Road to Robertson...TISA (This is Still Africa!)

15/10/22

The last few days have been spent in a haze. “I can’t believe this is Africa” has become a bit of a catchphrase of the trip as we’ve wandered through the suburbs, sipping on flat whites and attending reservations that have been running to time. However, we were reminded we were still in Africa when we tried to board a bus to Robertson.

We arrived at the bus station, which was very much not in the flat ‘white’ part of town, in plenty of time. Beth had booked the bus weeks in advance. Armed with a plastic wallet and a certain smugness that comes with preparedness we approached the information counter. After standing patiently in front of the desk, the attendant finally looked up to meet our gaze. One was not met with hostility but rather apathy, and the slight confusion that occurs when unsure if the attendant was talking to you or rather continuing to talk on her cell phone.

Me: “We’re here for the 14:30 to Robertson” Attendant: “Hmm” (Her eyebrows furrow) "Today?" (Her eyebrows furrowing impossibly lower still)

Me: “Yes!” (Proudly produces printed tickets from aforementioned plastic wallet)

Attendant: "Ah okay. It will be here, just wait.”

30 minutes after the designated departure time we had drawn as much amusement as we could from watching a lady of Pickwickian proportions eating her body weight in fried chicken and I plucked up the courage to address the attendant again. Her eyebrows had returned to their natural resting position. After waiting an uncomfortably long time for her gaze to meet mine I decided to interject.

Me: “Have you had any update on our bus yet?”

Attendant: “The 14:30 to Robertson”

Me: “YES”

Attendant: "The 14:30 was cancelled this morning, not enough people booked, you should have got a phone call. Oh wait (she scours her computer screen) looks like you booked with an international number, in which case they don’t tend to call you!”

It clearly had not crossed her mind that this might have been useful information to share with us the first time we had spoken nearly an hour and a half ago. We had been booked for the next bus in 4 hours time that was definitely going to leave… as long as enough people turned up!

With the sun starting to set and not really wanting to spend the night in the rather rough bus shelter, we cut our loses and booked an Uber. Having used Uber to get to the bus station, and travelling in a rather ropey 2001 Nissan Almera with no upholstery or working seatbelts, we decided to pay a couple of hundred more Rand for an Uber “Comfort”. Just seconds later a rather ropey 2001 Nissan Almera pulled up. After a small exchange of smiles, Beth and I got in. As our bums touched the minimally upholstered seats we sighed a breath of relief, we were finally on our way.

Our bliss was short lived as the driver immediately exclaimed that he had no money for fuel! ‘Here we go’ I thought. After a short stand-off, a few phone calls and a telebank transfers from his friends later we were on the go. Thirty minutes into our journey we hit our first toll road. The drivers hand flew to his forehead “Eish, I forgot about the tolls”. Anticipating another stand-off, I was pleasantly surprised as he instead took the winding back road up into the mountains. On cue, the rain clouds formed and we wound our way into the eye of the storm. Next stop, Robertson.