Part 1 of My Zimanga Journey
At 10:30, my ride arrived at Dlinza—a young man named Themba in a comfortable vehicle, ready to take me deeper into KwaZulu-Natal. As I climbed in, I could sense his quiet curiosity. An Indian face wasn’t unusual in these parts—Durban has one of the largest Indian populations outside India, after all. He probably assumed I was a local.
But somewhere along the way, the truth came out: I wasn’t from Durban. I was from Mumbai, though I had lived and worked in South Africa for nearly two years. His expression shifted—a mix of surprise and newfound interest.
To break the ice, I reached for the universal language of laughter: Russell Peters. I shared the comedian’s bit about how the British brought Indians to South Africa as slaves, and how Indians turned out to be the worst slaves—“the laziest people on earth.” The joke landed perfectly. His laughter erupted from somewhere deep, the kind of laughter that only South Africans seem to produce. It’s infectious, warm, impossible not to join. In that moment, we were no longer strangers.
The conversation opened up. I told him about my time in Joburg and Sandton—the good and the bad. The energy of the city, but also the security concerns that every resident learns to live with. He nodded knowingly; these were familiar realities. But then I told him something that made his eyebrows rise: I used to take combis to work. The local minibus taxis—crowded, chaotic, and considered dangerous by most outsiders. I’d climb in wearing my office clothes, tie and all, squeezed between workers heading to their jobs. My boss had warned me against it, told me it wasn’t safe. But my experience was the opposite. Once you’re inside a combi, you’re not a foreigner anymore—you’re just another person getting to work. The locals loved it. They’d smile, make space, strike up conversation. That was the South Africa I knew—not the headlines, but the humanity.
As we drove, I noticed a steady stream of trucks rumbling past in the opposite direction. “Coal,” Themba explained. “Going to Durban port.” I glanced at the railway line running parallel to the road and asked the obvious question—why not use the trains? It would be far more efficient. He smiled, a little wistfully, and began telling me about the glory days of South African railways. How the network once moved the nation’s goods with pride and precision. How things had changed.
That led us, inevitably, to the electricity crisis. I knew it intimately—I had lived through the load shedding myself, those frustrating hours of darkness that had become part of daily life. We spoke about the rot that had set in, and the name that hung heavy over it all: the Gupta brothers. It was a fascinating and troubling story—how a family of Indian-origin businessmen had captured state enterprises, drained billions, and brought the economy to its knees. As an Indian sitting in that car, discussing Indian figures who had damaged this country I loved, the irony wasn’t lost on me. But that’s South Africa—it demands honesty, not comfort.
We stopped at a Wimpy along the way for a quick bite. There’s something beautifully nostalgic about a Wimpy—a taste of old South Africa, unchanged by time. I ordered a peri peri chicken burger. It wasn’t Nandos—my absolute favorite—but there wasn’t one along the route, so Wimpy would do. To wash it down, a green cream soda. If you’ve never had one, you’re missing out—it’s a thing you only get in this part of the world, and it’s absolutely amazing. One sip and I was back, reminded why this country has such a hold on me.
Then we reached the gates of Zimanga. A safari jeep stood waiting to take me into the reserve. As I gathered my bags, I felt a pang of sadness—strange how a two-hour drive can turn a stranger into a friend.
“I’ll see you in four days,” Themba said with a smile.
“Shap shap,” I replied—South African slang, a casual goodbye. His grin widened. There’s something about using the local lingo that says more than words. It says: I’m not just passing through. I belong here.
I didn’t know it then, but Themba means “hope” in Zulu. A fitting name for a young man whose warmth had reminded me, once again, why South Africa holds such a place in my heart.
The jeep engine hummed. Zimanga awaited.