‘Madiba, Me and the Waistcoat’ – When nostalgia isn’t so rosy

The great thing about nostalgia – about looking back – is that it invariably is done through rose-tinted spectacles.

I remember, from when I was 19 the disco music, brightly coloured lights and shirts… and falling in love. I quite liked making things go bang and riding in helicopters.

I can’t seem to remember those bangs which might have killed me, or lying cold, wet and sleepless in a night ambush.

I now realise, though, that that particular nasty little southern African war changed nothing.

However, I had rather an uncomfortable reminder this week that nostalgia isn’t what it was…

The poser sports car I have owned since I was a Jack-the-lad in my 20s has, after more than 30 years of neglect, finally been restored and I took delivery of it.

After waiting 18 months, I couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel of this 1964 roadster.

But …but. It was awful to drive – even though it is more or less in the state now it was when it left the factory in Yokohama, Japan, all those years ago.

There is no power steering and stopping is a heave-and-pray exercise with its drum brakes all around.

Starting also requires a sacrifice or two to the Gods of Carburettors. And, the gearbox has made me re-learn the forgotten art of double-declutching… and the frequent metallic crunches show I still need a lot of practice at it.

Was this really the car I used to call “Velvet” – because it would “pick up fluff”(ha, ha, ha)? The automotive world has come a long way in 60 years, as has the rest of the planet, no doubt.

They say you should never meet your idols – or well-known icons at least – for fear you encounter the disappointment of feet-of-clay-mediocrity.

That has happened to me mainly with places. Over the years, I have gone to some places with high expectations, only to be brought to earth with a crunch.

New York was just too big, too busy and too grimy. Ditto with Paris… I found Vienna a far more attractive and romantic European capital.

Though it will infuriate many, I looked forward to my first visit to the Kruger National Park but found it so crowded it was like a big, bakkie-benighted bosveld zoo.

Cape Town has lost its allure for me, too, over the years and is no longer nearly as exciting as when I was 11 years old and on a family holiday.

People, too, are not quite as amazing in real life as the media would have you believe. 

Again – here comes a piece of heresy – that was my feeling when I met Nelson Mandela. 

The first time, before 1994 and not long after he had been released, he was grumpy and nearly uncommunicative dealing with a white boy journalist whom his PR people said he should see.

A few years later, when he was president, he shook my hand in the newsroom, studied my “kente cloth” Ghanaian waistcoat and remarked, “So you people are wearing these things these days?”

You people? He seemed very slick in his, “shucks, I’m just folks” homely ways.

Given that Madiba was anything but a hick, I have come to realise that this was all part of the winning friends and influencing people plan.

Fake… but nicely executed.

Still, the framed picture of Madiba, Me and the Waistcoat still has pride of place on my bookshelf…