Carol’s Column

Mystery and intrigue on the Drakensberg Express

SO WHO needs the Orient Express when you have the Drakensberg Express?

The Orient Express might have mystery, history and class, but the Drakensberg Express has Koos, Douggie and Wynand, not to mention biltong in the bar and boerewors for breakfast.

Well, more or less, anyway.

It all started two weeks ago with a phone call from my friend Melanie.

“Listen, Carol,” she said, “I was buying a slice of gruyere the other day, when I looked up and saw you.

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“I thought to myself, huh, she looks dreadful — pale and white like a camembert, faded at the edges like a limburger. In fact you looked distinctly off. I’ve got a suggestion.”

Now my friend Melanie’s a determined lady, she’s also a public relations officer for a hotel group.

“Why don’t you and your man break away, escape and join us for a weekend with a difference?”

I pricked up my ears which always makes me resemble a retriever, my mother-in-law says.

“This Friday evening, we zap down to Durbs on the Drakensberg Express, then spend an amazing two days at the Umhlanga Sands, then voila, back to Johannesburg on Sunday night by train.

“You’ll have a weekend of a lifetime and you’ll arrive in time to face the week on Monday morning feeling like a million Krugerrands.”

It was an irresistible offer.

My spouse was less than enthusiastic.

“You’re crazy,” he said penetratingly. “You can’t be serious. Go by train? The last time I travelled by train was when I was 10 years old.”

“So, train travel has advanced since the Stevenson Rocket,” I retorted primly, “this is a modern, streamlined express. We’ll have our own luxury compartment for two.”

“That’s what worries me,” he muttered. I chose not to hear.

Friday afternoon was a gay day with the smog covering Johannesburg gently causing me to choke a little as I made my way to the station.

For, in the tradition of all true train travellers, I was meeting my husband under the station clock.

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He was not happy to see me. “Why have you got seven suitcases?” he inquired querulously.

“My dearest, this is a train journey. The Drakensberg Express has a lounge, a dining car and bedrooms not to mention numerous passages through which I shall stroll languorously. You surely do not expect me to appear naked this weekend?”

Fortunately I missed his reply which was obliterated by the sound of my seven pieces being stacked neatly away by a charming porter who resembled our neighbour’s basset hound.

It was only when we entered our compartment that we noticed we were not alone.

Another couple sat on our bed.

“Hello, I’m Arthur Goldman,” he stretched out a hand and smiled.

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I nudged my husband and whispered suitably impressed: “He’s the famous travel writer!” I knew I could rely upon my spouse to make the right social noises.

“I don’t care who he is,” he growled. “I don’t want to share a bed with Arthur Goldman.”

Fortunately I’d pushed him into the corridor out of the Goldmans’ hearing. But he was pushed back into the compartment by yet another couple entering.

Could it be possible that six of us were to share a compartment for two?

Is this what Melanie had in mind when she suggested a weekend with a difference — my mind boggled.

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It will suffice to say that the Goldmans were in the correct compartment whereas we’d all misread our tickets.

I slipped into my designer jeans, see-through ruffled blouse with the leather trim and matching jacket and lurched my way to the lounge.

It was delightful with its plush seats, panelled walls and elegantly clad stewards graciously pouring drinks.

Four glasses of bubbly later, I discovered our travelling companions were indeed an exceptional bunch.

There was a scintillating old salt, Louis Wolmarans, master of the Filifella — a fearless sailing vessel.

A mad Englishman, one John Marsh by name, an intrepid explorer braving Africa for the first time — who, in grand British pioneering spirit, sipped iced beers and surveyed the wild bush through the velvet-draped windows of the Express.

The pleasant ambience of smoke, noise and people was interrupted by the gong of the dong.

Dinner was a simple technicolour, eight-course affair served with great flair by Errol Flynn look-alikes named Douggie, Wynand and Koos, who swished the soups, soufflés and sautéed soles with superb style.

Many Irish coffees later we stumbled our way to bed.

No matter that we couldn’t find our sleeping compartment.

It seemed there were others in the same situation for the corridors were weaving with lost souls gazing hazily for somewhere to lay their heads.

The bed was wide, the champagne iced and the scene decadent. “This is the life,” I murmured to my new husband.

He couldn’t hear too well.

He’d opened his window in order to inhale the fresh, Natal soot-laden night air, and, as the train had rounded a bend, his feet slipped out of the window. Indeed, it was a novel way to travel.

The rest of the journey passed uneventfully.

It wasn’t the fault of South African Railways that the shower ran out of water just as I’d soaped myself.

In the middle of the night, nature called and I found myself tiptoeing to the toilet.

I was chilly, so I hurried back to my compartment and climbed into the snug warm bed.

It was only when I woke that I realised that things were not quite as they had been.

I could have sworn I’d fallen asleep with a grey-haired husband. Furthermore, I didn’t recognise the tone of his snore.

I looked closely at my sleeping partner. This morning, his hair looked distinctly blond against his red silk pyjamas.

Good heavens, my husband had never worn pyjamas in his life.

I was somewhat distressed.

However, even the darkest cloud has a silver lining.

I’d lost a compartment but found a new husband.

Melanie was right, I was feeling better already — and the weekend hadn’t even begun.

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