So much for fantasies of sailing a tuk tuk through the streets of Bangalore in the warm, July monsoon. While Observatory’s River Club and the Cape of Storms is living up to its name, Karnataka is on the verge of a drought, and the city’s 7000 new tuk tuks are unlikely to sprout sails should the present temperateness change its disposition. Which is probably a good thing, since every spare minute is spent indoors in wait of electricians and back-up technicians who never arrive, or, when they do, provide little protection from the odd storm there is. Eskom looks efficient in comparison.
But, after a braai with fellow South Africans, I have made a sound decision not to veer into whingeing ex-pathood. All those beer bottles precariously balanced on the garden fence, while we tucked into fatty chunks of sacred cow, was enough to remind me of how much more we have to be embarrassed about.
If Durbanites, Eastern Capers and Capetonians can vie for provincial superiority (“our roads are worse than yours, we have more hijacking, therefore we are tougher and better able to deal with India”) 8000km away from birth base, there’s scant chance we’ll be peaceful anywhere.
Though I suspect our fighting talk is really just a peculiar sense of humour developed to deal with centuries of insecurity and quest for identity, gentle veggie eaters could be forgiven for changing the national head wobble to a vigorous, uncomprehending shake.
And might go some way to explaining why Indian businessman reckon they’ve got to count their fingers after shaking hands with a South African. Or maybe just proves the local contention that northern meat-eaters fight while southern rice-eaters play.