Housekeeper Dilema

So, one of the “perks” that comes with Mr. Kudu’s position at the Embassy is a stipend for a fulltime domestic housekeeper. Is this a perk or a curse? At first, from afar, I thought perk. I still in fact think it is a perk. However, now that we’ve been here on foreign soil for awhile, I’ve experienced the strangeness of hiring across language and cultural divides.

To begin with, the previous occupant of our Embassy-assigned household recommended her domestic housekeeper, but that was super bizarre because she was an old lady who actually LIVED IN THE HOUSEHOLD. Like down the hallway. No thanks, we do not want to reside with a strange grandmother. I had enough kookoo experiences with college roommates for a lifetime, and they were my peers (no offense to those of you reading this; I’m of course referring to the other weird roommates…).

So as the unemployed housewife, it became my responsibility to hire our “domestic”. I begin the interviewing process. The first lady, who was recommended within the US diplomatic communitym, actually showed up to the interview with a huge suitcase in hand, expecting to literally move into her new house (ours) that very day. On the other hand, not only was I not planning on offering this “live-in” arrangement, i was also not going to hire a person on the spot regardless of how fond of them I felt in the first 5min. Selecting a person who will spend 40hrs per week in my home is a sleep-on-it decision for me. This lady then proceeded to beg for the job at the end of the interview; I had to discover a new unrelenting side to myself to refuse her.

Clearly, my expectations about this process were dramatically different than the cultural norm around here. Much more research needed to be done…

It turns out that the standard rate for US Embassy household domestics is ~R2,500 per month (in the local South African Rand), which is a whopping US $350.00. That is not a typo, folks, no order of magnitude mistake there. I hate to admit it, but that is approximately what we spend on dining out over a few weeks… Furthermore that is significantly more than other local organizations (or people) pay for the same type of work, so that is considered a fabulous job. The folks who generally go for this sort of position are the impoverished black natives who live in the… ummm… suburbs?

Ok I might as well bite the bullet here, and address the still alive and kicking racial and economic segregation, as there are a handful of middle class and rich blacks here (the rich ones are referred to as “black diamonds”, a term I adore). But those ladies applying for the housekeeping position live in the former apartheid-labeled “townships” on the outskirts of cities, which are basically shantytowns filled with cement and tin shacks and boatloads of litter. On public transportation it takes roughly 1hr-90min to get from shantytown into the city proper. Under apartheid, blacks had to obtain and carry a sort of work permit/pass to enter the white-controlled city, and could do so only by day.

Due to the transportation time and the living conditions in shantytown, many rich (or just middle class) white city folk hired and still hire housekeepers on a live-in basis, and most houses are equipped with a tiny dorm-room-sized “domestic quarters” bedroom and bathroom. A South African friend of mine said that it is standard to have a housekeeper/nanny per child, so his family had two when he was growing up, both live-in. The three-house compound that we live in actually has what I would call a brick shed with a cement half-bath that smells like mold and mildew, but in no way, shape, or form is that inhabitable. How do I know if it’s better or worse than shantytown? I don’t, but no one shall reside there on my watch. Anyway, the fact that we have no private and decent domestic quarters, and that we’re not willing to take on a roommate, proved to be out of the norm for hiring a housekeeper here, and ours will unfortunately have to make the commute. We decided to pad the salary with a transportation stipend.

Three interviews later and I had my girl. She is polite in speech but she has a quiet cynicism about here, she’s sharp and witty. She is my age but she has three children, ages 2, 9, and 13, and she has lived her whole life in Pretoria (shantytown? I haven’t asked about the details). Very different worlds, but hopefully we can bridge that. So far she’s done a bang-up job on our laundry!

Next step: organizing my house cleaning chores so that someone else can follow the madness… I have never in my life maintained a house cleaning schedule myself, it is more like separate battles with whatever is the worst offender at the moment, so I’m going to be winging this. How often does a “proper adult” dust and polish the wooden furniture, exactly?

I have to say that through this process I’ve experienced quite a bit of white middle-class guilt. I feel guilty paying someone so little, an amount that I would struggle to live on myself. I feel weird bossing someone around to clean up after me. I fear I am bolstering old, racist divisions. I fear I may unknowingly become inconsiderate and condescending to her, while she is obliged to be accommodating and polite to me. This past summer, I read that fabulous novel The Help by Kathryn Stockett, and I’m fearful of unwittingly developing a sense of superiority like the racist bitches of Jackson, Mississippi back in the early 60s. To assuage this guilt, we’ve decided to pay for our housekeeper to take classes one day or so a week to further develop employable skills: cooking, sewing, computer operations. Plus that will give me the chance to dance around the house naked and unshowered once in awhile…

Unexpected development: withdrawl from work

So, we are approximately 5.5wks into the great African adventure, make that exactly 5wks and 3days. I am also exactly 2mo and 1wk into being jobless.

