‘Man dies after taking aphrodisiac,’ screamed the headline in a local paper last week. In another case, two men from Tsholotsho were admitted into hospital with miniature ‘Leaning Towers of Pisa’ in their trousers that refused to go down after taking an unnamed substance to boost their sexual endurance.
Yet another story described how a 50 year-old man could have directly or indirectly caused the death of a 15 year-old girl after a session of artificially induced passion. Claims were made that this was after the said geezer had consumed a liberal amount of a concoction to prop up his libido.
The implication was that given his age the man, at half a century of existence, would not have achieved such high performance levels without the aid of an aphrodisiac. For the record, the man denied ever taking any such concoction. This unfortunate incident occurred in Bulawayo where I come from which makes me a reliable source on the goings-on in the City of Kings and Queens.
Go to any beer hall KoNtuthuziyathunqa (The city where the smoke billows) and you will observe almost without fail, groups of men passing around a piece of khaki paper containing a ground powder called Umvusankunzi. This, in the local SiNdebele language, literally means ‘arouser of the bull.’
When the rest of the world went crazy over the discovery of Viagra, these men must have been wondering what the fuss was all about since the local version had been in existence since time immemorial. Whether the old man mentioned earlier took the concoction or not is beside the point. What concerns us here is why he should have taken it in the first place?
Which begs the question; why are men so obsessed with their virility? The whole psychology behind the conundrum is that while in pursuit of a basic need, which we assume he paid for I hard earned dollars, he had to make sure that he would not be found wanting.
If there is anything that deflates a man’s ego it would be his inability to perform where it matters most. Had he failed, he might have been the laughing stock of the neighbourhood. In this case the girl in question would have broadcast to all and sundry the apparent inadequacies of the man which in lackadaisical sort of way highlights the tragedy of the episode.
Breaking from the story, let us take a hard look at the traditional reasons for taking performance – enhancing concoctions. In the not-too-distant past, when polygamy was the rule rather than the exception, a man was supposed to ‘satisfy’ his numerous wives reasonably well so as to prevent them from taking their business elsewhere.
Knowing the frailty of the human body especially after the exertions of a normal drinking day, it would be near impossible to undertake these essential domestic chores to the satisfaction of the parties involved. So in the spirit of keeping the family happily together, traditional doctors prescribed anabolic steroids to the males.
These were usually doled out in the dead of the night because males with their trademark obstinacy saw themselves quite capable of the task at hand without any artificial assistance when the opposite was true. Not even the favourite wife knew about these nocturnal consultations.
Nowadays the situation has somewhat changed. Most of the men are now in monogamous unions though modern diet, the taxing working conditions and high alcohol consumption are also known to put a huge dent on their stamina when performing their matrimonial obligations. It is a fact that a man dreads being deserted by his wife for any reason worse still if it is because of impotence.
There are some men who find it hard to believe that impotence is a disease. To them, it is just being inadequate, a straight-forward inability to perform, and period! Hence the need to go the extra mile by any means necessary.
Other pertinent questions come to mind. For instance, should the female partner be made aware that her partner takes a herbal performance enhancement drug? What if she fails to satisfy his increased demands? Does it men that he now can go to the next person in a skirt to tame the raging bull?
So it goes without saying that the majority of women in this predicament will never know about their partner’s curious drug habit if I may call it that. That is as long as their part of the contract is reasonably or exceedingly fulfilled. The whole thing is shrouded in a veil of secrecy. I am yet to hear of a man who calls out to his wife to fetch him his 5 gallon container of Vuka Vuka before they retire for the night. Even the passing round of the khaki paper in the beer hall is a ritual in silence. One isn’t even sure it’s the real thing. I suppose the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
Sexual performance enhancement drugs, whether herbal or artificial, open a Pandora’s Box of potential hazards chief among these being HIV contracted in pursuit of a cheap thrill as it was in the case of our 50 year old murder suspect. The two Tsholotsho men are an illustration of what happens to those who overdose or fail to find a willing partner.
Rape is also common in some of the extreme cases as the need for sexual relief borders on desperate. The murder case itself is giving law enforcement officers’ sleepless nights when it comes to its classification. They are finding it difficult to charge the man with anything. Aren’t we going to see a new statute opened in the law books where men can possibly be charged with ‘murder with a friendly weapon?’ Anything is possible these days.
And by the way, this plan to give aeroplane passengers Viagra in order to counter the effects of jetlag and time lapse, just drop it. There just won’t be enough leg room.
