Ice of the tipberg…

CHRIS BENNETT recounts a delightful and hectic few days with his family.

REDISCOVERING that my brother and I are as different as two peas in a pod, has been a persistent theme during the past few days. He and my sister-in-law, Marianne, arrived in Durban after a long haul flight from their home in Kathmandu.

At the airport we had a coffee, and when paying for it Bro (Richard) asked “Do you tip in this country?” Laugh? It all ended in tears; the laughter, that is.

You see my brother Richard is a New Zealander, a country in which offering anybody a tip is not only scowled at, it is seen as an insult, largely because it carries an implication of superiority. And, when you think about it, it is a b it of an insult. Rather like giving a man a job that is beyond his capabilities, or including him in a sports team when he is second rate, because he has a black skin.

I found it interesting that New Zealand is at the top of the last Time magazine poll of the hundred best countries in which to live, with Denmark in second place. My sister-in-law is a bit miffed because in 2007 Denmark was number one and NZ number two. Marianne is Danish.

Seeing the beautiful coast through their eyes was enlightening. A daily walk on the beach was a treat; the visiting couple are great mountain walkers in their base country, Nepal.

The tipping thing recurred and recurred. It is a deplorable practise; the worst offenders being those establishments which arbitrarily add 10 percent to the bill. This is little short of fraud.

Why cannot restaurateurs employ their waiters honestly, on a salary? Why can’t shopping malls, whose profits scarcely bear thinking about, pay the car guards? I shouldn’t have to pay to take my business to your shop; any more than I should pay for service in a restaurant, be it good, bad or, worst of all, indifferent.

It is no good saying that I should tip for service. I am entitled to believe that any restaurant worth its salt would make sure that the service is of the highest standard. And as we ate at several places I needn’t tell you about that.

It seems to me to be a great pity that there is no training available for the people in this part of the world; training in hospitality that is. And if there is then it seems to be either ineffectual or a well-kept secret.

My brother and his wife work (in separate agencies) for the UN; in Richard’s case with the HRC, a body that deals with human rights. Marianne has been working with women and children in India for more than 20 years, and is fluent in Hindi. Their work is stressful, but a visit to this sublime part of the world left both of them refreshed and yearning for more – and raring to get back to work.

Which was a good thing; my brother was recalled to his post about half way through their visit to help sort out a looming problem.

Before they left, a tour of Thongasi and Nzimakwe was arranged by my friend Michael Nkosinathi Diya. It revealed a lot about the way in which our diverse nation lives and works, and brother commented on the parallels between SA and India. We were offered warm hospitality at Michael’s home; I don’t know who was the more delighted, the Diyas or the visitors.

And no, I didn’t tip Cedric, the nephew who served (with suitable deference) the refreshments.