The stink of mediocrity!

Forget all the double-speak: the outcomes-based education system has failed. And now President Jacob Zuma has told his Cabinet lekgotla that they must adopt an outcomes-based focus while governing.

So brace yourselves: we’ve now got outcomes-based government.

I’m not sure how President Zuma’s reasoning works.

You see my reasoning is that building houses that are habitable and don’t fall down is an outcome. Paying for the land that you elected to buy under the land reform programme is an outcome. Keeping waste-water treatment plants running efficiently is an outcome. Having an incorruptible police force is an outcome.

But we don’t call it outcomes-based government. We call it service delivery.

And of course the government – on every tier and in virtually every facet – has failed when it comes to service delivery. If they were being marked by some mythical teacher in the greater school of government, most government departments would achieve an F or less. But based on our education system an F constitutes a pass.

So many of the government departments actually think they are doing fine because F (for mediocrity) is good enough.

And it’s this approach that’s destroying us

I would love to see some pockets of excellence emerging in any one of the local authorities, in any one of the provincial government departments and, of course, anywhere in the national government. Because one pocket of excellence would give me some hope.

Let me tell you a story.

I received an electricity bill from the rental agent who takes care of the property in which I am a tenant. It took some time for the agent to get the bill to me and then it took me a day or two to get down to the council to pay it.

That happens to all of us, particularly if we have not looked at the due date for payment. Anyway, I toddled off to the local council and paid the bill. No problem. Then I went about my business.

I work in Johannesburg during the day and spend about an hour driving back to the warm suburban haven that I call home. Well that day I happened to leave the office at about six and got home just after seven. To total darkness.

I checked the distribution board: nothing wrong there. Looked out of my window at my neighbours houses and they were all having a great time, cooking supper, watching TV, logging onto the Internet and doing all the many things that ordinary people who have power can do.

But there was no power for me. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. The only possible reason I was without electricity is that my supply had been cut off. So it was now over to candles for the rest of the night.

“Well, at least I can get an early night,” I thought to myself. “There’s not much point hanging about getting more and more frustrated because there is no electricity.” So I use the darkness to catch up on some sleep.

First thing in the morning I rush off to the local council to find out why my electricity was suspended and, much more importantly, to get it reconnected. I walked into the council clutching my bill and demanding some sort of service.

First things first: I had to queue at the reception desk to tell somebody why I was there. I told them that I wanted to query my account, so they wrote my name in a book and told me to take a seat. I sat down with a number of other grumblers bemoaning the inefficiency of the council until at last, it was my turn to talk to an assistant.

I tell her in my most patient tone that I have paid my bill, have the receipt to prove it and that last night for some inexplicable reason my service was suspended.

“Is your electricity disconnected?” she asks.

“Yes, it must be because there’s no power at my house and everyone else in the complex has plenty,” I say good-naturedly, even though I’m fuming.

“Room 217,” she says.

“What’s Room 217,” I ask.

“Reconnections,” she says without looking at me. “Next. . .”

Fuming even more I set off on my quest to find Room 217. It’s doesn’t take me long.

Now I’m last in a queue of about 25 people all clutching little red suspension slips in their hands. I don’t have a suspension slip – but no matter. I wait, and wait and wait.

And I listen to the furious people.

One has a prepayment voucher that doesn’t work; another person’s electricity has been incorrectly suspended; amounts have been paid but posted to the wrong account. Money has been paid but does not show on the account. (I fall into that category) and so on.

And it strikes me just how extensive this mediocrity is. Eventually it’s my turn and I show the woman behind the counter my proof-of-payment.

“It doesn’t show on the account,” she says blandly.

“Okay, how do I get my electricity supply turned on,” I ask, by now completely exasperated.

“You must pay R1 604,54,” she says.

I give her my card.

“You can’t pay me, you must pay there,” she says point at another queue. “Then bring me the proof of payment so I can get you reconnected,” she says.

“Why can’t I pay you,” I ask.

“Next,” comes her reply.

So I take my place in yet another queue.

Eventually I pay the amount requested and take her the proof of payment.

“I’ll tell them to reconnect it immediately,” she says, walking to the computer behind a desk some way away. After a while she comes back and says it will be reconnected soon.

“How long will it take,” I ask.

“About two to three hours,” she says.

“Excellent,” I say to myself. “At least I’ll have electricity by about lunchtime.”

I go home and wait. Lunchtime comes and goes. No electricity. The house is silent, there’s no friendly hum of computers, no lights on anywhere, no music, radio or television. Total silence.

I try phoning the call centre. The phone rings, a voice asks questions, I make selections until eventually I get to the nonsense part of the call: “Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line. Your call will be answered as soon as a consultant is available.” Finally it rings. The receiver is lifted, replaced and all I get is a long engaged tone in my ear.

I do this ten times.

Then I get back into my car, drive to the council offices and walk into reconnections. The queues have receded and this time a tall man who seems most helpful serves me. I tell him I still have no electricity. He goes away and comes back about five minutes later and says he’s put through an urgent request to reconnect me. He assures me my power supply will be restored within an hour or two.

By now it is three-thirty in the afternoon. I didn’t know it then – but I discovered it later. I drive back home, thoroughly disgruntled and bemused. Wondering about things like efficiency and service delivery. Wondering about why I have had to pay two bills for one electricity supply.

I get home and wait. Eventually at six that evening I phone the call centre. Again the same rigmarole making selections for an electronic robot. Finally the phone rings and instead of a click and an engaged tone, I get an answer.

I give the woman my account number.

“Yes,” she says, “You’re on the list to be reconnected, it will take about four to six hours,” she says.

“But it was supposed to be connected before lunchtime today,” I protest.

“No,” she says. “The request to reconnect was only received at three-thirty.”

“That’s rubbish,” I say angrily. “That’s absolute rubbish. Look at when it was paid for goodness sake.”

The line goes dead.

I phone again, different operator. Same result.

So I wait. Then I go out to get some supper and have a long, large whiskey to keep my frazzled nerves from fraying altogether. I sip my scotch quietly, in the comfort of a well-lit pub with more than enough electricity to spare as I reflect on the day’s events and wait for my bangers and mash.

And it is then that the level of mediocrity stamps itself clearly on my conscious mind.

From the amount I paid that did not reflect on my account to the man at the reception desk who sent me to the wrong assistant.

To the assistant who sent me upstairs when, with computer technology, she surely could have resolved my problem there and then.

To the women who gave me an amount to pay and sent me to another queue where someone else was working as a cashier.

Then back to the first woman for a reconnection order.

Then back home to wait. Then back to the council to get the job done properly. Then to a reconnection order that a woman in the call centre (working after six) assures me shows that it was only recorded at 15h30 and not at 09h00 as it should have been.

And now I’m sitting in a pub waiting for someone to reconnect me.

It also struck me that there are some truly cunning plots unfolding before my eyes.

First of all the call centre operates with human voices only after six in the evening because then the operators are all earning overtime. During the day they don’t take calls.

The reconnection lads only really start work after six too because then they can bill for overtime. During the day they swan off, making the occasional reconnection and blaming the traffic for their lack of productivity.

“Ingenious,” I say to my whiskey. “Absolutely ingenious,” as I pay my bill and leave. By the time I get home the house is lit up like a Christmas tree.

The illicit overtime obviously pays well enough to get the work done.

But the mediocrity really stinks.

And it’s high time that President Zuma and his colleagues started tackling the mediocrity because that is actually what stops service delivery in its tracks.

*Hartdegen writes a regular column for Property24.com. The content of his columns constitutes his personal opinion and doesn’t pretend to be facts or advice. Contact him at paddy@neomail.co.za.

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