The instructions were clear: Meet at the Parktonian Hotel or check in at the Blue Train Lounge at Pretoria station. Why, oh why, didn’t I simply follow instructions? Instead of either of these clever options, I asked the chauffeur driving my Mercedes limousine (courtesy of the Michelangelo Hotel, where I had spent the night in their presidential suite) to take me to Johannesburg station. As we drove along Marshaltown streets I nervously looked away so as not to catch the eye of a hijacker mistaking me for a fat cat. With anxiety welling in my belly, I gently asked my driver if he would escort me through the station.
When it came to entering platform 16, we were stopped by a Mama who would have struck fear in the hearts of hardened Mafiosi. She demanded my ticket, and I explained that, as I was the guest of the train manager, he had my ticket. Toby Young, in his brilliant book about life at Vanity Fair magazine in New York, describes the people who decide who gets past the rope at exclusive clubs as “Clipboard Nazis” and this image perfectly described how I viewed Mama at this moment. It was only after Mama and Driver had exchanged loud words, VIP the only one among them I understood, that she grudgingly let us through.
Long history
Once I was settled on a lavender punched-steel bench it was time to say goodbye to my hero, protector-driver and face the wait on my own.
But not only had I misread the instructions about where to meet the train, I had got the time wrong – I was more than an hour before early. Fortunately, the mix-up was sorted out and I boarded the train.
I have a long history with trains. For 10 years I commuted to and from school by train. Armed with a term ticket that allowed (in those days, anyway) unlimited travel, I mastered the rail network and was extremely independent. We once went on a family holiday by train and I remember the bliss up until the diesel loco changed for a steam one whereupon, as a result of the coal fumes, my chest closed and I spent the remaining night wheezing in time to the engine.
More recently, I had the extreme pleasure of traveling from Kuala Lumpur to Bangkok on board the Eastern and Oriental Express – three magical days I hope never to forget.
Shimmied up
A journey I wish I could forget is a trip from Cape Town to Pretoria as guest of the SA Defence Force. Even the return trip back, just six days later after being declared “unfit for service”, was traumatic. There were the six of us in the cabin, all united in the State’s displeasure in us, but we had little in common otherwise.
These thoughts came flooding back as I waited for the Premier Classe train to arrive. Some years ago I was part of a team hired by Spoornet to launch its new identity – Shosholoza Meyl. The new train wasn’t ready in time for the launch so the regular cabins were shimmied up with gowns and slippers and while I’d launched this new-look train I hadn’t seen it yet. The combination of purples, browns and golds may sound like kitsch boere-Baroque but I think it works really well, creating spaces that while confined feel comfortable.
On a previous trip, the icy winter was warmly converted by the steam-driven heater. In the heat of summer I found the cabins too hot and spent as much time as possible in the air-conditioned saloon car. The sight I remember best from the first trip was a sleepy-eyed pre-dawn view of a flock of flamingos at a pond.
Naked man waving
One of the sights from this trip occurred about five kilometres from Klerksdorp. As we passed a water hole an old, naked man waved to the train. I chuckled at what the “oordenklike” (proper) ladies in the other cabins must have thought. As nothing was said at the bar before dinner, perhaps I was the only one in our carriage who saw him.
Dinner with a formalized affair – not formal or ritualized but something in between. As a passenger traveling on my own I was seated at a dinner table with another solo passenger. Simon Zulu, who works for the Department of Forestry in Pretoria, was taking some time off to enjoy the journey. We chatted amiably as only strangers do. As the dinner service began, served with aplomb out of glass Pyrex dishes, I recalled another writer describing the service on the Blue Train as having evolved from Alle Kaartjies (all tickets) to A la Carte. Minnie, the train manager, was serving. At first sight I realized that he (despite the name) was not diminutive at all and even though the food on board was traditional country-hotel fare, he had been schooled in the finer nuances of service even if he was performing silver service with aluminum cutlery.
The passage into the Cape was the most beautiful – way more so than the early-morning crossing from Malaysia into Thailand across a misty river and certainly more so than the barren sameness of the endless Karoo.
Once home, I forgot the initial frustration at not being able to charge my computer from the plug in the cabin, and washed away the sooty grit from leaving the cabin window open overnight. I found myself grateful for a journey that takes 37 hours irrespective of the internal hurry I may have felt.
While a far cry from the wood-paneled uber-luxury of the Orient Express, The Premier Classe does provide a very comfortable experience of travel, which from a cost perspective, is a viable alternative to flying.
Further information from Santie Bekker Tel: 012-334-8039. |