Today was to be another full day on the train, and one in which we had planned to buy supplies en route, to add some entertainment to the expected monotony. It was to be a disastrous decision. After waking up at just gone 9 (thankfully the grandmother and her unruly grandson had departed in the night) we had to wait almost four hours before our first scheduled stop, with only green tea and an orange for sustenance. Based on my usually Spartan dietary requirements this didn’t pose much of a problem to myself, but Josh was not happy. Thankfully we were able to purchase some delicious egg pastries and water from one of the shops on the station’s platform, but unable to break two R100 notes, I was presented with my R20 change (~45p) in the form of two sachets of coffee. Even given the undoubted global reputation of the ‘coffee club’ brand, I was unsure as to the economic fortitude of this new form of currency.
The next stop was a further three and a half hours away, by which point I could hear my brother’s stomach slowly begin to ingest itself. Sadly, after purchasing what we presumed to be more pastry-based delicacies, we were presented with what turned out to be the World’s worst cinnamon buns. The hubris of our situation was appreciated by a local drunk, who after overhearing Josh’s remark, ‘Well this is just bread’, retorted with a witticism along the lines of ‘Hah, you speak English, and you eat just bread!?!’ Pacifying our new found friend with the knowledge that we were in fact a couple of hungry Italians, we beat a hasty retreat back to the train, Josh’s stomach rumbling a sombre tune of defeat.