Health Warning: This is a serious issue which is normally discussed in low voices by members of the male species.Women are best advised to pretend they are not reading this.
Notes:
This column first appeared in the Daily News in 2000 which has now been banned. It has been rehashed by the author for a web audience on his weekly column 'Breaking the Wind' at www.newzimbabwe.com
Bulawayo is Zimbabwe's second largest city with a population of aproximately 1 million people.Its called the City of Kings because of its historical past as the capital of the ancient Ndebele kingdom of Mthwakazi ruled by Mzilikazi and then his son Lobengula in the 19th century.
Wednesday, May 30
Wednesday, May 16
Political Correctness: A Manual
In Zimbabwe we tend to take political correctness a bit too far. For instance, problems here are never referred as such but are couched in cotton wool. The correct term, we are always reminded, is “challenges.” Problems, we suspect, are the direct result of some degree of incompetence or irresponsibility on the part of authorities. Challenges, on the other hand, are a slight diversion from the norm and are to a large extent surmountable. What a load of crap if you ask me.
Well let’s steer away from that minefield which a lot of colleagues have discovered, much to their horror, that this is a hard hat area… Zimbabwean politics I mean. It also explains why I avoid it at all costs, not that I am apologizing. It’s called common sense. You just have to watch your backside in this very dirty game. Some time last year, I did some research on ways in which one could address certain deficiencies among us without offending the subject.
For example I discovered that one is never referred to as short, but rather, “vertically challenged.” Now we are told that no one's tall anymore. They are "vertically enhanced" people, not implying of course that those of us who are tall are offended by their extraordinary height above sea-level. But one would if he were called a ‘tower light.’
I am sure that quite a number among our student population would be glad to know that no one fails in class anymore; you are merely "passing impaired." Neither are you detained after school, you're just one of the "exit delayed." Your room at college isn't cluttered; it's just "passage restrictive."
These days, a worker isn't referred to as lazy. He's "energetically declined.” His or her locker isn't overflowing with junk, but "closure prohibitive." Kids don't get grounded anymore. They merely hit "social speed bumps."
And do you remember those days when it was difficult to complete your homework? And you had to stand before the teacher and lie through your teeth about how the dog came into your room and promptly without provocation ate through your homework exercise book? Take heart because there is a new term floating around these days. Yes, your homework isn't missing; it’s just having an "out-of-notebook experience."
Sleeping in class was not an unusual phenomenon, particularly when the lesson or the teacher or both, where boring you to death. During our time we used to strategically position ourselves in the back row for that much sought after before-lunch snooze. I am quite sure the teachers did notice but rather chose to allow us to exercise our democratic right of non-participation in the lesson. Those who are still in the practice (of dozing) will be glad to know that sleeping in class is now referred to as "rationing consciousness."
Being late for school for some of us was the rule rather than the exception. So the prefects would put our names down in their books in advance for the rest of the week cock sure that we would always crawl in late. I should add that the school administration thought that my case was so exceptional that they made me a prefect in order to curb my bad habit of coming late. If you are ever late, do not search for some far-fetched excuse. Just say you have only had a "rescheduled arrival time."
Hair was another sticking point at school. If wearing an afro was your preference, which by the way is on the boomerang these days, you just had to have an afro-comb on stand-by. The problem was that some of us lacked the energy needed to lift that comb to the head. And as a result one would look more like Don Kings’ illegitimate son. Now here is a good turn-off for those bothersome teachers who make a fuss out of nothing. Just tell them that your hair is not unkempt but that you're suffering from "rebellious follicle syndrome."
In the area of personal hygiene, we always had those who were averse to water. We used to refer to them as cowboys, after that famous local soap advert where a boy would wail to his insistent mother, “Mama, wake wabona ama “cowboy” egeza?” (Have you ever seen cowboys taking a bath?) And that chap had a point. At boarding school guys wore their socks continuously until they could stand on their own when placed on the floor with stink starch. Now they tell me you don't have smelly school socks anymore, rather they are referred to as "odour-retentive academic footwear." You would be interested to know that at boarding school and later at varsity, that particularly overpowering pong was inexplicably referred to as “Noise” (Umsindo).
Here is one for those who are shy. You’re supposed to be “conversationally selective." At school, initially I was in this select group. I would nearly faint when a girl spoke to me. But then something happened. They call it adolescence and now I am referred to as someone who is “abundantly verbal."
