Helen Walne’s Human League

At the station a woman dressed in black with a fluffy brooch pinned to her ample bosom sang, “Good morning! How are you?” and tore my ticket.

I was instantly suspicious. Was she smoothing the way for what was to come? Would they start handing out martinis? Free packets of chips? Would the woman burst into a rendition of Chattanooga Choo Choo as the train rounded the corner, to distract us from the fact it was 19 minutes late?

The trains used to be fun. When I moved to Cape Town from Durban, where public transport comprises innumerable taxi chassis stuck together with masking tape, I relished my daily commute on Metrorail. I liked the blind singers thanking Jesus for dying for them. I liked the Smarties guy: “Two packets for R5. What a lot I got!” I liked spying on people’s reading material: Nora Roberts; Accepting Death; Sketching for Beginners; The Bible; The Qur’an; Finding The Power Of Jesus. I liked the children eating apples and the sound of Eritrean women talking Tigrinya. I liked the dreadlocked boys with corks in their ears, the skaters, the students, the guide dogs, the waiters. Mostly, I liked the feeling we were all travelling somewhere together.

Now we all get stuck somewhere together.

A few weeks ago, I hopped on the train bound for home. It had been a long day. I was carrying a kilogram of potatoes. At Salt River station, the train ground to a halt, the carriage doors tightly shut. There were no announcements. No “Sorry julle, the blerry train’s engine has fallen out.” Just silence. Ten minutes later, the silence turned to mutters and frustrated sighs. Twenty minutes later, someone started playing Michael Jackson on a phone. Twenty-two minutes later, I saw red while Michael sang about black and white.

Eventually, the doors wheezed open. We poured out. An announcement dribbled through the speakers that the next train to Simon’s Town would be arriving at platform one. We surged across the bridge, took up our positions and waited. And waited.

A train heading to Cape Town creaked past. As did another. And another. Da-dee-dum-da. I finished writing my thesis on The Symbiotic Relationship Between Rats And Molluscs.

Eventually, a wan voice announced that the train to Simon’s Town would be arriving in one minute at platform two. Men scrambled across the tracks. I staggered up the stairs and across the bridge, using my nightshade vegetables to nudge a nurse out of the way. When the train pulled in, the scene resembled a stage-diving competition. I rode all the way home in the armpit of an engineering student.

It’s been like that for about six months. Every day trains are cancelled, trains are delayed, trains are overcrowded. People dangle out of doors. People clutch each other for balance. Large women crush tiny salesmen into corners. And every day the announcements are made: “Train number blah-blah-blah has been cancelled due to vandalism. Metrorail apologises for the inconvenience.”

I don’t buy the vandalism thing. Yes, I’m sure it happens, but why all of a sudden? How is it that a year ago, most of the trains arrived on time at full complement? Did I miss something? Was there a vandal convention in the past six months where they decided to up their vandalish ways?

Or maybe vandals are like molluscs and can reproduce in a matter of weeks, and have recently spawned a new generation of particularly resilient cable thieves?

Then there is the matter of Metrorail having pulled a sizeable chunk of its “rolling stock” off the tracks in order to service it. Has it not heard of ongoing maintenance, or the quaintly sensible concept of “little by little”?

When Metrorail increased its fares last year, I didn’t mind shelling out the extra few rand. At R13 for a return trip, it still beat sitting in traffic listening to a man called Eddie whining on the radio about noisy cats. While I wasn’t expecting in-carriage cabaret or foot massages, I naively believed the promises of better service. Now I’m beginning to find Eddie most attractive.

A German tourist got into my carriage the other day. He surveyed the graffiti and the cataract windows. Then he sidled up to me and asked: “Ees zeez first class?” I nodded and told him the drinks trolley would be arriving soon. Then I over-cackled just so he knew I was joking.

But it’s no joke. While we commuters remain staggeringly calm, rolling our eyes at one another in bemused peed-offness, Metrorail continues treating everyone – no matter what carriage they ride in – like second-class citizens.

Methinks it had better get things back on track before some tired and mad commuter (me?) goes off the rails.

[email protected]; twitter: @walnehelen