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.