Sorry that it's been a while since I've added a new post. I'm back in the States now, but busy at work and still living out of a suitcase so I haven't had much time. I will to try to finish up the tale of the rest of my trip (and update all of the other sections of my blog) over the next few weeks. I can't move back into my apartment until August 1st so I can't make any promises about wrapping everything up before then since I'm constantly moving (and don't always have wifi access), but I'll do the best I can.
It was the end of April when I headed back over from Gaborone to the South Africa border and onwards to Johannesburg. At the bus station in Gaborone, I boarded a tightly-packed minibus where I was stuffed in the back row with a couple and their baby. When we got to the Botswana side of the border I went through immigration and then headed back to the bus. Apparently I was supposed to walk across the border, but I was so afraid of being left behind that I got on the bus just to be safe. When I arrived at the South African immigration office the guy pointed out that I still had three days left on my stamp. I told him that, though that may be true, I wanted to stay for at least a month so he finally begrudgingly gave me a new stamp with exactly 30 days. If I had arrived via air I think I would have automatically been given 90, but I didn't feel like arguing.
Once everyone had made it into South Africa and reboarded the bus, an immigration officer came over and pulled off the family that was sitting next to me. There was quite a bit of negotiation, but the officers were speaking in Zulu or Xhosa or some other African language that I didn't understand. It was getting hot on the bus so all the passengers started getting off and I asked one of them what was going on. The woman told me that the Zimbabwean family didn't have a passport for their one-year-old baby. In the end, they had to take their luggage off the bus and head back over the border. I felt really bad for them, but selfishly it meant I then had the whole back row to myself.
After about six or seven hours on the road we finally rolled into a parking lot in downtown Johannesburg. By that point it was already dark so as I was getting off the bus a tout approached me and told me to follow him if I didn't want to get robbed. He might have been exaggerating, but I was in no mood to test his theory so I followed him toward one of the metered cabs that was waiting. When we got there he expected a tip not only from me, but also from the driver. I didn't give him quite as much as he wanted, but I didn't feel like I owed him that much for escorting me less than 100 meters.
The cab took off and as we were leaving the downtown area, the driver continued with the scare tactics, telling me he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. I tried to explain where my hostel was, but as I don't know Johannesburg I could only share the information I'd been given over e-mail. After going quite a bit out of the way, the driver finally agreed to pull over in a McDonalds parking lot where he could call the hostel for directions. He then told me that he'd gone the wrong direction (I had given him the address upfront) and had to drive an extra distance. As we were driving into the neighborhood of my hostel, he started rambling on about how dangerous it was. When we finally pulled up in front of the place, I was so freaked out that all I wanted to do was get inside the building. As I got out of the car, he of course tried to jack up the price, claiming he had gone really far out of the way even though it was his own fault and probably intentional. Since I was so desperate to get inside at that point, I argued a bit and then just paid basically what he was asking.
Once I got inside the gate of the hostel property, I saw that the building itself was lovely and there probably wasn't quite as much to worry about as my other "guides" had let on. I had a sneaking suspicion they were playing up the danger factor a tiny bit after seeing a single, white female in an effort to get some extra cash. The women who ran the hostel were incredibly friendly and welcoming and I actually felt a little guilty that I was only staying for one night. The next morning, I was sure to use their own driver to get me to the train station. The equally-friendly female driver told me about all the places to visit if I ever came back to Johannesburg and made me feel a lot less nervous about driving through the city. Then again, it was broad daylight at that point.
When I got to the train station, I headed right to the ticket office where I had to wait a short time in line. My plan was to take an overnight train to Cape Town since my friend, Paul, was already expecting me. The people right in front of me seemed to be giving the woman at the counter a hard time in a language I couldn't understand so when I got there, I did my best to be polite. I asked if there were any sleeper cabins for that night and she told me they were sold out for the rest of the month. I was stuck buying a regular seat for the entire 24-hour journey. However, since I graciously accepted my fate, after paying for my ticket she did happen to mention that if I asked the conductor on board he may be able to find some space in a sleeping cabin.
As I waited to board the train an hour or so later, I met a Muslim woman who asked me to sit next to her once the train arrived. I couldn't exactly say "no" so I was stuck sitting in an aisle seat until the people collecting seats came by. I mentioned to the woman that if there was any availability, I would like to upgrade to first class. She said I would have to speak to the conductor and tried to describe what he looked like. A short time later, while the woman next to me was sleeping, the ticket collector came back and told me to follow her. We went into the dining car where the conductor asked me if I would be willing to share a compartment with a woman and a young boy. Since all of the sleeping cabins were same sex, except for families traveling together, we would have to claim we were family members. I was totally fine with that so I paid the extra amount for the ticket and went to get my bags. I did kind of feel a bit bad for my seatmate who probably wondered what had happened to me when she woke up from her nap.
Once I was settled into my new sleeping cabin, an older woman boarded a few stops later. Surprisingly there wasn't any child with her. I later learned from her that she was supposed to go down to Cape Town with her five-year-old grandson, but he had come down with a case of chicken pox. It ended up just being me and my cabinmate, an older Afrikaans woman who was slightly racist and set in her ways, but also tough as nails. She was heading down to Cape Town to get treatment for a brain tumor and had been widowed for over 40 years -- most likely at least half her life. She complained to management about every little thing that was wrong with the compartment and dragged me into it too, but was nice enough to buy me a cup of coffee (which I don't drink and had to choke down) for breakfast in the morning.
