While all these various issues are discussed, probed and further delayed, the station still stands, neglected, abandoned, a far cry from its former glory.
While all these various issues are discussed, probed and further delayed, the station still stands, neglected, abandoned, a far cry from its former glory.
Yet the tracks remain, rusted and unused, hundreds of kilometres of forgotten lines slicing through the countryside.
No more do Graeme boys peer out the window as the clay train struggles past, no more do grazing cows look up at the strange piece of shining metal puffing past, no more do the acacia, cactus and aloe trees stand at attention beside the tracks – instead, they bend over, their roots and soil swallowing the rusted lines into a hidden past.
The eucalyptus trees are still standing guard, waiting in vain.
The end of High Street where the Grahamstown station lies has become a no-go zone. A hide-out for thieves which is avoided by the very same residents who once excitedly made their way to the station every week.
No more does it enjoy the excited cries of youngsters boarding the train for a day at the beach, no more does the signal box flash red or green, no more does the customary “All aboard!” announce the departure of some of the finest, cleanest and most polished locomotives in the province.
At night, the station is still and deathly quiet. There's an eerie stillness that will make even nocturnal creatures cringe.
All electrical wires have been stolen, leaving the site in pitch blackness.
The sound of croaking frogs from the flooded line on the far side is the only noise revealing some form of life at the deserted station.
Left for Mother Nature and vandals to have their way with her, the station, which has stood for the past 134 years, is in a terrible state of disrepair. It's been four years since a locomotive last pulled off from the iconic building.
Will Grahamstonians ever hear another whistle, the shouting of the conductor, or the chugging of the passenger-laden train as it speeds past?
I visited the station once more, and sat for a while on the long, yellow bench on the platform, immersing myself in the environment, imagining the sights and sounds of the station in its heyday.
Thinking of the very people who might have sat on this very same bench, eagerly anticipating the arrival of friends, children, husbands or wives.
When I returned to the station the following week the yellow bench was gone.
