Day 172: The trucker

I stayed with one family on three separate occasions, in three different locations. Janine Wessels from Bloemfontein owns three lovely bed-and-breakfast establishments, and this time I stayed at The Elizabeth in Kroonstad. It was like a mini vacation. For five days I lived a life of luxury and had very little interaction with other people. When it was time to go I was rested and relaxed. The road was happy to see me and I was happy to place one foot in front of the other on its familiar surface again. The sun was shining, birds were singing and I felt life coursing through my veins.

Where the R727 splits off to Bothaville from the R76, a woman with a young daughter asks me where I am going. Like me, she seems to be waiting for a lift. When I answer Leeudoringstad, she is shocked. ‘Haibo, do you know how far that is?’

I know it is some ninety kilometres away, but assure her that I walk until I tire, then I hike. She seems to relax when she realises that there is some form of method to my madness, but asks me to wait and hitch a ride with them. Not only is it safer, she also wants to learn more about what I am doing.

A truck pulls over and she quickly negotiates for us both. The driver can take me as far as Bothaville. I explain that I have no money and can’t pay. The man looks me over and then nods grumpily. The three of us hop up into the cab.

Until they get off, well before my stop, the woman and I speak about the concept of uBuntu. Her little daughter’s head bobs from side to side as she watches our animated conversation – I can almost see it mapped in her big, innocent eyes. She is comfortably sitting half on her mother, half on me, feeling the easy bond between us.

After they get out, the light vibe in the cab is immediately replaced with the exact opposite. Their departure leaves a void – a space that is filled by a nameless third presence. It feels heavy. Desperate and angry. Hungry. Scared.

Now there is almost no conversation. Not in words. The spaces around the driver and me are doing all the talking. As the 
truck moves forward it feels as if we are going to drown in unspoken words.

He brings his vehicle to a halt next to the road in an industrial area and turns to me. ‘What is a woman doing on her own?’

I start to explain the reasons for my journey, but he cuts me off. All women need men. How do I think that I can go without a man? What am I doing without a man? I cannot be on my own.

The silence is no longer silent. Something has stirred. I try to explain, but there is no platform for my words.

‘I think that you need a man. You should marry me.’

Now what?

This is a definite practise-what-you-preach moment. I am faced with a choice. Will this one moment, this one person, be the one that erases the stories from the past six months? I think of all the people who have carried me. I think how shameful it would be if this story got added to theirs. If this story were allowed to undo all the others. In the seconds it takes me to reach this realisation the driver is leaning heavily into the space between us.

I feel a fire burning in me. I become aware that I am feeling possessive of my space. And then it hits me. This is not about his space, or my space. This is simply about space. If it is our space and he can push into it, then so can I. As I lean into it I look into his eyes, put my hand on his arm and say, ‘This journey is not about you. This journey is not about me. This journey is about the people of our country. And here, in the palms of my hands, I carry these stories of love and hope. The stories want to be told. I’m not going to stop that, and you are not going to stop that.’

We are both shocked into silence. The words came from my mouth, but they were not mine. They were the collective voice of all the families I have met. It is as if they are all here in the cab of the truck with me. The driver can sense the power shift. We just look at one another.

Then I break the silence. ‘Thank you for the lift.’

He looks at me, into me, wishes me well for the rest of my journey and lets me go. I then have the nerve to ask him whether I could take a photo.