It's good to walk

On Friday, our car was finally ready for collection from Richards Bay. So, with great excitement, I set about finding transport to get me there (it’s about 220 km from Ingwavuma). None of our friends were heading down. So I ‘opted’ to take a lift with hospital transport.

Hospital transport runs patients from Mosvold to other hospitals in KZN. Transport doesn’t necessarily go every day. But I got ‘lucky’. On Thursday evening I found out that a driver would be going down, departing at 0400. Despite the unpleasantly early wake up time, I immediately signed up. I took little notice of the warnings from other doctors about the quality of the drivers.

Well the journey was memorable. We began uncharacteristically, by leaving on time. But my relief diminished when we headed left, instead of right (direction of the main road), out of the hospital gate onto dirt road. The driver spent the first hour driving round Ingwavuma honking at bushes. I assumed he had instructions to pick up patients. But nobody emerged from the undergrowth. Eventually, having forced our way all the most impassable roads, we then returned to the hospital. There some of the patients who’d got in an hour earlier, got out and left. Seemingly, they had just come for an early morning drive. My amusement at this helped offset the frustration of having wasted an hour of sleep. After ten minutes, we set off again.

And very quickly I remembered the warnings from the doctors.

I’m not sure how many times I have cheated death. I remember a near encounter with a motorist, while cycling on a country road in France. Rounding the bend in the middle of the road, I met on an oncoming voiture. Despite the speed of the approaching vehicle, I somehow managed to manoeuvre into the hedge – accompanied by the beautiful sound of Renault car horn. Mon dieu et sacre bleu! I had survived.

On the hairiness scale – that was high. It was matched by the fear I felt on my journey to Richards Bay. Several factors contributed to my sense impending death. The first was our vehicle. It was a bright yellow mini van dating to somewhere before the South African declaration of independence. It looked ancient, even by African automobile standards. Indeed, I have seen several vans abandoned around the local area that look more roadworthy.

Yet, despite the appearance of the vehicle it could still reach top speed. Just over 140 Km/h. I know this for certain, for I was seated, next to the driver. Except I wasn’t really seated. For there were no seat belts. Instead, I and the rest of the passengers, spent most of the journey airborne. They were completely anaesthetised to the danger – either through habituation or because of the ketamine still in their bloodstream from Mosvold.

Driving 140 km/h in a dilapidated vehicle on excellent and straight roads during the daytime would have been dangerous. But we were driving down mountain roads, often occupied by animals or people, covered in pot holes, in pitch darkness.

Sitting beside the driver, I did attempt to explain to him that we’d all rather arrive alive. However, each time he tried to respond to me, he turned to face me. Keeping his foot flat on the pedal. As his concentration was all that kept us from oblivion, I decided to shut up.

Hoping to be distracted by some escapist literature, I got out my book. But my idea failed spectacularly. Somehow I completely forgot that I had just started reading J. G. Ballad’s ‘Crash’. For those who haven’t read it, it is a dystopian novel centred on characters that seek sexual kicks from partaking in road accidents. The obvious thought crossed my mind. I looked across at the driver trying to decipher any eroticism on his face.

In the darkness I could not tell. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Was there a smile of excitement as we narrowly avoided going over the mountain edge? Was there a hint of a thrill as we drove through a herd of cattle with the horn on full blast? Was there a whimper as we overtook two cars, going downhill on a steep mountain pass? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

At least it gave me a possible explanation for the way he was driving. For the speed we were travelling bore no relation to the urgency of our business. This soon became abundantly clear as, half way into our journey, we ran close to empty in petrol. I pointed to the gauge and suggested we needed to stop. Pulling in, we filled up with petrol. And then our driver paid. Except he couldn’t pay. He had left the petrol card in the hospital. So somebody from Mosvold would have to bring it to us.

Two and a half hours later, somebody from Mosvold arrived. And off we went again. On better roads and in daylight, the journey became less dangerous. Could I sense boredom from the driver? Perhaps. But his boredom was my life. Leaving the minivan in Richards Bay, I vowed to walk back to Ingwavuma if our car was not fixed. Thankfully, it was.

Kate who?

As the BBC’s Ingwavuma correspondent, I can report (belatedly) that there were no excited street scenes in response to recent world events. On the day itself, I heard mention of the royal wedding on a Zulu radio station on the way to school. In addition, patients and doctors (mainly Mary) at the hospital were able to watch coverage on the televisions in their wards. But there were no other signs of the madness taking place in Britain. (This should be comforting to the royal couple as they fret about the likelihood of finding a honeymoon destination away from the media glare. They could walk completely unnoticed down Ingwavuma high street.)

News of the death of Osama Bin Laden was equally low key. (How he must now wish he had sought out the anonymity offered by Ingwavuma.)

The news of interest to Ingwavuma is all provided by the upcoming local elections. These are a very dirty affair. One of the hospital staff was instructed to attend a ceremony to open a local school. She was expected to provide specialist auditory assistance. On arrival she found that there was no school opening. Instead it was a front for an ANC rally.

We happened to come upon (it was staged outside the hospital gates) a t-shirt rally for the IFP. Their candidate is the current incumbent and was present at the clothing give-away. I was successful in securing a promise from him that he would organise for water to be delivered to Ntabayengwe. I am hoping that the proximity of the elections and his desperation for votes will result in some action.

Our car situation remains unresolved. It is eight weeks since the computer in the car failed. I have been on the telephone to one or other garage almost every day trying to fix it. Below is an outline of events:

1. Car breaks down
2. Car is towed to Jozini (R3000)
3. Car computer is sent to Jo’burg to be fixed
4. Car computer cannot be fixed and is sent back from Jo’burg
5. Second hand computer is ordered from Durban (R2500)
6. Computer is towed to Richards Bay to have computer fitted (R1000)
7. Car is delivered back to us
8. Car is clearly wrong and I drive it back to Jozin
9. Mechanic in Jozini cannot find the cause of the problem
10. Car is driven to Richards Bay Ford specialist
11. Richards Bay Ford specialist say wrong computer has been fitted to the car
12. Second hand computer is taken out of the car and sent back to Durban
13. Durban man tells me that he only has one second hand computer for our model of car but it may not work as it is very dented

(Rand to pounds = 11:1)

We are currently giving Durban man some more time in the hope that he can identify a second hand computer that isn’t dented. If he can’t locate one, then we will either need to gamble on the dented computer (R600 at stake) or buy a new computer (R7000).

We have loved our time in South Africa but we will not miss the politics or dealing with car mechanics.