Then there was this irritating habit of passing notes in class. Teachers really detested this disruptive behaviour, especially when the teacher was the subject matter of these surreptitious missives. I should add that this was another sure sign that the lesson in question was in intensive care. So to add a bit of daring and excitement to the proceedings we wrote little notes which circulated in class faster than a rumour in Harare. The problem was getting caught after which, I dare say, you were humiliatingly asked to read it aloud in class.
About 99.9% of these notes were vulgar and reading it aloud was like playing Russian roulette. Unless you popped the piece of paper into your mouth, where the least you would receive was a thunderous clap, as compared to ‘six of the best’ from the Head. Or better still you could get away with the explanation that you were "participating in the discreet exchange of penned meditations."
Did I mention the dreaded trip to the headmaster’s office? At Fletcher High where I did my O levels, it was ominously called the “office.” Our teachers would use it in the form of a threat when they would hiss, “Okay my boy, I will report you to the office.” And one sorry trip to the “office” was enough for you not to wish for another. Actually, the ‘office was so efficient that a whole class of errant pupils would be canned in one afternoon!
It was so prevalent that some of us were convinced that the teachers also regularly went for canning too! We even renamed the area where the “office” was located, “The Corridor of Death.” The next time you are called to the “office” just tell your friends that you're "going on mandatory field trip to the administrative building."
I never thought they would find a phrase that would replace the word gossip. From now on it will be known as "the speedy transmission of near-factual information."
This also reminds me of a recent meal at a local hotel that will remain nameless to protect the innocent (as in yours truly). I wouldn’t’ dare call the food they serve at their eatery awful. It's just "digestively challenged."
And finally, remember the column on the touchy subject of gate crashing? Well, the HR man at a local tyre maker has a politically correct term for such pests. At a company function during the just ended Zimbabwe International Trade Fair, he referred to them as “sympathizers.” How cute!
Well let’s steer away from that minefield which a lot of colleagues have discovered, much to their horror, that this is a hard hat area… Zimbabwean politics I mean. It also explains why I avoid it at all costs, not that I am apologizing. It’s called common sense. You just have to watch your backside in this very dirty game. Some time last year, I did some research on ways in which one could address certain deficiencies among us without offending the subject.
For example I discovered that one is never referred to as short, but rather, “vertically challenged.” Now we are told that no one's tall anymore. They are "vertically enhanced" people, not implying of course that those of us who are tall are offended by their extraordinary height above sea-level. But one would if he were called a ‘tower light.’
I am sure that quite a number among our student population would be glad to know that no one fails in class anymore; you are merely "passing impaired." Neither are you detained after school, you're just one of the "exit delayed." Your room at college isn't cluttered; it's just "passage restrictive."
These days, a worker isn't referred to as lazy. He's "energetically declined.” His or her locker isn't overflowing with junk, but "closure prohibitive." Kids don't get grounded anymore. They merely hit "social speed bumps."
And do you remember those days when it was difficult to complete your homework? And you had to stand before the teacher and lie through your teeth about how the dog came into your room and promptly without provocation ate through your homework exercise book? Take heart because there is a new term floating around these days. Yes, your homework isn't missing; it’s just having an "out-of-notebook experience."
Sleeping in class was not an unusual phenomenon, particularly when the lesson or the teacher or both, where boring you to death. During our time we used to strategically position ourselves in the back row for that much sought after before-lunch snooze. I am quite sure the teachers did notice but rather chose to allow us to exercise our democratic right of non-participation in the lesson. Those who are still in the practice (of dozing) will be glad to know that sleeping in class is now referred to as "rationing consciousness."
Being late for school for some of us was the rule rather than the exception. So the prefects would put our names down in their books in advance for the rest of the week cock sure that we would always crawl in late. I should add that the school administration thought that my case was so exceptional that they made me a prefect in order to curb my bad habit of coming late. If you are ever late, do not search for some far-fetched excuse. Just say you have only had a "rescheduled arrival time."
Hair was another sticking point at school. If wearing an afro was your preference, which by the way is on the boomerang these days, you just had to have an afro-comb on stand-by. The problem was that some of us lacked the energy needed to lift that comb to the head. And as a result one would look more like Don Kings’ illegitimate son. Now here is a good turn-off for those bothersome teachers who make a fuss out of nothing. Just tell them that your hair is not unkempt but that you're suffering from "rebellious follicle syndrome."
