Are we starting to get it?

I have been on a bit of a hiatus from writing in recent times. I even went on a ‘driving nowhere slowly’ jaunt in the northern KwaZulu-Natal last week. I had meant to return with a piece about my experiences on the road. But that has to wait.

In the past I have gone on record with my concerns about our collective readiness as a nation to host unarguably the biggest event in the world, the FIFA World Cup. But something that happened to me recently gave me some hope.

I recently walked into a restaurant called Ora Bella in Boksburg, Ekurhuleni. Yes, I live out this way. Don’t judge me. My wife and I used to come here often a few years ago and quite enjoyed the ambience, food and professional service. The last few times I have passed by, there seemed to be some major construction going on and I gave it a pass. Cement dust and I don’t co-exist very well.

So I come in through the door because I do not see any guys in hard hats outside. So far so good. Because I wanted to sit somewhere quietly and finish a few articles that have been overdue for a few days, I decided to go for a far corner to the right of the main entrance. At this point I need to point out that this decision took me about five seconds as I stood at the entrance.

The disinterested staff looked at me the same way I imagine I’d look at a three-legged cockroach with halitosis and overactive sweat glands. But I don’t blame them. I must admit that I was looking scruffier than my usual scruffy self. I mumbled something about needing a quiet corner to a guy with a particularly glossy face, who looked at me like he was seriously concerned that I needed de-lousing powder.

So I sat myself down in the furthest corner of the restaurant, grateful that I didn’t have a genius next to me giving me sitting-down lessons like in other establishments. After four minutes and thirty-seven seconds, give or take a few milliseconds, a lady sauntered up to me.

Sir, this part of the restaurant is not operational. Would you kindly move up to the main section on the other side, which you will find is more comfortable, what with all the heaters and things in this five degrees Celsius weather. No, I countered. I really need a quiet place to sit and finish a few articles. I really do not mind the discomfort as long as I do not have to sit within throwing distance of any other human being, what with all the sharp knives in this civilised establishment.

To cut a long story short; my peace and quiet is once again disturbed by a gentleman who politely introduces himself as Harry. Within a few minutes I pick up that he is the owner of the establishment — or at least some head honcho. So I reiterate my request to just have some peace while I pound away on the keyboards of my PC. And then I realise that I am at that crossroads that the captain of the Titanic found himself in a few minutes before it hit that first iceberg. I’d just pushed Harry into that corner where had to choose the service low road or high road. Unlike the Titanic captain, Harry chose the high road.

He quietly explained to me that this particular section of the restaurant is not really for walk-in diners but reserved for conferences, company functions and so forth. However, if I was comfortable in there, he would be more than willing to ‘reluctantly’ accommodate me. In fact, he would even throw in a complimentary bottomless cup of coffee to keep me warm because the heating was not switched on. Thanks for nothing Harry. You could have warned me that the place was colder than a freaking Limpopo witch’s tits on a full moon (thanks Sumo).

So I sat there in the dark finishing my piece in peace while my pecker retreated ever so deeply into my abdomen in the Antarctic temperatures. But I had a warm glow inside because I think that my countrymen are starting to get it.

I think we’re starting to warm up to the fact that the only reason people leave twelve ice-cold beers in their own fridges and pay R15 for the beers in your establishment is just so they can be pampered a little. Just so they can reserve the right to be ridiculous if they’ve had a bad day. I personally think it’s a fair trade-off for a 150% premium on a beer. I’m seeing signs of this almost everywhere I go.

Or perhaps I’m just looking harder than I normally do. Lord knows I want to escape the depths of despair I’ve been wallowing in, in recent times. Believe me, nothing is more depressing than looking at the fresh scars on the hands of your countrymen, and wondering if these are the hands that pummelled innocent people’s faces into a pulp in the not-so-distant past.

There must be stories with happy endings out there and goddamnit I’m going to find them. This is just a low-key start.

P.S. If you ever venture this way, make an effort to seek out the Ora Bella. It’s an excellent restaurant.