Mail Train

From Great North Road

By Mervyn Blumberg.
August 2007

The mail trains usually left punctually at nine PM, with the first hour spent walking up and down the carriages looking into everyone's compartment to scout out the lay of the land and determine who your playmates would be for the next four days. As one got older, those playmates were always, of course, the opposite sex. The track was narrow gauge and therefore the maximum speed was around thirty-five MPH. At times one could get out and comfortably walk beside the train. One would settle down after the Town of Bwana Makubwa -- the original mine and the reason for Ndola's existence. The mine had long since closed (now open again) and its claim to fame was the military barracks and the largest prison in the area. That in itself was exciting; imagine all those bad guys in one place.

By this time the bedding "boy" had come around and transformed the compartment into six beds, four if you were rich enough to travel first class. It was always a little uncomfortable sharing with strangers and before the train would leave every one was trying to find the conductor to bribe him to be transferred into a coupe, half the size and sleeping three of which there were two in every carriage. The disadvantage was that they were at the ends near the toilets and open balconies. Not the greatest place during the afternoon tropical thunderstorms. Nevertheless it was still far better than sharing. There was always a fight amongst the kids for the top bunk. My reason for wanting it was that during the day it could remain open without impinging on the seating capacity and thus it was like a little haven to retreat to when one wanted to escape from the sociability which was inherent in those close confines. During the day a table would fold out of the wall between the two windows and served many purposes from card table, to drawing easel, to picnic convenience. I much later discovered it was at the perfect height for a "quickie".

The night would go by quickly and I don't have much recollection of the stops between Bwana Makubwa and Lusaka, the capital of Northern Rhodesia, which was reached at seven thirty the next morning. Those places became familiar to me later when I would drive to university although Kapiri Mposhi; the smaller of the two flashed by in less than a blink of an eye. I believe it consisted of a petrol station, the train station and a dump of a hotel that was the watering hole. The other, Broken Hill, was a mining town and I still wonder who named it and its namesake in Australia as they both produce the same minerals.

Very often one would have the compartment to one's own family that first night, only to be joined by another family that next morning at one of the other stops. Rotten luck, but then one did stake out the best territory that first night. The front of the train was the third class section occupied by natives who were segregated from the rest of the train and could only intermingle and look into the luxury of first class while strolling up and down the platform at these stops. This was followed by second class for non-whites, second class for whites the dining and kitchen cars and first class bringing up the rear. The further away from the engine, the further away from the soot.

There was always far more activity up front as there were more people due mainly to the density of the seating capacity. Also hawkers and vendors would sell food and drink to these less fortunate people, as they didn't have access to the dining car. I do believe that food was taken by cart from the kitchen car to serve the front but was probably too expensive, as the hawkers seemed to be very busy and sell out of commodity. The European sections got platform activity from beggars usually picaninis or the physically challenged begging for "sikspens" (sixpence). At all stations along the way the natives would be hawking their traditional art and today I regret not buying or understanding the value in some of these curios.

I would while away the hours standing in the corridor looking out into the African bush hoping to catch a glimpse of some wildlife. We passed the small farming communities of Mazabuka, Monze, Choma and Kaloma on our journey to Livingston to be reached that evening. Sunsets were glorious and one could almost touch the vast orange ball sinking below the horizon. Night would come very quickly thereafter and would be the blackest black, occasionally punctuated by an open fire surrounded by a cluster of mud huts with thatched roofs. The monotonous rhythm of the continuous clickity clack, clickity clack, clickity clack of the wheels was broken by the sound of the gong carried by a waiter through the corridors of fourteen carriages announcing first sitting for meals. Every one would smarten up and wind their way to the dining car. The food was generally delicious hearty fare in the English tradition starting with consommé, followed by roast beef and Yorkshire pud. Dessert was usually nondescript -- perhaps bread and butter pudding with custard. Occasionally the blast of the whistle would shatter the silence as we passed a level crossing or a goods train in a siding off the main track awaiting the passing of the mail before continuing its journey on the single track

After Livingstone the most anticipated spectacle of the trip would present itself -- the crossing of the mighty Zambesi at the Victoria Falls Bridge. And what an awesome spectacle it was with the river thundering through the narrow gorge a couple of hundred feet below and the spray from the falls covering the entire train with a fine mist. I always had butterflies in my stomach as we crossed the bridge into Southern Rhodesia. Even though we were united by a Federation including Nyasaland, I felt that we had crossed the watershed and we were now in familiar yet foreign territory. We would often see baboons sitting by the tracks nonchalantly going about their business, but I always was on the lookout for crocodiles that infested the river below. I don't recall ever seeing one.

It was on this leg of a trip, just after Wankie, that I was awoken by the stillness broken only by the far off hissing as the engine let off some steam. We were stopped for what seemed like an eternity, in the pitch-black night. I decided to investigate and poked my head out of the window to see the headlight shining into the darkness picking up a herd of elephant crossing the track. The bull at a standoff with the engine with its huge ears flapping slowly and its trunk raised in defiance ready to defend the herd should this black snorting snaking one eyed monster come any closer. When his charges were clear he slowly backed away and disappeared into the velvet night.