In the area of personal hygiene, we always had those who were averse to water. We used to refer to them as cowboys, after that famous local soap advert where a boy would wail to his insistent mother, “Mama, wake wabona ama “cowboy” egeza?” (Have you ever seen cowboys taking a bath?) And that chap had a point. At boarding school guys wore their socks continuously until they could stand on their own when placed on the floor with stink starch. Now they tell me you don't have smelly school socks anymore, rather they are referred to as "odour-retentive academic footwear." You would be interested to know that at boarding school and later at varsity, that particularly overpowering pong was inexplicably referred to as “Noise” (Umsindo).
Here is one for those who are shy. You’re supposed to be “conversationally selective." At school, initially I was in this select group. I would nearly faint when a girl spoke to me. But then something happened. They call it adolescence and now I am referred to as someone who is “abundantly verbal."
Then there was this irritating habit of passing notes in class. Teachers really detested this disruptive behaviour, especially when the teacher was the subject matter of these surreptitious missives. I should add that this was another sure sign that the lesson in question was in intensive care. So to add a bit of daring and excitement to the proceedings we wrote little notes which circulated in class faster than a rumour in Harare. The problem was getting caught after which, I dare say, you were humiliatingly asked to read it aloud in class.
About 99.9% of these notes were vulgar and reading it aloud was like playing Russian roulette. Unless you popped the piece of paper into your mouth, where the least you would receive was a thunderous clap, as compared to ‘six of the best’ from the Head. Or better still you could get away with the explanation that you were "participating in the discreet exchange of penned meditations."
Did I mention the dreaded trip to the headmaster’s office? At Fletcher High where I did my O levels, it was ominously called the “office.” Our teachers would use it in the form of a threat when they would hiss, “Okay my boy, I will report you to the office.” And one sorry trip to the “office” was enough for you not to wish for another. Actually, the ‘office was so efficient that a whole class of errant pupils would be canned in one afternoon!
It was so prevalent that some of us were convinced that the teachers also regularly went for canning too! We even renamed the area where the “office” was located, “The Corridor of Death.” The next time you are called to the “office” just tell your friends that you're "going on mandatory field trip to the administrative building."
I never thought they would find a phrase that would replace the word gossip. From now on it will be known as "the speedy transmission of near-factual information."
This also reminds me of a recent meal at a local hotel that will remain nameless to protect the innocent (as in yours truly). I wouldn’t’ dare call the food they serve at their eatery awful. It's just "digestively challenged."
And finally, remember the column on the touchy subject of gate crashing? Well, the HR man at a local tyre maker has a politically correct term for such pests. At a company function during the just ended Zimbabwe International Trade Fair, he referred to them as “sympathizers.” How cute!
Sunday, May 13
How the coalmen took care of me
Apologies are in order for my no-show last week, and for those vendors who were assaulted for selling an incomplete product at a time when the price of this paper went up. It was just a coincidence, no harm intended. Blame the economy for its unpredictable histrionics doing untold damage to the pocket. Any excuses? I must admit that I was buried under an avalanche of Trade fair Cocktail parties only to emerge on the very Sunday you were unfortunately expecting to see my visage and the associated nonsense.
You see, being the celebrity that I now am, everyone and their grandmother want a piece of me, particularly these Harare types whose source of dough knows no end. Everyone loves to be seen with someone famous and to buy them drinks too! I was so overwhelmed! Even ZTV wanted me to present their ‘five-minuters’, which I politely declined and passed on to my good friend Walter. My schedule was just too tight.
But let me tell you something for nothing. Those who say that there is no money in this country are lying. Even if they are printing it, there are people pout there who know how to spend it. And they came to the Trade Fair to do just that. Every firm worth its name threw a shindig to end all shindigs! For the uninitiated in the language of the oppressors, a shindig is a party, my friend.
The only brewer in the country had journos scrambling for superlatives to describe it; until a ‘consultant’ decided it was time up, telling all and sundry it was time to go to bed. Now, you and I know that a journalist and his beer are never parted except when they surface for air. The crime was that this person actually ordered workers to pack ice cold beers away. What a travesty! Even Black Scorpion was appalled. The rule of the function is that you let the booze run out, you do not run the guests out.
I liked the tyre maker’s cocktail. My former employer always gets the formula right only that this time there was far much more Coke than pints. There the ever-so-cool Tshuks the HR man taught us all a new term for gatecrashers. They are now known as sympathisers. How cute!
