A stiff breeze blows through the deserted waiting area, the unhinged doors providing an unhindered passageway for Mother Nature to sweep through the desecrated rooms. The eerie silence on the platform is more deafening than the shrill of the train’s horn that would pierce the tranquil Eastern Cape countryside, signalling the carrier’s arrival at the Grahamstown Railway Station.
A stiff breeze blows through the deserted waiting area, the unhinged doors providing an unhindered passageway for Mother Nature to sweep through the desecrated rooms. The eerie silence on the platform is more deafening than the shrill of the train’s horn that would pierce the tranquil Eastern Cape countryside, signalling the carrier’s arrival at the Grahamstown Railway Station.
The station used to be a hive of activity, a unique building buzzing with excitement as passengers eagerly awaited the distinct clickety-clack of metal on metal, the shrieking brakes and the high-pitched whistle as the train made its daily stop.
A cloud of puffy black smoke would signal the readiness of the steam engine to continue its journey through the picturesque landscape with a fresh batch of travellers bundled into the carriageway.
Large groups of students would pile in, loudly cheering as they headed towards Port Alfred for a day at the beach.
On the opposite line, families would carefully usher their children onto the train, the older relatives would wait patiently for the grandchildren’s monthly visit to Alicedale, 40 kilometres down the track.
Still more would stagger on board, their bulging suitcases packed for trips to Port Elizabeth and beyond.
The conductor would shout the customary “All aboard!”; a piercing whistle would indicate that the train would soon be on its merry way.
Locals would make a day of the trip, packing a picnic basket to accompany them on the snaking ride through the province.
African beer would be shared among many to quench the thirst created on warm summer afternoons, while the younger generation would cheerfully sing along to a guitar-playing passenger’s melodies as travellers in each carriage joined in the vibrant and joyous atmosphere onboard.
Yet the hustle and bustle of the Grahamstown Railway Station is no more.
The activity of an era is no more.
The station is now desolate, abandoned, a forlorn and lonely figure on the Grahamstown horizon.
Its neglect is all too clear to see, as even from afar the noticeably gaping holes in the roof reveal the station’s saddening desecration.
The staircase leading up to the entrance is bare, engulfed in a cold, dark shadow, with short stumps of metal piping poking out from the ground where the stolen railings once stood.
A metal sign reading “telephone” dangles in despair, its faded arrow points to an empty, door-less alcove with a shrub of loose wires sticking out the top corner, blending in with the weeds surrounding it.
The station’s interior depicts a scene of carnage, as if the train itself had stormed through the building.
Rubble litters the floor, wooden counters are no more and glass dividers, behind which train tickets were once bought, are shattered.
Vivid signs of criminal activity are everywhere in the dilapidated waiting room.
Splinters of glass crinkle and crack underfoot, reflecting the jagged rays of sunlight that pierce through the rafters, left bare from thieves who have helped themselves to the overhead metal roof sheeting.
A yellow-painted room resembles Swiss Emmental cheese, the holes in the roof casting a spotted shadow across the interior.
Concrete bricks lay piled up in a corner in front of a hurriedly-smashed hole in the wall where a safe previously stood–once so strong, so secure, so seemingly unbreakable.
In the adjacent room, scattered piles of faeces are dotted along the ground, revealing a shelter, a hide-out, or possibly a temporary home for someone seeking shelter.
Two glass bottles lie empty, their alcoholic content long since consumed on a night of drunken activities.
A gaping hole running across the entire length of the room swallows the darkness below, the missing wooden floorboards uncovering the old and increasingly-dilapidated foundations beneath.
Metal gratings protecting the once glass-paned windows are all pegged and bent, inviting in the branches and leaves of an invasive alien tree.
Dead leaves slide across the dusty floor in the breeze, only to fall over the edge of the mangled floorboards and float gingerly down into dark oblivion.
The platform above the track is desolate, guarded only by a broken yellow bench left crookedly outside the door less entrance to the building.
Tufts of grass emerge from the cracks in the concrete, as yet another overgrown tree covers the station sign reading "Grahamstown".
The altitude written beneath is covered by the luscious green bush. The track itself is rusted and worn, exposed to the elements and unused for almost half a decade.
Across another platform, a second set of railway lines is completely submerged under water, the fringes of this large puddle containing a thick, green sludge that floats on the surface.
The strong breeze creates ripples that chase each other for at least 50 metres across the flooded track.
A large, yellow graffiti eyeball painted on the far wall is reflected in the murky water, gazing forlornly up at the vandalised station.
The eyeball seems to blink in the moving water as some aquatic creature, a tadpole perhaps, darts its way under the racing ripples.
Beside the green pool, debris and litter line the tracks, and a cracked concrete light pole, its lamp digging deep in the gravel, leaves thick, rusted metal poles protruding dangerously mid-air.
A few paces further down the line, the crunch of small stones underfoot is frequently heard as numerous passers-by cross the deserted tracks.
They go over the bent and broken barbed-wire fence that has now been pinned to the ground, and down the eroded embankment and onto High Street as they trudge their way into town, oblivious of the desolate station nearby.
Some still climb the faded and corroded staircase and use the pedestrian bridge overhead, out of habit perhaps.
Or possibly in the hope that one day, maybe, just maybe, a train might once more roll into the station along the historical tracks.
