My Uber Holiday
I stand on my stoep waiting for Sunday’s half Panini to reheat. I’m at a loose end as to what to do. Should I shit in my one hand or want in the other and see which fills up first? I cannot decide. Uber has deactivated my account for want of the uploading of a document. I shit you not. This is a double system failure. I can’t upload it from my side and despite their assurances that they would do it, they disconnect me on a Sunday of all days. Sundays are my favourites for ubering.
My phone rings, so I go to Smithfield. I forget the half Panini, which my newfound old friend Luke bought me on the Uberless Sunday. The Panini has nothing to do with this story. I just want to thank Luke and his lovely wife Carinda for making my uber broken Sunday sweet. “I shall not panic about my Uber disconnection, but rather declare this to be a holiday with you,” I tell them.
So I go to Smithfield. I don’t go to Smithfield, I race there with a certain grimness of aspect. The road is straight as an arrow and I shoot down it at 160. I don’t usually do this, race to a place at 160. I don’t usually go to Smithfield either, but these are strange times and I want to reach Smithfield before nightfall.
I race to Smithfield at the behest of my friend Heidi. She wants to know whether Smithfield is a happening town or just another dump dying on the northern edge of the Karoo. I want to know this too. One can’t know enough.
There are certain scientific criteria to determine whether a Karoo or any other rural town in South Africa is a dying dump or happening. As it happens, I am the one who established the scientific method to make such judgments. One cannot afford to be subjective. I reach Smithfield just before nightfall and start applying my method. Is there an open bar? Is anything apart from the filling station open on a Monday night? Is there a panelbeater?
Smithfield succeeds on the first score and I settle down in Buckley’s. Things are looking good, but the acid test is yet to come. “Is there a gay couple in Smithfield,” I enquire of the owner of Buckley’s, Martin. “There are three and then me,” he says gaily. However, there’s no panelbeater, but that’s okay. So that settles it: Smithfield is happening.
Other observations bear this out. There are no palisades around the church. Martin tells me that Buckley’s isn’t the only place open on a Monday night, there are two more. That’s really something. I’m also not the only customer in Buckley’s on a Monday night. The food is good. The town is neat and clean and devoid of tatty traders from places as far afield as Thailand or Timbuktu. There’s a golf course! How much more happening do you need?
I file my report to Heidi: Smithfield is happening.
Then I leave Buckley’s and go and sit on the stoep of the house Heidi is thinking of buying. The silence is so sweet you can meet the stars. You can see them personally. They stare down on you from blue times forgotten, says the lone cricket in their light while the drought dries your thoughts into thinking.
I leave Smithfield slowly and smile. My phone rings, so I go to Clarens. I find a panelbeater in Bethlehem and extend my holiday in the company of Danie and Marietjie in Clarens. Someone spots me in Bethlehem and informs my cousin Francois in Reitz. My phone rings so I’ll go to Reitz next. I think.