The Carriage at the End of the Train

Just before my 9th birthday my family emigrated to South Africa. It was something of a change from our small village life in rural southern England. The village green, where local cricket teams played, was behind our house and, on weekends, my brother and I would imitate the men bowling in their smart cricket whites, all the while trying not to hit the ball into the duck pond.

After nine days at sea, we reached Cape Town, before continuing our journey by train to Johannesburg. During the three-day trip north, we traveled through the hot, dusty Karoo Desert, a barren, unfamiliar landscape. The smell of freshly cut English grass wafting into my open bedroom window seemed a world away.

By the end of our second day on the train, my brother and I were suffering from cabin fever. We decided to explore our temporary home. Walking down the narrow corridor that ran the length of the carriages, we peered curiously into compartments when their doors were open. As we approached the back of the train, we could hear a cacophony of singing, joyful shouts and stamping of feet. Drawing closer, individual voices rang out. Intrigued, I reached out and opened the sliding carriage door.

I noticed the heat first. In the hot, confined space of the carriage, which was devoid of seats or benches, a mass of people shuffled their feet, danced and sang. The women, dressed in brightly colored dresses and headdresses, swirled, swayed and clapped their hands above their heads while the men stood around them clapping and stamping their feet in time to the pounding beat of the music being played.

A young girl spotted us and, with a wide smile, pulled us into the center of the circle. Another girl grabbed my brother’s hands and suddenly we were dancing and singing with a new set of friends. The welcome was
overwhelming.

I am not sure how long we had been dancing and singing with our thrilling, new companions, but in the middle of another rousing, rhythmic song, a hush suddenly descended on the carriage. The women stopped singing and dancing and the men quietened their feet. Once beaming faces were now somber and drawn. The only sound was of the train’s steel wheels rumbling over the tracks.
 
An austere, uniformed train guard shoved his way through the group of women to the middle of the circle. He grabbed my brother and me by our ears and hauled us from the carriage. The young girl, who had first pulled us into that energized circle of dancers, stared forlornly at the floor.

As the rough, unfriendly guard dragged us back along the corridor, he yelled at us in an unfamiliar language. We finally reached our own compartment, where he explained to our parents that we had been caught singing with Africans in a “forbidden zone.” This was my rude introduction to the South Africa of 1975.

Words: Emma Vijayaratnam
Illustration: Tania Vicedo