Africa's not for Sissies

Chapter 11: The Football and The Bakkie

"Are you going to watch the football?"

It was a question I got over and over again from the moment I awoke the next morning. Swaziland was playing Zambia in an international soccer match, which I soon realized was what everyone meant by "the football."

I've never been much of a soccer fan. Compared to the fast paced action of a hockey game, soccer felt like watching a chess match, but here in Swaziland it was the only sport that anyone seemed to care about. I was indifferent about going, until I noticed Edi's name on the signup sheet.

The backpackers provided transportation to the game. I expected a bus, but what arrived was an old dilapidated bakkie (Afrikaans for pickup truck). It was the smallest pickup I'd ever seen, but somehow sixteen people were expected to squeeze into it. There was no way this was possible or remotely safe.

The driver invited two girls to ride in the cab with him, everyone else clambered into the cargo bed.

"Get in Will!" Jerry called out.

The rest of the girls sat in the middle of the cargo bed, the guys sardined together on the rails. I was the only one still standing on the ground. I wasn't getting in that truck.

A soft voice called out. "Aren't you coming Will?"

It was Edi.

A ruckus of shouts followed. "Will, get in! Get in! Come on! Hurry up!"

Filled with competing terrors: one of getting in the truck; the other of looking cowardly in front of everyone, especially Edi, I acted without thinking. I jumped into the back of the truck to a chorus of cheers. The driver, who'd been waiting expectantly, slammed the tailgate shut with a bang. I felt like a caged animal. The tailgate was designed to lock with two latches. One of the rusty latches was secure, but the other hung loose. The driver fiddled with it for a long while, then shrugged and walked away. I thought I saw a look of concern on his face.

"Ummm," I called after him, but he got in the cab. His door thud shut.

Three guys sat on the tailgate. I wondered if one rusty latch was capable of holding the weight of the large man on the left, never mind the combined weight of all three of them. They squeezed together to create a tiny space for me to sit. The guy closest to me looked up at me and chuckled. "Back home, I wouldn't even ride in a car without wearing a safety belt."

It was the same Englishman with the buzz cut who had ridiculed me for spitting out my food. I glared at him. Then why are you riding in the back of this truck, you fool! But I didn't say anything. Wide eyed, I looked for a way out, but the truck grinded into gear and lurched forward. I nearly fell out the back, but several hands grabbed me and pulled me down onto the tailgate with a painful thud. We accelerated quickly. There was no getting off this ride now, and I was sitting directly on top of the loose latch.

My concern over the condition of the tailgate was soon replaced with a fear of becoming a projectile. It was a bone-jarring ride. We swerved to avoid the craters, but punched through the countless smaller potholes in the dirt road. Even with my death-grip on the tailgate, I was launched into the air on numerous occasions. Each time I clenched my buttocks to mitigate the crunching of my tailbone as I crashed back down. It never did any good, but at least I didn't lose any fillings. When we pulled onto asphalt, I sighed in relief, but it was short-lived. As we accelerated to 120km/h, I could think of little else but the loose tailgate and decrepit state of the vehicle. The truck shuddered around every curve in the road and I could see the rear tires were nearly scraping the wheel wells. Fingers already white, I clutched the rattling tailgate even tighter. I don't know how I got through it.