The luxury bus ride that took us home away from home

Last week, the Heir and I got on an Intercape from Harare to Johannesburg. Dude had gone ahead 24 hours before as he had to comply with visa requirements to enter South Africa before August 3.

Three things about this trip: One is that Intercape is the most luxurious bus we have used so far on the trip. The second is that Beit Bridge is the busiest border we have been to so far and, finally, that on account of the first two points above, we were a long way from the Mbilima border post in Malawi where we rode a three-tonne lorry and we had the sugar cane-sharing, book-buying immigration officials.

We left Harare at 1pm and our tickets informed us we would arrive at Johannesburg Park Station at 9 the next morning. A lot of this time, as I know from previous trips, is for border clearance. We were in the lower part of the double-decker bus dubbed the Sleepliner by its owners. The legroom on the seats was akin to that of a business class flight and the seats collapse back, not quite like a business class flight but definitely more than your average bus.

The pilot, I mean, bus driver, came to the front and introduced himself and his co-driver who was manning the machine and informed us how to communicate with them if anything was required (there is a telephone-like device where passengers can reach the co-driver if they have any complaints) . He also pointed the toilet out to us and informed us of the places we would make stops.

LUNCH BREAK

The Heir was in awe and could not risk waxing lyrical about how this was ‘the best bus ever’. Having travelled using Intercape in the past, I too agreed inwardly, and this is where I made my first mistake. To judge the bus on my past trips with the bus company.

When we made our first stop in Mvuma, instead of going out to buy food as everyone who I thought was greedy was doing, the Heir and I bought some gum, some mint and some bottles of water. The reason for my actions was that on previous trips on Intercape, the bus has provided food to its clientele. Turns out, this is no longer being done.

I only found this out when I asked one of my neighbours when the food would come. By this time, the Heir, was rightly mumbling about hunger. I was equally hungry but had to be the grown up. Adulting sucks sometimes.

After we left the town of Masvingo, our driver hit a dog. Being the responsible guy that he is, he reported the incident to the Zimbabwe Republic Police at the next road block. Most of the other passengers thought this was a mistake as the police insisted that the driver got back to the scene of the accident so they could identify the dog. How could they be sure, the police wanted to know, that our driver had not hit a human being? So they asked him to park the bus at a nearby service station while they drove back with him in a sedan to the scene of the accident.

But, one man’s misfortune often being another woman (and child)’s fortune, this allowed the Heir and I to go to the restaurant adjoining the petrol station where we ordered a bacon cheeseburger and chips. The Heir swore that that meal was second only to the matumbo meal we had one day when we were all very hungry in a small town of Malawi the size of Narumoru called Chitipa.

Having taken part in the No Bond Notes march in Harare the day before, where there were some confrontations with the police in front of Parliament, I did not think I could begin to love them so fast but there I was. Loving them.

We finally got to the border. As usual, the Zimbabwean side of the border was quick to clear. We were at the South Africa side by midnight. It was on the South African side of the border where we found ourselves with long lines. This has always surprised me as the South African side of this particular border is the one that’s computerised. Our luxury bus privilege ensured that our driver got a special window for us so our passports could receive their entry stamps.

Special mention must go to the immigration official who yelled to a woman with a crying baby that she should take her child outside. The Heir mumbled, ‘Why is she so mean? I bet she cried more than that baby when she was a child.’

Despite our bus privilege, we would only leave the border at 6 in the morning. In many ways, the whole continent is home, but on account of our citizenship, the Heir and I were now on home soil. South Africa.