The guys who supply us with timber and other building things missed the point of inviting people to sample their hospitality. You don’t hold people captive for hour on end to near starvation just to launch some product. Luckily, I sauntered I when the MC was conducting the draw when the cream of the crown were already turning in their sleep at home. Then I discovered the ruse. There was so little food and drink that even izibhonda (the destitute) would have complained. Marks out of ten? Zero!
The Coal-miners (never mind the fact that there is hardly any to throw at each other these days) did their best to monopolise me. I was literally embedded to their humble but imaginative pavilion which by the way won the best Zimbabwean exhibit prize, and to think that I had nothing to do with it. Winning the prize, I mean. I was being spoiled rotten by these guys for the second year running and it paid dividends for them to! I look forward to their scooping a couple more prizes next year.
I must admit that I did gatecrash at least one function, even though I was later to discover later that I had been invited after all. Here I was well and truly cornered in a corner. While the wise waters flowed to no end, I was put to task and found myself having to justify my column, its contents and my very existence. So much for being a celebrity; it has certain, eh, ‘uncomfortable’ responsibilities. Save to say that it was a truly enlightening experience, I found myself having to flee the excuse being that I had more pressing issues elsewhere.
On a more sobering note, haven’t we suffered enough already? We should at least get the service that we deserve from the money we fork out in taxes, service charges and purchases. The major problem is that Zimbabweans have perfected the art of celebrating mediocrity. We pay an arm and a leg and we get horse manure in return only for us to smile and say ‘Thank You very Much!’
I have experienced the worst kind of service delivery imaginable. The impression one gets is that you have to beg for the service you are paying for. Putting commuter omnibus crews aside (they have a unique disease those), we just have to stand up and fight this scourge. Where the heck is the Consumer Council? We deserve better for our hard earned money, even if it’s stolen. And this is how it should be; receive shoddy service, shift your business elsewhere. When was the last time you did that? Tell those people straight in the face that you will not brook ant nonsense and that you are leaving… with your money.
Commercial Banks, particularly the established ones, have long been playing Fiddley-Dee with our custom and money. Apart from outrageous bank charges and other equally despicable demands on small fry like us, we are lumped together at one branch like cattle in the name of rationalisation. One ever gets the feeling that they would be happy if we closed our accounts and shifted our cash into the pillows and gardens.
More culprits can be found polluting the hospitality industry at a time when they need every Zim dollar that blows their way. To some of them the word hospitality is just a decoration on their brochures. What justification is there to charge a glass of Coke Z$25! Unless the drink can sing the national anthem at my command, I see no plausible reason at all. Why kill the goose that lays the golden egg?
One of them, and I will not name names here said, ‘If we had time we would explain to the gentleman how we come to those prices he is moaning about!’ My foot! The solution I guess is to keep away or take our business to Maunga. At least he understands what customer care is all about more than some of these glorified shelters.
Why rob tourists of their foreign currency? The idea is to tease it from them, not daylight robbery! Charging Bulawayo tap water masquerading as bottled ‘Mineral Water’ for as much as US$20! Now that is my whole salary! When bottled water costs that much, do you expect the tourist to come back to buy more? Not on your life! In fact, you will be the one moaning about ‘negative publicity’ destroying your business, when the negativity originates at you very door!
Yes, it makes one’s blood boil! Customer care should be priority for any proprietor who wants to stay in business in these hard times. A customer who walks in from the pavement has to be given reason to choose on and spend his money. One customer lost through bad service translates into a horde when the word spreads. Make the customer feel important; kiss his feet (God forbid) if you can. And be rest assured he will be back.
This greed must stop. Some advice for the long suffering consumer: Make every cent that you spend count. Do not feel obliged to reward second rate (horse manure) service when you can get first class across the road for the same amount. Accept no excuses. Make you opinions about shoddy service known and loudly too, which is exactly what I am doing on this page.
You see, being the celebrity that I now am, everyone and their grandmother want a piece of me, particularly these Harare types whose source of dough knows no end. Everyone loves to be seen with someone famous and to buy them drinks too! I was so overwhelmed! Even ZTV wanted me to present their ‘five-minuters’, which I politely declined and passed on to my good friend Walter. My schedule was just too tight.
But let me tell you something for nothing. Those who say that there is no money in this country are lying. Even if they are printing it, there are people pout there who know how to spend it. And they came to the Trade Fair to do just that. Every firm worth its name threw a shindig to end all shindigs! For the uninitiated in the language of the oppressors, a shindig is a party, my friend.
