Commute to Bloem, Part 1

It was with much difficulty that I accepted a directive to pack my bags and haul my great self off to the land beyond the Lesotho Mountains for business purposes. Trust me, had I a choice, I would have never chosen to go to Bloemfontein, but alas, the man that pays my salary demanded it of me, therefore the choice was not mine really.

I could’ve played sick on the day of the trip, but everyone would have known that my sickness were not honest, after I had cursed out loud at no one in generally and punched the air furiously at the knowledge that I would make my first acquaintance with the old country.

Fortune suckered me an eight-punch combination with this, and in my mind I can still hear her sniggering as she watched, aware of all the perils that were about to befall me at that place which is still stuck near somewhere and a yard away from nowhere, in time.

I watched the weather report intently the evening before I was to depart to the ironically named Vrystaat and the bold and follically challenged weather dude did not disappointment at all. Well, he did, but my expectations were met, however undesirable. He cheerfully related how the weather would be in Bloem: “a maximum temperature of seventeen degrees and a minimum of zero degrees Celsius,” he mused with that million dollar smile he sports.

The last time I experienced such extremes in temperature was when I unwittingly visited my uncle’s farm in the winter one school holiday. At night, I could blow warm air out of my mouth and a few centimetres above me, it would condense and form ice flakes which would float black onto my face. Needless to say; I cut my vacation short, returned home and have not gone back to my uncle’s farm in nearly twenty years.

So Bloem was going to be a challenge for me, but what I hoped was that the worst that I would face was to be the natural extremes, not those of the human kind.

No one told me about the SAAirlink flight to Bloem, no one thought about that and whether it could accommodate such a man as behemoth as the Sumo. I arrived at the airport in good time and made my way reluctantly to the check in where I asked for a seat with a bit more legroom. The guy who checked in me did look at me with a rather puzzled look, but I put it down to admiration for my infinite handsomeness and paid him no more mind currency as I received my ticket from him.

Or maybe he was made peculiar by my rather innocent, though ill informed request, I asked for an aisle seat, on the wing where the emergency escape doors are, because they often have the most leg room in the kennel that is economy class. He smiled, look at his crony and with a wide grin said: “First time to Bloem?” after which I answered “yes.” And he continued: “4B, Sir. You will board through gate nine at four-thirty pm. Enjoy your flight” I thanked him and made my way quickly to gates oblivious of the perils that were about to befall me.

All was smooth bar the normal and seemingly acceptable incompetence that one has had to get accustomed to at airports in South Africa. I was anxious to get on the flight, get to Bloem and be done with this whole business of being in another time zone. Please do not be alarmed, I was not boarding a flight in another time zone to Bloem, I was going there from a porch, mild in temperature and temperament — Durban — but read on and you will come to know why Bloem is in another time zone all together, much like a class of its own, but rather in the past.

We boarded the transport that takes to the outskirts of the airport where the flights to such places dock. I am quite a frequent flier out of Durban International, but I had never before seen that part of the airport. When we arrived there, to my astonishment, we found our aeroplane waiting for us. I was dumb-founded; others were calm and expectant of this tiny bird that we were going to fairy on over the snow-capped Lesotho Mountains on our commute to Bloem.

But before I indulge you on an in-depth description of our state of the art transport, I would like to draw your attention to a stranger I met on the bus-commute to the nether regions of the airport from the boarding gate.

A female in her mid-twenties, pretty and welcoming, very soft spoken, but one felt that they would find a right and ready minx if they dug deeper into her person. She did not introduce herself, but rather jumped in on my conversation with a companion on the perils we thought we would meet in Bloem, and the extremes of weather and person we would find awaiting us.

She junctured in her laboured English: “The cold in Bloem doesn’t go around you, it goes through you, and you will find that you will feel the cold deep in your bones, a cold like nothing you ever felt before”.

I was even more disheartened as she went on to say what a nice place Bloem was and how she would never live anywhere else (New Zealand popped into my mind for some inexplicable reason) and how Durban, which she had been visiting for the weekend, was ‘krap’ compared to the homely Bloem.

How the people of Bloem still relate so flippantly to human excrement after the events at the university still baffles and amazes me, but she went on unfazed, until she has put the fear of God firmly in my soul and I was sure, I would meet my demise at this place.

But, back to our plane. I was the last to hop onto the narrow steps after I had made sure that the person in front of me had made it all the way up the stairs of that flight of stairs which also masquerade as the door, for when open, they came within inches of the floor and I was afraid that my enormous weight, coupled with another’s, would surely result in an almighty bang as the door-come-stairs came into solid contact with the cement ground under our combined weight.

