It was with some trepidation that we got on a British Airways flight to Zimbabwe. Arrangements were made and money traded hands, or at least went from one electronic tally collection to another. All was in readiness, we were assured. But in this strange new cyber world, we realized we had not spoken to a soul. Could the Cape town travel agency website with a nice picture of agent “Robyn” really be Cape a front for a clever scam artist name Bruto?
The other concern was Zimbabwe itself. There had been problems there for some time; circumstances were increasing dreadful for the poor Zimbabweans. The economy was suffered inflation of 1000’s percent – some said millions. It was not our intent to travel in a politically unstable country. We just wanted to get the best view of Victoria Falls which, we were told, was on the Zimbabwe side. Our arrangements were made in March; by the time we arrived in May, there had been an election gone bad and tension was palpable. As it turned out, the hostilities did not interfere with our trip. We were quite safe. At the same time, we found ourselves witness to personal tragedy in the making, and no longer have the luxury of classifying Zimbabwean people as anonymous “others”.
We traveled with a lot of American dollars, about $1000 dollars between us, in small bills. As a practical matter, the Zimbabwe currency was next to useless. Our son, a frequent traveler in Zim assured us that US dollars would work everywhere. He encouraged us to have enough on us uncase of unforeseen circumstances which I assumed included a bribe if necessary. Use of credit cards was not recommended since you had no idea what exchange rate you would be getting. Just to get in the spirit of things, I put two hundred dollars in my shoes. James Bond has nothing on me. OK. Maybe a little silly but it was reassuring to me.
The flight from Jo Berg to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe was pretty much like any other. We could see the falls in the distance as we approached the airport. They looked a little like a small cloud sitting on the African plain. It was the mist from the power of huge amounts of water falling long distances.
Our customs declaration had asked us, among other things, how much cash we were carrying. Conspiracy theorist that I am, I wanted to lie. Our travel agent informed us that entrance to the country would probably cost 30 USD per person, but that this could change. We of little faith were concerned that that amount might “change” to just what we were carrying. Burt, the ever-wise legal mind, pointed to the word “perjury” on the form and we decided that the truth would set us free. Maybe broke, but free.
The airport was small and, perhaps more to the point, quiet. A single airstrip and a single building that had seen better days. We were rounded up and led into a large room with two desks up in front. Then things got confusing. It was necessary to go to the first desk and present your passport and pay your “Visa Fee” which did indeed turn out to be USD 30. There a man wrote out a receipt, by hand, stamped a bunch of things and referred you to the second person. Again a form was laboriously filled out, a rather fancy looking visa was issued and attached to the passport and some more stamping took place. Finally, you could go to the back part of the room to sort through piles of luggage, hopefully finding your own.
To say this process was slow would not do justice to the experience. We were about 6th in line; there were perhaps 80 people behind us. It was almost half an hour by the time we obtained our visas and “entered” the country. I have no idea how long it took the people and the end of the line.
After retrieving our bags, and seeing nowhere else to go, we passed through a door into another equally dismal room – but this opened to the outside where various forms of transport waited. Now was the moment of truth. Were we to be met, or were we abandoned? Glancing to our right we saw a tall, dark, smiling man, wearing the khaki uniform of a tour service holding up a white board with our name on it. His greeting was pleasant and enthusiastic – so was ours as we tried to hide our relief.
It turns out we had nothing to worry about. Our experiences with all the lodges we stayed at, all the game drives, boat trips and transport among lodges were flawless, in both Zimbabwe and Botswana. We met nothing but delightful people anxious (too anxious?) to serve and see that we were comfortable.
We were loaded onto a van with, as our driver cheerfully pointed out “African air conditioning”. The windows were open. Our trip took about an hour on a tree lined two-lane road, which we shared with a few other cars, a lot of pedestrians, and donkey carts. We drove through the town of Victoria Falls and to a transfer point.
