it.

Overall Trip Duration: 21 hours

Rating: 5/10

(to be continued)

When Coldplay comes to Johannesburg or What is Wrong with South Africa

On the 8th of October, Coldplay comes to play in South Africa and, miraculously (or rather through my benevolent, well-connected friend Maria and her sister), I have a ticket to go. Not just a ticket, but a Golden Circle ticket at Soccer City (or FNB Stadium as they call is post-2010 World Cup). Coldplay’s popularity and a huge advertisement campaign made sure the event was sold out.

As we forgot to purchase a Park & Ride ticket that would have allowed us to drive to Soccer City in Soweto directly, we decide to take the train from Park Station instead. As did a couple of thousand other people. And you can distinguish them right away, because most of them are white and look out of place.

For some background: Park Station is located in town and most Hillbrow residents who I had interviewed for a research project on Urban Resilience in Situations of Chronic Violence several months before considered it the most dangerous place in Johannesburg. A place to get mugged. A place to avoid.

So understandably, everyone in our car is a little tense once we (falsely) cross over Queen Elizabeth Bridge and find ourselves surrounded by filled-up taxis on their way to MTN taxi rank on a hectic late Friday afternoon. We finally figure out how to get to the station (I never drove there before but only walked) and frantically search for parking. A friendly car guy helps us out, giving us a somewhat pitiful look.

Then we hurry into the station, trying to catch the 5 o’clock train to Orlando West. Security personnel is already busy directing groups of huddled, confused white people in the directions of the Soweto-bound trains. A bit like kettle. We chuckle but follow along.

The train is crammed with Coldplay-concert goers, if you know what I mean. Those tickets are pricey. We find some standing spots in the middle of the train, and I look around. People seem excited (a trip to town!) and a little restless, squished into cheap leather seats on both sides of the wagon. One lady paints her fingernails bright pink.

With a sudden jerk, the journey begins. And what a journey it is. Nobody really knows which route the train is taking. We ride through the old Joburg train station, abandoned trains all around, pass an industrial area after another and finally some townships. I check out the names. Never heard of them before. People have gotten up from their seats and are propped up against the slide-down windows, peering outside at people starting back at them. One Coldplay ticket could probably buy several months of a rented apartment in this place. Maybe even a year’s worth.

Maria’s sister is taking photos (“Stand over there, please, guys!”). Smiley faces and sunglasses.

What we are experiencing here, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a thorough… whatshamacallit, let’s just call it by its proper name: a thorough, complete, absolute mindfuck.

Everyone seems to know it. People start feeling a little uncomfortable. They look around, at each other, ask how long this trip will take. It’s been 40 minutes of riding through the wild wild Joburg.

Finally, we stop. Everyone’s experiencing a mental cramp right then.

A guy yells: “And that’s where they stop and rob us!”

It is vulgar and offensive, but it relaxes people. Some laugh. Others pretend not to have heard it.

Where the hell is my camera? And where the hell is my notebook? This is exactly what is wrong with this country, I think. Outside the window, I see a peacock. I imagine it looking back at me, our eyes locked, until we reach Soccer City. I think that bird is what kept me from screaming. Or losing my mind.

An escape to Lesotho

After Anna departed back to Boston, I stayed behind with a load of write-ups and time to spent in front of the computer, inside the house. As the light depression, that haunts me at quiet times and drives me to constant movement, threatened to set in – my trying to visit community meetings, concerts and festivals alleviated the condition only marginally – my grandmother passed on, and when it turned out that I would not be able to return to Germany for her funeral, I could no longer stand the Joburg routine. And so, one of my housemates, Matthias, who lectures at the German Department at Wits University and was nearing a burn-out, and I decided to escape.

We packed our sleeping bags, tent, gas boiler (useless in the end, because we forgot to take along a pot) into Matthias’ car and after several Botswana-Freestate-Lesotho uncertainties, we embarked on our journey to Rosendal, a little town in Free State, South Africa, located just above tiny S.A.-locked country Lesotho. We found the right way immediately, surprisingly so, and everything was going smoothly: Matthias and I exchanged emotional insights, drank sodas, snacked on chips and popsicles, took bathroom breaks in the bush and contemplated past-university anxieties before deciding to mentally shove them aside for the time being.

But then we reached the last road on our way to Rosendal, an infamously pothole-infested, endless affair. Ignorant Joburg-residents we were, we continued our agitated conversation and speed, and when Matthias was just about to share another family secret, the car jumped, fell — and stopped. Dead.