This would have surely, in my fickle mind, have resulted in a dent that would only have been discovered by the pilots at twenty-one thousand feet as the cabin depressurised and the plain lost altitude as a consequence, and we would be soon falling at a rapid rate with the ragged Drakensberg forming our welcoming cushion.

I made my way to 4B, and attempted to plonk my vast behind down next to a rather like disposed gentlemen. This obviously was not going to work and the look in his eye instructed me in no uncertain terms to find alternative seating, which I luckily did, and proceeded to spread myself out over the two tiny seats, which left only a few centimetres for a would-be seat-mate. Joy overwhelmed me when the door was closed. I knew I was to have the row to myself, but the joy would be quickly overcome by fear as we started on our merry little way to the old country.

Let me start by stating here, with you as my honest witness, that I am never flying to Bloem again. I probably wouldn’t be averse to driving there, but flying? No, thank you very much! I would bang Felicia M-S, sober, before I would do that again, there isn’t money enough in the world that would make me fly to Bloem. Oh, wait, I lie — money enough to get me to consume enough golden nectar to wobble myself onto the plane would allow me to make the flight, but Felicia M-S, eish, I just don’t know man. There isn’t enough booze in the world for that…

Back to the cabin. When the airline goes out of its way to inform you that the top of the range piece of equipment that you are travelling on is ‘state of the art’ know that there is something amiss. Someone, somewhere knows something that you would be suspicious of and needs to put you at ease about that said thing — be weary of this — nose-dives may be imminent.

My quirk: ‘Ain’t this the same plain that Hansie flew in on his last…” was met with much silence and disgust among the passengers, therefore I did not finish the sentence, it was in bad taste I must say, especially under our current circumstances.

Let me exclaim here that I came to learn that there is one — exactly one — plane that services Bloemfontein from Durban. Somehow this did not comfort me. One day, even the farmer’s most trusted mule ultimately keels over and dies at the end of a long service under the weight of many years. Machines are also thus disposed and this thing did not look ‘state-of-the-art’ to me. Maybe it is because I watched too many World War II movies, but the only propeller, extended outside the engine I’ve ever seen was at the tip of a plain speedily and uncontrollable answering the call of master gravity, hustling to answer the call of the earth and sounding that droaning tune that precedes that unavoidable crash, bang and the fire and smoke that indicate the end of its service, and that of its passengers turns on this fair earth.

I was assured by the apparent calm of all around me, except for my companion who had prepared herself for the worst having laid her eyes, first upon the carrier, and then upon the propellers. I, of course pretended to be the picture of calm and held my nerves, though prayed quietly for the one who guides me to stay by my side though His will would always be done.

We made our ascent from the airport after a short taxi down what I think was a short runway and were on our way to the land yonder the mountains. The take-off was surprisingly smooth, the noise was deafening though, but I had hope, it was the only thing I could have at that point. To my disgust, they do not serve alcohol on these flights.

It was just before sunset and the sun raced home to the west. We seemed to be head north of the sun, but it stayed with us for long enough for us to get over the great mountains and for me to see at last light, the snow that caps the great mountains and has probably done so for ages. Ages before man could fly and before man decided to take risks with such flight by putting quarter-of-a-ton men in little planes and hoping that the weight does not draw the aforementioned down towards earth cradling earth.

I was comforted by the knowledge of the pending supper and drink service which would surely ensue after we had reached cruising altitude, but alas, there was to be a surprise here too. No real food and no golden nectar of the gods, whatsoever! I was crushed, my heart begged for a little something to make the anxiety go away, but there was to be none.

I would go through the experience in all my sober faculties; I would feel every bump, experience every acoustic and feel every beat of my heart for the little over an hour flight. Again I heard Fortune snicker at me once more in echo.

But I had much to ponder; there was a job to be done the very next day in the town of Bloemfontein. It is saddening, but the truth is that I was fearful. Fearful of my own people, Africans of European descent who may have still believed that I, a son of the soil, were a lesser human. A person to be treated with disdain, used until he had either fulfilled his purpose or come to his end.

There was much to ponder: would I be allowed at the hotel, with the same respect of other South Africans? Would I be called names at the local fast food joint? Would I come to fists with anyone to defend mine and my companion’s (who is of Indian descent) honour?

All these questions stand to be answer in “Bloem, Part Two”

I rest, for now
The Sumo