Bulawayo approached soon after breakfast the next morning and the end of this part of the journey. That afternoon we would transfer to a South African Railways train for our journey trough Bechuanaland to the Union of South Africa. Most travellers continuing south would use this opportunity to use the station facilities to take a bath costing 2/6 (two shillings and six pence) to wash away the soot and grime of the previous portion. The facilities weren't great and we were fortunate to have friends (Ellen and Jack Cohen) who lived there and were kind enough to share their home. Ellen lived across the road from my parents in Kitwe before she was married and I was pageboy at their wedding. Ellen always told me that her daughter Julie would marry me and why she wanted me as a son-in-law still amazes me, as she knew what a terror I was. Jack was the distributor for Corgi Toys and would stay with us in Ndola on his travels. He was always welcome, as he would often bear gifts for me. His claim to fame was that he could wiggle each ear independently as well as each breast. (Now if he were a woman that would have certainly tweaked my interest!) He loved showing his muscles and really considered himself handsome.

That afternoon we would board the train for the second leg of the trip with new faces sharing our compartment. The flora and fauna would change dramatically as we chugged slowly south for Plumtree and the border with Bechuanaland (now Botswana). The coal tender behind the engine now gave a hint of this part of the journey. The water tank was significantly larger as we would awake the next morning to the dry heat of the Kalahari Desert. That evening the train would take on water at the God-forsaken communities of Palapye and Mahalape and the coming of the mail train was the event of the week. All the townsfolk would gather on the dirt platform to welcome the travellers usually with a small dance band and use the occasion for festivity even though the stop was only forty-five minutes to an hour.

On the other side of the train the indigenous population would be hawking their wares with the ever-present picaninis (children) with running noses and tattered clothing begging for the proverbial "sikspens" (the equivalent of five cents) or "sigarets". Someone would throw out some candy or money and there would be a flurry of activity as the picaninis scrambled for possession, much to the delight of the gawkers from the train. Of course there was never enough for all otherwise the entertainment level wouldn't have been as intense. It reminded me of seagulls and pigeons fighting over bread tossed by children in the park with the unsuccessful ones waiting in anticipation. Women with small children tied to there backs would balance immense pots of food on their heads for sale to those up in the third class section. I often wandered what happened when the train pulled out of the station and was no longer a divider between the Europeans on the platform and the natives on the tracks. Did they mingle and discuss the encounter with the fleeting faces passing in the night or did they just stand there staring at their different worlds as they continued dancing to the strains of the quartet.

The desert scenery was really boring to me as a child and I longed for the hours to pass quickly as we neared Lobatsi and the border with South Africa, announced by the arrival in Mafeking. This place seemed romantic to me as I had read about the Siege of Mafeking during the Boer War, and there is even a monument in Toronto to those Canadians who died there. I never got to see more of Mafeking than the railway station. What a pity. In fact it's a real shame that I didn't get to know more of these places other than the thin ribbon of space on either side of the track. Mafeking was significant as at this place the train either headed east to Johannesburg or continued south to Cape Town, depending on the final destination. The choice was actually made in Bulawayo as even though the route to Mafeking was exactly the same different trains traversed it. What joy for those people in the towns mentioned previously. Occasionally northbound and southbound trains would meet in one of these communities and this was overwhelming, as the platform only existed on one side. What a dilemma for those simple-minded folk!

Heading east from Mafeking en route to Johannesburg one would encounter a rather abrupt change of scenery as the Highveld and the gold mines of the Witwatersrand came into view. The large man made mountains (mine dumps) signalled the beginning of the industrial heartland of South Africa. At Krugersdorp the steam engine would be uncoupled and an electric locomotive would take its place. For the first time since the beginning of the trip one could look out the open windows without fear that some soot or a red-hot cinder would get into your eye. I loved the feel of the wind rushing through ones hair but it was necessary to be cautious as for the first time the track was doubled and the suburban trains overflowing with black commuters en route to work in the cities would come rushing by. There was a sense of overwhelming awe as the skyscrapers of Johannesburg became apparent on the horizon. This was in sharp contrast to the one-horse towns of Bechuanaland visited the night before. The hustle and bustle of crowds jamming the pavement and the double-decker buses made me feel as though I was from the jungle (which literally we were) and the excitement of big city life was soon pulsing in my veins.

The trip southward to Cape Town would take another day and a half from Mafeking. Kimberly was the first town reached worthy of mention only because instead of the man made mine dumps of the Witwatersrand the tracks passed close enough for all to see an enormous man made hole (an open-pit mine) in the ground made famous by De Beers and the Cullinan Diamond. The Karoo, a desert full of sheep and scrub, stretched on forever. The dining room would serve wonderful Karoo mutton as the main dish. At Beaufort West the steam engine would be uncoupled and an electric locomotive would pull the train down through the mountainous terrain twisting and turning as the track followed the easiest path down to the sea. Soon the beautiful scenery of the wine country north of Cape Town would signal the end of the journey with majestic Table Mountain heralding the arrival after four days and nights.