We got out. Flat tire on the front right. We managed to change it. With oil-smeared fingers and somewhat proud of our newly discovered ability to change a tire, we climbed back into the car. But the car would not start. So we sat around, not sure what to do. Several cigarettes and walks up and down the road later, we decided to stop the next car. It was getting darker and cars would only pass us by sporadically, so it seemed like a good idea to do something. My sarcastically-tainted mind thought “This will be a fun trip,” as I positioned myself in the middle of the road to wave my arms above my head. After several minutes, a pick-up truck (or bakkie, as they say in South Africa) stopped and before us stood a nice woman, who called herself “Lindie from the farm just down the road” (or Kinky, as Matthias insisted). It took several minutes of talking to our smiley but non-responsive faces for her to realize that we did not speak a word of Afrikaans. But after that, she understood very quickly how clueless we actually were. Worried, she called her husband, at least three friends and finally, the guys from the garage in the nearest town.

“I’ll just bring the sheep over to Bethlehem with my husband,” she said (something you would not expect to hear anytime post-Jesus) “and then I’ll check on you.”

Funnily enough, about ten minutes later, as we were still waiting for the garage guys, Lindie and her husband and about forty sheep drove past us on a humongous truck, honking and waving. Yet another couple of cigarettes later, the two Afrikaans garage guys arrived. They climbed into and under the car, uttered some laughter-interspersed Afrikaans to us but mostly to each other (probably something about silly, impotent Joburgers trying to take a trip to the countryside), shook heads and hands, nodded a bunch, finally found a little skewed piece that they proceeded to bent around with their teeth, screwed it back to wherever it came from, and the car ran smoothly once again.

200 Rand. Done deal. Take care. Ciao kakao.

Half an hour later, we arrived at our stay for the night, an art-coop-type guest house that was recommended to us by another Joburg housemate. That is where we met Elmo and Jamie.

Elmo is an interesting man. And Jamie is his even more interesting dog companion. They both welcomed us warmly (although Jamie grew more weary once the night progressed which could have to do with my unfortunate attempt to feed the thing a noodle), for they did not see fellow humans or dogs too often (“There is absolutely nothing here in Rosendal – you should have gone somewhere else!”). This art coop in the middle of Free State welcomes city-stressed workaholics searching for peace and themselves. That was exactly why we were there for, no doubt. One night and a box of very cheap white wine later, we were done searching. We crossed a river, climbed a hill, blinked into the blinding sun, descended the hill, crossed the river and bade Elmo and Jamie fare-well.

Our restlessness had caught up with us, and so we moved on to Ficksburg, crossed the border to Lesotho and drove through half the country. At times, we would stop the car, get out and — as cheesy as it sounds — admire the landscape for several mintues.

The Northern part of Lesotho is quite flat and empty. Between one town and the next, there would be nothing but veld and the occasional cow. On one of our car stops, several young shepherds rode by on donkeys. They waved in our direction before moving on, along the side of the road.

Finally, after several failed attempts, we found the Maseru Backpackers — hugely advertised in Matthias’ guide book but barely existent in real life. Totally deserted, one guard opened up the gate for us, showed us around and demanded a steep price. He must have known that we were stranded. Although it was already dark, we gave in to our broke stubbornness and insisted on spending the night in our tent for half the price. Under a street lamp on the camping ground, a sparsely grassy piece of stone-hard earth between the dormitories and toilets, we began setting up the tent. We pumped up the mattress, taking turns, to then discover it had holes. Nevertheless, we were hopeful and took it inside the tent, along with the remaining wine. Matthias soon fell asleep, and I sat looking out on a nearby lake for a while. Not a single sound came from the city. If it were not for the artificial light above us, I would have thought we were actually deep in nature. Then I passed out on the floppy mattress, and we both awoke on the hard, cold ground. Our puffy eyes on the beautiful lake. 

We decided to check out Maseru, Lesotho’s capital. We walked the main street up and down and had a meal at a Chinese place. The Africa-bound Chinese exodus, now estimated to go into the millions, reached even tiny Lesotho and its population of two million. In the restaurant, we looked at a Lesotho map and decided that we could probably cross the country on another route through the North while visiting all the dams on the way.

The trip through the mountains was unexpectedly hectic, mostly due to the spare tire we were using since the pothole incident, but once we mastered the “God Help Me Pass” pass, we relaxed a little. The scenery was stunning. We stopped several times to take identical laymen picturesque photographs and to chat with some of the wild goats jumping around.

Several hours later, at the dam, we were told that it was closed on a Saturday and that our car was not suited for the road we were so ambitiously planning to master. And so we had to make our way back to Maseru through the beautiful but insane mountain passage.

A little stupidly, we sped through the mountains but made it to Maseru before night time. No more nights in tents, we decided, and since there was no other affordable sleeping opportunity in Maseru, we crossed the border. Comfortably, we slept in a well-bargained room at a B&B in the South African town Ladybrand, and when we hit the M1 the next day, we were ready for Joburg.