The rest of the trip down to Cape Town was pretty restful and relaxing. We passed through grasslands, farmlands, mountain ranges and wine country as we traveled from north to south. We got a bit behind schedule overnight and when I talked to Paul by phone the next day (the first time in nearly three years since we first met in Korea) I told him we'd be a bit late. We still made it into the Mother City by mid-afternoon and for the first time in my trip, after deboarding the train I was able to bypass the cabbie asking if I needed a ride and head straight toward my smiling friend who was waiting at the station to come pick me up.
It was the end of April when I headed back over from Gaborone to the South Africa border and onwards to Johannesburg. At the bus station in Gaborone, I boarded a tightly-packed minibus where I was stuffed in the back row with a couple and their baby. When we got to the Botswana side of the border I went through immigration and then headed back to the bus. Apparently I was supposed to walk across the border, but I was so afraid of being left behind that I got on the bus just to be safe. When I arrived at the South African immigration office the guy pointed out that I still had three days left on my stamp. I told him that, though that may be true, I wanted to stay for at least a month so he finally begrudgingly gave me a new stamp with exactly 30 days. If I had arrived via air I think I would have automatically been given 90, but I didn't feel like arguing.Once everyone had made it into South Africa and reboarded the bus, an immigration officer came over and pulled off the family that was sitting next to me. There was quite a bit of negotiation, but the officers were speaking in Zulu or Xhosa or some other African language that I didn't understand. It was getting hot on the bus so all the passengers started getting off and I asked one of them what was going on. The woman told me that the Zimbabwean family didn't have a passport for their one-year-old baby. In the end, they had to take their luggage off the bus and head back over the border. I felt really bad for them, but selfishly it meant I then had the whole back row to myself.
The cab took off and as we were leaving the downtown area, the driver continued with the scare tactics, telling me he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. I tried to explain where my hostel was, but as I don't know Johannesburg I could only share the information I'd been given over e-mail. After going quite a bit out of the way, the driver finally agreed to pull over in a McDonalds parking lot where he could call the hostel for directions. He then told me that he'd gone the wrong direction (I had given him the address upfront) and had to drive an extra distance. As we were driving into the neighborhood of my hostel, he started rambling on about how dangerous it was. When we finally pulled up in front of the place, I was so freaked out that all I wanted to do was get inside the building. As I got out of the car, he of course tried to jack up the price, claiming he had gone really far out of the way even though it was his own fault and probably intentional. Since I was so desperate to get inside at that point, I argued a bit and then just paid basically what he was asking.
When I got to the train station, I headed right to the ticket office where I had to wait a short time in line. My plan was to take an overnight train to Cape Town since my friend, Paul, was already expecting me. The people right in front of me seemed to be giving the woman at the counter a hard time in a language I couldn't understand so when I got there, I did my best to be polite. I asked if there were any sleeper cabins for that night and she told me they were sold out for the rest of the month. I was stuck buying a regular seat for the entire 24-hour journey. However, since I graciously accepted my fate, after paying for my ticket she did happen to mention that if I asked the conductor on board he may be able to find some space in a sleeping cabin.
As I waited to board the train an hour or so later, I met a Muslim woman who asked me to sit next to her once the train arrived. I couldn't exactly say "no" so I was stuck sitting in an aisle seat until the people collecting seats came by. I mentioned to the woman that if there was any availability, I would like to upgrade to first class. She said I would have to speak to the conductor and tried to describe what he looked like. A short time later, while the woman next to me was sleeping, the ticket collector came back and told me to follow her. We went into the dining car where the conductor asked me if I would be willing to share a compartment with a woman and a young boy. Since all of the sleeping cabins were same sex, except for families traveling together, we would have to claim we were family members. I was totally fine with that so I paid the extra amount for the ticket and went to get my bags. I did kind of feel a bit bad for my seatmate who probably wondered what had happened to me when she woke up from her nap.
Once I was settled into my new sleeping cabin, an older woman boarded a few stops later. Surprisingly there wasn't any child with her. I later learned from her that she was supposed to go down to Cape Town with her five-year-old grandson, but he had come down with a case of chicken pox. It ended up just being me and my cabinmate, an older Afrikaans woman who was slightly racist and set in her ways, but also tough as nails. She was heading down to Cape Town to get treatment for a brain tumor and had been widowed for over 40 years -- most likely at least half her life. She complained to management about every little thing that was wrong with the compartment and dragged me into it too, but was nice enough to buy me a cup of coffee (which I don't drink and had to choke down) for breakfast in the morning.
The rest of the trip down to Cape Town was pretty restful and relaxing. We passed through grasslands, farmlands, mountain ranges and wine country as we traveled from north to south. We got a bit behind schedule overnight and when I talked to Paul by phone the next day (the first time in nearly three years since we first met in Korea) I told him we'd be a bit late. We still made it into the Mother City by mid-afternoon and for the first time in my trip, after deboarding the train I was able to bypass the cabbie asking if I needed a ride and head straight toward my smiling friend who was waiting at the station to come pick me up.
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