Those in the know never waste the opportunity to tell us that the secret to turning around our ailing economy lies in creating sustainable SMMEs. That's small, medium and micro enterprises - fancy talk for "businesses that are not big enough for their owners' kids to drive Lamborghinis and still have enough cash to buy a place at Harvard".My economics knowledge is comparable to that of Vernon Koekemoer and Thamsanqa "The Interpreter" Jantjie, but I'm guessing that a medium enterprise is something the size of the Maharaj Cash & Carry next to the Kokstad taxi rank. And a micro enterprise is the mama who sells chronic hypertension, obesity and cardiac failure in the form of vetkoeks at the train station.Being the model South African that I am, I recently decided to utilise the small guy as much as I can, to boost the economy. By this I mean that times are hard and people on columnist wages are desperate enough to try unconventional businesses.I grew up in a neighbourhood where everyone used entrepreneurs in the informal sector. We had a "guy" for everything. If you needed someone to fix the plumbing in the house, we had Baba Qwabe. If you specifically needed someone to unblock the toilet, we had the other Baba Qwabe, his brother. I guess Qwabes are good with water-based drainage problems. If your coal stove was acting up you had Baba Matiwane. He was in the unique situation of owning a pair of matchbox houses right next to each other, which everyone referred to as "Ezitofini" (The house of stoves).Then there was Baba Mbona, the neighbourhood barber. He wasn't a very good barber. I think that had something to do with the fact that he was a member of the Shembe Nazarite church and therefore sported a 30cm Afro himself.If you had a car and you had it serviced at the dealership, you were considered a first-class dunce. Everyone took their Nissans and Mazdas to Katshana, the local "bush mechanic". "Katshana" wasn't his real name; the loose meaning is "One who resembles a cat", based on his unwieldy whiskers.story_article_left1In the unlikely event that you thought that when I said, we had "a guy" for everything, I was being gender-specific, banish the thought. We had Joyce "Sisi Majoy" Mcoyi, the seamstress who could create any outfit for a wedding, graduation or funeral.We even had Mama Mgobhozi, the local colon irrigation expert. Our diagonal neighbour to the right was one Gogo Ngubane and she had no time for the colon irrigator because, to quote her, "What kind of sicko spends all day pottering about people's bums?"This is my long-winded way of explaining how it came to pass that I spent most of last week feeling like a turtle on its back, desperately trying to get back up.I blame the heat wave we experienced in November and December. The kids complained about the swimming pool not being operational. I had decommissioned it for a few months. So I went to one of those chain pool service folks and they quoted me R14,500 "all inclusive".We're in the middle of a freaking drought and I don't think anyone should be charging people that much money to waste water, so I told them to shove their R14,500 where the sun dares not shine. Instead, I contacted "a guy" who fixes pools.Firstly, he has a day job as a maintenance manager in a hotel. Secondly, he doesn't have a car, which means he has to be ferried around. The alarm bells should have sounded. But I was blinded by "This job won't cost you more than R3,000" and the R11,500 "saving".I was meant to pick him up from work at 3pm on Monday. My calls went unanswered between 14h12 and 16h47. When I finally got hold of him at around 6pm, the background noise sounded a lot like a pub in the Marabastad precinct. On Tuesday he told me about his "bitchy" boss and how she'd ruined his life and "that's why I can't come". On Wednesday he told me his lift didn't show up on time and we should make it Thursday.story_article_right2On Thursday I decided to stalk him at his place of work. When he finally arrived, he regaled me with a tortuous tale about his boss before instructing me to drive to Kempton Park, 35 minutes away, to pick up his tool box. When we got there it transpired that "we" needed to pay the tool box kidnapper R170 to release it.At the house he wasted half an hour walking around the pool, whistling and repeating, "You've got big problems here, my friend". I didn't have the heart to tell him that he was now my biggest problem by far. We went to the pool supply store to get pool acid, chlorine, sand and whatnot.About two hours later it transpired that the pool pump, which I had been told was in "top condition" had actually now "packed up". So off we went to get a pump. It was 6pm by the time we came back so we made a date for Friday which (I think you're getting the picture) could not be honoured.By the time the pool was in any state for human immersion on Sunday, I had aged about seven years and parted with 23 hours that I am never going to get back. By my rough calculations, the cost of materials, gas, mileage and time spent going up and down was roughly R14500. Now I'm not saying that my commitment to boosting the economy via SMME support is wavering. All I'm saying is that I need to be better prepared the next time I do business with a man who may or may not resemble a cat.E-mail Ndumiso Ngcobo at ngcobon@sundaytimes.co.za or follow him on Twitter: @NdumisoNgcobo..