Looking back, the first 1.5mo were absolutely fabulous. I was (and occasionally we were together) traveling all over the states visiting friends and family (Boston, Vegas, Montana, Oklahoma, Wash DC…), then we treated ourselves to a lovely European roadtrip vacation when en route to South Africa, then of course we were pampered in a  B&B for several weeks when we first arrived in country before our house was prepared. It was a fantasticly varied vacation during which I saw most of my closest friends and loved ones and kept super busy with tourism. Plus I compiled a huge collection of books and developed the habit of reading for 2-3hrs per day. Then the monotony set in…

Take note that even now as I type this I am being put up at a fancy-schmancy hotel. We are in Cape Town for a 3wk biz trip of Mr. Kudu’s, staying on the gorgeous Waterfront. Life should be glorious as the kept woman of a diplomat, as the pampering is top-notch.

I expected to really enjoy the free life; I expected to spend a lot of time reading, writing, exercising, picking up an old instrument, developing new friendships, exploring my new country, hiking, biking, museum touring, etc, all sorts of character-developing activities. I also expected to really appreciate the free time and having all day to do whatever I pleased. 

I have recently begun feeling sharp pains from missing my own work. I think it has arisen primarily from jealousy of my fiancee’s work. We are here for an industry convention, so there is a large exhibition, many meetings popping up at the last second here there and everywhere, and ushering of VIPs to hobnob. I used to do the conference gig 3-4 times per yr for the last 6yrs myself across 4 continents, starting as booth babe and ascending to session/meeting attendee.

Now I’m on the sidelines. I have been the tag-along to a few meetings over drinks and last night I crashed the opening cocktail party. I have sat through a few hushed discussions attempting to peg the VIPs’ agendas or speculate on subdued professional tensions between absent colleagues, most of whom I’ve met politely as the arm candy, but whom I don’t  work with myself. I am literally the fly on the wall, but I’d prefer to be somehow involved instead of just observing. And once or twice I’ve turned into a pouty, too drunk, spacey, bitter fly, which sucks for everyone else.

Why don’t I just ditch and go tour a museum? I have and I will. But there are also the small chances that the convo activities suspend for an hour or two, the “wait for me to get home before you go to lunch, I’d love to join you” calls. The “I might be done by 3pm, then we could tour (blank)” plan. It’s not Mr. Kudu’s fault, it is the very nature of industry conventions, I know this just as well as the next international biz traveler. One always begins the day hoping to have a moment or two of free time, and in pretty much every case a half dozen meetings are squeezed in at the last second, the day is shot, and your significant other has been “on-call” with no activity.

Did I mention my imprisoned status at home in Pretoria? The situation is this: we moved into our giant, completely furnished diplomatic mansion for 1wk before this biz trip. We do not yet have either a car or internet service, which are my responsibilities to arrange since due to my unemployed status I am the default “house/domestic manager”. Turns out we need the South African government to issue our residency visas before we can purchase the car at the diplomat’s discount, and that may take anywhere from 1 day to 2mo longer, with no way of predicting. We live in a spralling city that’s hazardous for pedestrians (due to lack of side walks, long distances, and high crime) so walking around is not a viable option. Therefore, I wile away my days inside the house. The internet service setup is stuck in a downward spiral of paperwork applications between the internet company, phone company, and embassy, none of whom will return my calls. Yes I did say “paperwork”; strangely, digital service still depends on paper here. So when I’m stuck at home all day, I don’t have internet. I’m completely disconnected from our modern standard communication of email.  I imagine this to be very similar to a Victorian Era kept wife’s existence. So I read more… which gets to be pretty boring after 3hrs, and before you know it, it’s midafternoon and you still haven’t showered.

Anyway, I realize this probably sounds like the whining of a spoiled child… that I should enjoy being lazy or be excited to start projects for my own enjoyment rather than be forced to work for the man. I’m currenty in limbo between potential opportunities lurking on the horizon, so there is a plan in place and I will do something at some point. In the meantime I have been jerked abruptly from the life of a modern, independent, career-driven, globe-trotting woman, to a childless, disconnected housewife. This is a new situation for me: for the first time imaginable I don’t NEED to work but I really, really, really desperately WANT to work.

