The Sunday News
SOON after the long distance bus pulled out of the station, I was reminded of my experience as a nine-year-old. I was at the time visiting grandma at our rural home. Before sunrise, I had awakened with a jolt. I shook my cousin Sipho and he too woke up. In a few minutes, the two of us were fully dressed. I picked up our most prized possession — a round tin stuffed with food provisions grandma had prepared the previous evening. We tip-toed out of the hut, careful not to disturb anyone. The long journey to our uncle’s village had begun.
Shortly after walking a distance long enough not to hear a dog bark, we stopped under a big umkhuna tree. The sun had still not risen but it threw up enough light for us to clearly see what mattered. I opened the round tin and smiled. It was full of isitshwala and chicken. For a few seconds, we feasted our eyes.
An appetising aroma rose from the tin. We both salivated. Sipho gleefully rubbed his hands together.
Up until then, the only parts of a chicken we had ever eaten were feet. Proper chicken was reserved for adults. For once, there lay before us a whole chicken and no adult in sight.
Although he was two years older than me, Sipho suspended the custom that you only pick a piece of meat after an older person had done so. We tore up the chicken with a determination and ferocity that would have been applauded by a pack of jackals. Twenty minutes later, only a few bones remained.
“What are we going to do with isitshwala?” I asked.
“Well, why spoil the wonderful chicken taste in our mouths with that of plain isitshwala. Dump it for the birds.”
On full stomachs, we resumed our journey.
Last Sunday I was reminded of this boyhood experience as I watched the actions of a plump lady sitting across the bus aisle from me. A colourful head scarf with intricate knots adorned her head. Behind her was a lass, sporting an expensive looking brown hairpiece. The moment we drove out of the city, the head scarf lady pulled out from her plastic bag a food container as big as the bottom part of a standard wedding cake.
She placed the container on her laps and opened it. An aroma of rice and chicken with hot pepper filled the bus. The hairpiece lass wrinkled her nose and frowned. Sitting next to her was a lad donning an Arsenal replica shirt. He coughed and moaned, “maybe she wants to suffocate us all.” Like a new mother adoring her baby, the head scarf lady smiled at her food, unaware of the scowls behind her.
Using a big spoon, she shoveled down her rice. The chewing and swallowing sounds from her mouth announced that she was enjoying her meal. In 15 minutes she had demolished the entire contents of the container. From another paper bag, she fished out a one litre fruit juice container. For the next 10 minutes, she gulped down her drink. Whenever she pulled out the juice container from her mouth a sharp sound was released. “Aah,” the lady sighed, “life is good.”
“This is supposed to be a bus not a restaurant,” the hairpiece lass burst out. “Maybe we should now call it a bustaurant,” the lad in an Arsenal replica shirt quipped. Some passengers laughed.
The plump lady frowned and glanced around. “Who stopped you from bringing your meals and eating here? As for me, I will eat and drink any place, any time.”
No one challenged her.
Well dear reader, is it acceptable to eat in a public transport vehicle?
Personally, I think if a journey takes at least four hours, or for medical reasons, eating is permissible. However, as one of my fellow passengers pointed out, a bus is not a restaurant. Eaters in public transport vehicles must therefore observe certain unwritten rules.
For starters, the food must be easy to handle and to eat. For instance, plain meat pies are acceptable whilst the “insides” (casings, tripe, liver etc) are not. As a general guide, food requiring plates and cutlery is disqualified. Similarly, food likely to trickle down your fingers and hand is unacceptable. Avoid foods with a strong aroma. In the confined air of a vehicle, most passengers are offended by aromas. Even if the passengers may love the food being eaten, if they themselves are not eating it, the aroma may be offensive.
Throwing litter and other waste out of the window is taboo. Those who break this rule ought to be thrown out through the same windows.
What do you think?
By the way, it was not until late afternoon that a tired Sipho and I arrived at uncle’s village. The pangs of hunger had slowed us down. Oh, how we regretted throwing away isitshwala! One more rule, food must never be eaten soon after departure.
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