Flight delays, free drinks and how not to keep it classy

I was trying to fly home after a week on Mauritius but the flight was delayed. Two hundred South Africans at the boarding gate all groaned and sighed and shook their heads and rolled their eyes.

White South Africans have a technique of sighing and headshaking and eye-rolling that is all our own. You could recognize it even if we were bank robbers fleeing the country, disguising ourselves in burkas so all you could see are our eyes. Police would just need to announce that the flight is delayed.

“Look at that head-shake and eye-roll!” they’d yell. “That’s a white South African! Arrest him!”

There was much grumbling and grousing, but the airline representative assured us we’d be accommodated overnight at a nearby resort on a complimentary all-inclusive basis.

“Even drinks?” demanded one very suntanned lady.

The crowd pricked up its ears and narrowed its eyes like a pack of wolves at a pork chop.

Drinks, explained the representative, would be included, within reason.

This cheered up the crowd. Presumably Air Mauritius had never hosted a group of South African holidaymakers before, or they’d have known better than to use words like “free” or “alcohol” and especially “Within reason”.

We were whisked away to a nearby hotel. It was a mid-range resort, which meant that for half the passengers it was a step up from where they’d just spent their week, and for the other half a step down.

The rooms were clean and big, and above the bed in every room were terrible paintings of multicoloured parrots.

“I feel like that parrot is watching me,” said my partner.

 “Let’s go get a free drink, “ I replied.

 I wasn’t the only one with that idea. The bar was heaving with countrymen waving their airline vouchers and trying to bury their faces in rum-based cocktails. I saw one gentleman using three straws to drink three different drinks at the same time. One guy had five beers cradled in his arms like puppies.

Who was I to judge? Dinner was a buffet, and buffets bring out the beast in me. I know rationally that the food won’t all be finished by the time I return for seconds, but why take the risk?

I always rush the buffet table like a shopper on Black Friday, loading up my plate until it looks like a wedding cake made of prawns, and then eat it so fast I’m still whimpering when I stagger back for more.

But as I hopped impatiently from one foot to the other in the buffet queue, the lady in front of me turned and tutted.

“Look at these people,” she said. “You’d think they’ve never seen food before.”

She had a cold eye and expensive hair and a pearl necklace. She looked like the Dowager Duchess on Downton Abbey. She intimidated me.

“Hmm, yes, tsk-tsk,” I said timidly, hoping she’d have moved on by the time my turn came at the table.

But she didn’t. She kept talking to me. She told me she was used to a better class of hotel and a better class of guest. Disgraceful, she said, how much they drank and loaded up their plates. No class.

“Mmm,” I agreed nervously, helping myself to two dainty prawns instead of twenty-three. I was sobbing on the inside.

“Wow, I can see some plate,” said my partner when I sat down sadly. “Did you drop half the food?” 

“No,” I said miserably. “I have class, that’s all.”

 Perhaps it’s good I was so afraid of being judged by the snobby lady with the pearl necklace, because that night I went to bed without groaning and clutching my belly, and I was up bright and early for the bus back to the airport. Everyone else trooped on, looking hungover and indigested, except the Dowager Duchess, who just looked disgruntled that the airline hadn’t sent a limousine especially for her.

We were ready to go, but what was the hold-up? Hotel staff were huddled in conversation with the airline representative. Time was ticking, the bus wasn’t starting. Finally the airline representative stood in front to address us.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, looking embarrassed. “If anyone has accidentally removed hotel property when they checked out, please would they return it now.”

There was silence. Everyone looked sideways at whichever individual we considered the most likely suspect.

“Why are you looking at me?” I asked my partner.

“Please?” said the representative. “Anyone?”

No one.

The hotel manager made a call and a little while later the Mauritian flying squad – two young men in smart white shirts and neatly ironed shorts on a pair of ancient bicycles - pulled up with a screech of brakes. We watched from the windows as they opened the baggage hold and started hauling out suitcases.

And then something happened that later would make me think about the judgments we make about people, and which people are most judgmental. What happened was, the police came on board and called out a name.

No one moved, so they called it out again, and everybody watched as the lady with the pearl necklace stood and shuffled shamefaced down the aisle, and then I watched from the window as the police made her unlock her suitcase in front of them and take out, one by one, three terrible paintings of multi-coloured parrots.

And right then all I could think was, I wish I’d had those extra prawns.

Darrel Bristow-Bovey is a columnist, screenwriter, travel writer, author - follow him on Twitter