First post ever: 2wks into Pretoria life

So here is my first attempt at blogging… hello world! (or more likely friends and family who got the announcement email and have a bit of spare time).

Brief catch-up: 2 years ago, I met Mr. Kudu in the middle of a Vegas nightclub dance floor; 10 months later, and in the midst of a 6 month separation due to his deployment, I was making plans to move with him to Africa. Crazy, huh? Especially when you consider that prior to that point I was a fiercely independent, single, self-centered, career-driven only child. Why was I suddenly about to scrap my entire existence as I knew it, for a man I had known a relatively short time, to move to a foreign land where life is probably unstable? The simple, selfish answer is adventure. I’ve always been a bit of a wanderer/seeker/adrenaline junkie myself,  I just entertained those urges stateside, and generally when responsibly supported or employed (big shout out to Montana, So Cal, Boston, and a little shout to DC too). Africa seemed like a good idea at the time. Plus I was, and thankfully still am, in love with him, so he was worth following.

BTW, for anonymity’s sake, Mr. Kudu will serve as his code name. It is in honor of a great African plains grazing beast. Since we saw a few last week at a game park, I’ve been teasingly calling him Kudu, which he’s definitely not embraced, but clearly he needs a badass internet code name, so Mr. Kudu it shall be.

Kudu from front

Kudu buck from the side; stripes on butt are the noteworthy trait.

So now I find myself here, in South Africa, where the great experiment has begun. Was it a good idea? Only time will tell, but I’ve been fairly content thus far. Granted, South Africa is about as stable as one can get on this continent, and we have been well provided-for by Mr. Kudu’s posh position at the US Embassy. We’ve actually been close to bombarded by well-wishers and invitations from other Americans in the tiny Embassy circle. During the time it takes to arrange for housing, we’re put up at a top-notch B&B that includes free multiple-course meals, local wine, internet, and a view of the city, so I’m LIVIN LARGE here. I don’t actually have either a car or a cell phone yet, so I’m essentially in solitary confinement in my room, but I have the web, several meaty and long books, a TV with movie channels, fresh air and sunshine; being an only child, I can entertain myself for hours on end with these things, so life is pretty great thus far! Will I find work? Will I find friends? Will I further my own journey or just melt into a worthless couch potato blob hermit? We shall see. At this point it kinda seems like I’m leaning towards the blob end of the spectrum, but I can currently blame that on the lack of a vehicle in a supposedly dangerous city.

I don’t know exactly where I’m going to go with the little blog project yet, but for the time being I figured I’d just try to offer some insight into South African life, culture, triumphs, failures, struggles, jokes, etc… each day, a few random things jump up and bite me in the face as bizarre or genius or terrible or whatever. No doubt these things are considered completely normal by South African standards.

For instance, slang. Here are just a few snippets I’ve collected after a mere 2 weeks here.

“BABBELAS” means hungover, as in you describe yourself as “babbelas,” like “I am babbelas.” I was babbelas on Saturday morning after a fabulous wine and cheese event that lasted from 6:30 to midnight.

If you’re so hungover that you’re both spacey and jumpy, alternating between zoning out and then paranoid, then you’re “BUNG BABBELAS”!!! In my case, bung babbelas is usually accompanied by a failure to speak in whole sentences, and a lot of thoughts come out as nonsense, an effect which Mr. Kudu just relishes.

As mentioned earlier, we’re currently shopping for a car. Here is a South African review of the little SUV we’re considering: “It’s a cheeky little devil… the hooter is a bit twee and sounds like a miniature dachshund barking in a shopping bag.” HAHAHA! I interpret that to mean that the vehicle’s horn is weak and sounds like a muffled yippy dog’s bark.

There are many differences when it come to driving between the US and South Africa: most notably driving on the left side (or “wrong side” as many polite Americans like to call it) of the street. They also regulate small intersections via tiny rotaries, and regulate speed in residential neighborhoods via speed bumps, many many frequent speed bumps.  I’ve already heard several horror stories of causing significant damage to cars when a driver fails to notice a speed bump and then flies/bounces their way over it. This is a Brit term instead of a South African one so I’m kinda cheating, but here goes: I’ve recently heard speed bumps called “SLEEPING POLICE”. And the street lights are called “ROBOTS”; what exactly is robotic about a street light? Don’t you have to be mobile to be a robot?

Time to be “productive” and set up internet service, until next time…