Coral & Fever
There’s a towering coral tree snuggled up against a fever tree on the corner. The east coast winter sun gifting the coral flowers an orange hue and the fever tree foliage a shimmering emerald green. Tucked away under the shade of these trees are a couple of tables and chairs, draped with blue and white striped tablecloths. The spot is unimaginatively named Indian Summer and we wonder out loud at its menu. Will it be that muddy brown, overspiced Durban curry so popular in these parts or will we find ourselves surprised by a smorgasbord of carefully curated seasonal, local meals? We never get to find out. Across the street is an old favourite, recently relocated from the slowly dying side of the east coast fishing village. We agree and head towards the tiny terrace with its hodge podge collection of tables and chairs laid out under a pair of umbrellas. There’s the familiar aroma of bobotie wafting around us and we wait a few minutes to be seated. There’s not an empty table but luckily for us, an early lunch couple are on their way out.
Seated and provided with chilled water and a quick run through of the daily menu, we order and luxuriate in the buzz of conversation intermingled with the meal of the day. The coffee arrives and it’s perfect. My lunch companion is blown away with the intricate acacia tree etched in the tiny surface of her cortado and the usual cell phone picture taking happens. ‘The gram is going to love this’ she says. With a full lunch sitting, the service is slow but remains unflustered. Clearly everyone knows that lunch is worth the wait. We peer over the parked cars at Indian Summer across the road and note that their collection of tables remains empty. ‘Maybe it’s a dinner spot?’ offers my dining companion. Maybe. For their sake I hope it is.
We linger over coffee and catch up on work, family and the other detritus that is the admin of life before we suddenly find ourselves into the real stuff, as I learn of her diagnosis of the state of the village, the nation and soon enough, the world itself. Lunch companion paints a neat and clear picture of the global machinations that drive the local politic. The cascading nature of the global hate agenda and how this pans out in the daily lived experience in the east coast fishing village. ‘We’ve become a lawless nation’ she says and I am reminded of that Big Apple mayor famous for his ‘broken window’ approach. I’m also reminded that this nation has pretty much always been lawless or at least with law imposed to serve the theft of land, rights and the very existence of the indigenous folk. Indeed, terra nullius is law. A facile if conveniently made-up law that justifies white folk stealing shit from everyone else.
But I keep that in my inside voice and listen to the litany of abandonment practised by the current crop of self-loathing black people holding political and civic office in the holy land. The entire post colonial decline in the holy land is such textbook stuff, you’d be forgiven for thinking it’s all a staged act. Unless of course you live in the holy land on minimum wage and then you know with absolute certainty; it’s as real as it gets.
Eventually lunch companion slows down her pace and I sense she might be close to the end of this chapter of running through all the drama we all know, all too very well. Thankfully I’m right and as she ends with; ‘but at least we have elections coming up and that might bring some change, what do you think?.’ Caught off guard by this last part of the question, I stumble and nearly snort into the sparkling water. I’m so very used to being told how things are and what needs to happen by so many experts and others that I rarely contemplate solutions to the state the holy land is in anymore. I share as much and then instantly regret it. I’m handed the textbook chiding about how so many people shed and lost so much for this democracy that it is treasonous to not care, to not be involved, to not be striving to fix things, to honour the pledge of the nation’s founding father and so on and such-like.
Suitably chided, I smile at lunch companion and ask after her lunch sitting untouched while I was being roundly told off by a descendent of land thieves, mass murderers, and cow thieves about how I need to do more to ‘save this beautiful nation from becoming like our northern neighbour.’ She remembers her manners and finally tucks in, allowing me to do so as well. The quiche and the bobotie are beautifully presented and every shared morsel is relished as we finally leave the detritus of consumerist life behind us and move onto the much more interesting and fulfilling conversation including books, reading and writing.
An hour or so later, we are lingering over another coffee and the old favourite is once again a quiet little cafe for the handful of lost lovers and friends to disappear into as the day winds down to a slow close. The long afternoon has visibly reduced the state of tension present in lunch companion since I first greeted her a few hours ago. As if reading my thoughts, she says a soft ‘thank you; I don’t know how you do it but it feels like a month’s worth of therapy to chill with you.’ Following up on my own therapy homework, I accept the compliment graciously and we glance over to the corner just as a couple passes under the cohabiting coral and fever and take up a table with a view over the street and to the ocean beyond. She smiles and we take our leave of an old favourite spot, in a new location and with the tantalising prospect of a new spot to explore the next time fate gifts us an unfettered afternoon of each other’s company.
Coral & Fever is a tribute to friendship that emerges despite the tropes we’re socialised into and thrives in the glow of a meeting of minds and hearts, especially when said minds are in disagreement.
© Jesh Baker for Oppi Stoep, 2023
