MY SMALL WORLD
It’s bound to have happened to every one of us who’s travelled — meeting a local at a social function in a foreign land, telling them where you’re from and they reply, “South Africa? You must know Themba Khumalo, he’s from South Africa. He’s a good friend of mine, we met at a conference in Seattle and had dinner together, once.” That’s your cue to move to the other side of the room and strike up a conversation with someone else, anyone else. But because you now have something in common, ie a non-existent South African connection, this person will find you and start introducing you to their friends as their new buddy.
If you did happen to know Themba Khumalo, you’d put it down to a “small world” but there would be no escape from the relentless pursuit of your annoying new-found friend.
It’s more palpable when you’re in India, a country of more than a billion people and you’re at a small social gathering of well-to-do business associates.
I was the guest of an architect who designed the corporate headquarters of many companies in the Indian city of Pune, a modest-sized city of 6.5 million people compared with Mumbai, 19 million, some 120km down the road.
It was a gathering of his clients on the rooftop terrace of his apartment building and there must have been 40 of us enjoying a warm Pune evening with food and drink, courtesy of a food services client and a local alcohol producer for whom my host had designed a modern office complex.
I had an uneasy feeling that I was being watched, almost stalked, as I made my way through the guests, chatting about their businesses in Pune and how we were acquainted with our host and the inevitable subject of the Indian expat population in South Africa, the Ghandi
connection and the architecture of Charles Correa.
Suddenly he was in front of me, determined to introduce himself. A small gentleman with an awkward smile and an ill-fitting suit that looked one size too big.
“I’m Sanjay,” he said, and shook my hand vigorously. I introduced myself and his immediate reaction was, “I know a Buchanan, we do business together.”
About now I started to look for an escape route which didn’t involve jumping from the rooftop.
Sanjay was the executive of the company that had supplied the complimentary drinks, a large distilling operation responsible for a range of locally produced whiskies, gins and vodkas.
He looked at my business card and added, “In fact, the Buchanan I know is South African.”
You’re getting warmer, I thought, but there are lots of us in SA. I scanned the terrace for a willing diversion, anybody to catch my eye and give me an excuse to politely take my leave from the inevitable.
Sanjay was persistent, however, and after another look at the card, said, “You’re from Johannesburg, my colleague is from Durban so it’s unlikely you’ll know him.”
At last, someone who understands that you don’t know everybody in your country, even those with the same surname.
He carried on, “I buy alcohol from the sugar company he works for. His name is Michael.”
A billion and a half people — 40 of whom I am socialising with on a rooftop in Pune — and I meet a guy who does business with my brother. Never saw that one coming.