The only brewer in the country had journos scrambling for superlatives to describe it; until a ‘consultant’ decided it was time up, telling all and sundry it was time to go to bed. Now, you and I know that a journalist and his beer are never parted except when they surface for air. The crime was that this person actually ordered workers to pack ice cold beers away. What a travesty! Even Black Scorpion was appalled. The rule of the function is that you let the booze run out, you do not run the guests out.
I liked the tyre maker’s cocktail. My former employer always gets the formula right only that this time there was far much more Coke than pints. There the ever-so-cool Tshuks the HR man taught us all a new term for gatecrashers. They are now known as sympathisers. How cute!
The guys who supply us with timber and other building things missed the point of inviting people to sample their hospitality. You don’t hold people captive for hour on end to near starvation just to launch some product. Luckily, I sauntered I when the MC was conducting the draw when the cream of the crown were already turning in their sleep at home. Then I discovered the ruse. There was so little food and drink that even izibhonda (the destitute) would have complained. Marks out of ten? Zero!
The Coal-miners (never mind the fact that there is hardly any to throw at each other these days) did their best to monopolise me. I was literally embedded to their humble but imaginative pavilion which by the way won the best Zimbabwean exhibit prize, and to think that I had nothing to do with it. Winning the prize, I mean. I was being spoiled rotten by these guys for the second year running and it paid dividends for them to! I look forward to their scooping a couple more prizes next year.
I must admit that I did gatecrash at least one function, even though I was later to discover later that I had been invited after all. Here I was well and truly cornered in a corner. While the wise waters flowed to no end, I was put to task and found myself having to justify my column, its contents and my very existence. So much for being a celebrity; it has certain, eh, ‘uncomfortable’ responsibilities. Save to say that it was a truly enlightening experience, I found myself having to flee the excuse being that I had more pressing issues elsewhere.
On a more sobering note, haven’t we suffered enough already? We should at least get the service that we deserve from the money we fork out in taxes, service charges and purchases. The major problem is that Zimbabweans have perfected the art of celebrating mediocrity. We pay an arm and a leg and we get horse manure in return only for us to smile and say ‘Thank You very Much!’
I have experienced the worst kind of service delivery imaginable. The impression one gets is that you have to beg for the service you are paying for. Putting commuter omnibus crews aside (they have a unique disease those), we just have to stand up and fight this scourge. Where the heck is the Consumer Council? We deserve better for our hard earned money, even if it’s stolen. And this is how it should be; receive shoddy service, shift your business elsewhere. When was the last time you did that? Tell those people straight in the face that you will not brook ant nonsense and that you are leaving… with your money.
Commercial Banks, particularly the established ones, have long been playing Fiddley-Dee with our custom and money. Apart from outrageous bank charges and other equally despicable demands on small fry like us, we are lumped together at one branch like cattle in the name of rationalisation. One ever gets the feeling that they would be happy if we closed our accounts and shifted our cash into the pillows and gardens.
More culprits can be found polluting the hospitality industry at a time when they need every Zim dollar that blows their way. To some of them the word hospitality is just a decoration on their brochures. What justification is there to charge a glass of Coke Z$25! Unless the drink can sing the national anthem at my command, I see no plausible reason at all. Why kill the goose that lays the golden egg?
One of them, and I will not name names here said, ‘If we had time we would explain to the gentleman how we come to those prices he is moaning about!’ My foot! The solution I guess is to keep away or take our business to Maunga. At least he understands what customer care is all about more than some of these glorified shelters.
Why rob tourists of their foreign currency? The idea is to tease it from them, not daylight robbery! Charging Bulawayo tap water masquerading as bottled ‘Mineral Water’ for as much as US$20! Now that is my whole salary! When bottled water costs that much, do you expect the tourist to come back to buy more? Not on your life! In fact, you will be the one moaning about ‘negative publicity’ destroying your business, when the negativity originates at you very door!
Yes, it makes one’s blood boil! Customer care should be priority for any proprietor who wants to stay in business in these hard times. A customer who walks in from the pavement has to be given reason to choose on and spend his money. One customer lost through bad service translates into a horde when the word spreads. Make the customer feel important; kiss his feet (God forbid) if you can. And be rest assured he will be back.
This greed must stop. Some advice for the long suffering consumer: Make every cent that you spend count. Do not feel obliged to reward second rate (horse manure) service when you can get first class across the road for the same amount. Accept no excuses. Make you opinions about shoddy service known and loudly too, which is exactly what I am doing on this page.
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