I love riding the train.

Ok, it probably has something to do with the fact that the train takes me to a lot of wonderful places (Lynedoch for the school and my babies, Koelenhof for the local convent and one of the most wonderful Catholic parishes in existence, Cape Town for all kinds of adventures). But even without that little perk, I really do love riding the train.

I should qualify that statement a bit. Many (white) South Africans who have not personally experienced the train will tell you not to ride it because “those people” will mug and/or murder you. Those same people will tell you not to go to Lynedoch because “those children” will steal from you (yes, those children who on multiple occasions have brought me my bag because I forgot it somewhere). Just a mark of the ignorance and prejudice that exists in so many ways.

The few white people who do ride the train use the Stellenbosch station. That station is about a 30 minute walk from my residence, depending on how easily you get lost (meaning it usually takes me longer than that). The Du Toit station is about a 20 minute walk from my residence if you go at an easy pace (meaning it usually takes me less time because I am perpetually late and must walk quickly to catch my train). The Du Toit station is the “working man’s” station; white people don’t use it. Except the students from my LSCE class. It’s a shorter walk, so it only makes sense to us that we would use it. Plus the walk is absolutely beautiful and some of our learners from Lynedoch use that station.

The train has first class cars, which have tall, gray, padded seats that face forward or backward and make you feel boxed in, and third class cars, which have short, yellow, plastic benches that face the centre and cost you much less to ride. People say that if you’re going to ride the train (as a white person), you must ride first class. They also say that if you’re going to ride the train, you must get in the most crowded cars possible and never get in an empty car. If you’ve ever ridden the train, you know that the third class cars are always packed and the first class ones are almost always empty. Yeah, I’m still trying to make sense of that advice...

Riding first class is kind of boring. Everyone is partitioned off from one another and the cars are relatively quiet (a side effect of being empty). That is, except when ayoba man is aboard. Ayoba man is a wonderful little man who is always on the last car of the train when our class boards every Monday and Friday. He is everyone’s friend and makes sure you know it – he will remind you three or four times in one ride that he loves you (and that you should tell your mother that he loves her). He can make a siren noise with his mouth, listens to music from ridiculously large headphones, colours pictures in notebooks to proudly show us, and always has candy. He gives lots of hugs and always has a new secret handshake to teach us. And he always, always shouts “ayoba!” (South African slang for cool, awesome, etc.).

Riding third class is always exciting. People squish onto the benches and stand in the centre; men and young people give up their seats for old women, mothers and children. Men walk up and down the aisles selling chips, biscuits, candy, oranges, and, less frequently, fingernail clippers, key chains and needles for a few rand each, constantly shouting in street vendor voices and a variety of languages. Groups of women sing loudly and joyfully to Jesus, stamping their feet and clapping their hands. Nicely-dressed men stand near the doors with open Bibles, loudly proclaiming the gospels in isiXhosa or engaging curious patrons in conversation, flipping knowledgeably through the pages of their books. With the exception of a few, rare cases, my friends and I are the only white people. Sometimes we receive curious and occasionally sceptical glances, but most of the time I think we’re the only ones painfully aware of our skin colour (a feeling which has quickly faded as the months go by). Some of the small children stare at us; I just use the opportunity to play peek-a-boo and make silly faces.

Riding the train is just one of the times and places I choose to be with people different from myself in race and socio-economic status. It’s just plain practical – the train is the most convenient, cheap and entertaining way for me to get places as an international student. But it’s also meaningful. I like to think that simply by showing up wearing the skin I was born with, the clothes that I can afford to buy and a smile, I can change attitudes. When I go there, I’m not ashamed of who I am nor of what I’m doing, and that’s rare for someone who looks like me in that situation in this country. I make a point of looking people in the eye and saying hello. Sometimes it’s normal, and sometimes they seem a bit surprised. I just hope that I can impart a sense of dignity where people’s very humanity has been stripped away by institutional racism, that my life and choices can serve as a witness to whites and blacks alike that I am not better than anyone else simply because of the colour of my skin or the money in my bank account. But mostly, I think my motivation is selfish. I love being around these people because they are real. They experience the raw struggle of life and they know material poverty, but they are spiritually rich and radiate a certain joy that cannot be named or understood without experiencing it. They aren’t tied down by materialism and are free to enjoy life and love the way we are meant to. I can’t over generalise and I can’t say that poverty is a good thing, because it’s not. But the people themselves are beautiful, and I like being around them because it helps me to try to be more like them in faith and love.

I love riding the train.

peace and love