There we were met by a Toyota 4 wheel drive truck and transported by a man who introduced himself as “Clever, but I’m not clever”. The last several miles to the lodge were on a bumpy, dusty dirt road through the trees and underbrush. Other than birds, we didn’t see animals on this short trip, but we knew for sure we were no longer in Sacramento. We were in the bush of Africa, or, as Burt put it, a million miles from nowhere
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Domestic Help
We all think what we are used to is "normal". In South Africa domestic help is “normal” and, indeed, expected. To those of us suddenly dropped into this culture it requires an adjustment and not just a little soul searching.
My son and daughter-in-law have a full time (5 days a week, 8 hours a day) housekeeper, Penelope, as well as a one day a week gardener/handyman, Body. They pay the housekeeper 140 R or about $20 dollars a day. This is more than the going rate. The gardener earns 100 R a day in addition to housing in the small separate room in their back yard. As a trusted individual, his duties also include simply being available for my daughter-in-law and her children as extra security when my son is traveling on business.
Everyone is pleased with this arrangement. Penelope and Body have fair and reasonable employment at easily afforded rate. If, however, they required the kind of wages paid in the U.S. there would be no employment. As a The ambivalence of this situation is bewildering to a diehard liberal in favor of “living wages” such as myself. Penelope is supporting an ailing husband and living in a tiny hut in a township some distance away. She spends 25 Rand (and 2 to 4 hours) a day on taxi transportation. By U.S. standards, this is dreadful. She is pleased.
The upside of this for my son’s family is that the house is never dirty. Really. I don’t remember seeing any dust, anywhere. Cobwebs, truly you are joking. The white marble floors would not be my first choice with two very small children but not to worry, they are mopped practically every day. Rugs are vacuumed daily – not that once around the center of the room I tend to do, but the move the furniture kind. Bathrooms glisten and windows shine. Dirty clothes unfailingly find themselves washed, sun dried, ironed, and replaced in drawers and closets. Beds look lovely with ironed sheets and my grandson goes to school with pleats in his jeans.
The relatively small garden and floral areas around the patio are weeded and constantly cared for; cars are washed regularly and if the latch on the patio door is stuck, or switch needs to be replaced Body is there with his screw driver.
The other side, of course, is that there are often people in the house when you would like to be alone. Want to pick up an afternoon T.V. show? The living room is getting daily clean up. The kitchen is being polished when you’d like to make a snack. And, when you leave a pair of shoes at the base of the stairs, they won’t be there when you get back. I’ve have many a panicky moment searching for something that I need right now only to find it in the one place I know I would never put it – where it belongs.
It does bring people together. Sometimes this isn’t so good. I have seen domestic servants treated with remarkable condescension and callousness. On the other hand, it has helped us to see the magnitude of the problems of the poor more clearly. They had a wonderful live-in-maid last year. “Greta” was in her mid-forties but looked younger. She showed up on their doorstep fleeing very difficult situation and desperately in need of work. She was reliable, hard working, non-complaining and the only one who could coax my little granddaughter down for a much needed nap in the afternoon.
When my son returned from Christmas in the U.S. they were informed that Thembie had died – from Pneumonia. Just like that. She had not been feeling well when the left, but all assumed with a little rest she would be better. The magnitude of her illness, or the consequences of no affordable medical care hadn’t occurred to them. This kind, pleasant woman had taken a long taxi trip to Durban, where she had family, and simply died.
This year we have been concerned for Penelope and her family. Xenophobia took over the townships as poor unemployed people looked for a scapegoat and zeroed in on “foreigners” who they felt took their jobs and their homes. It isn’t true, but all of us when we are down and out have a tendency to go after the weakest among us.
It turns out Penelope and her family are Zimbabwean, and had good reason to fear for their lives. Despite the fact that Penelope has resided in South Africa for decades Jeff insisted that if she and her husband were identified as “foreign” and harassed, they were to claim sanctuary in Jeff’s home. Things have calmed down, but we all still worry. When you live with those whom poverty affects so dramatically, you are touched and frustrated and sometimes afraid. But you can’t pretend these things only happen to those ubiquitous anonymous beings – “Someone else.”
This is how it is here. A lot of cheap labor. In homes, malls, stores, wherever you go you always see people, invariably black, sweeping, mopping, polishing. The country is remarkably clean and tidy. If you raised wages, unemployment would be even more crushing than it is. But it still rankles to realize that grown adults are supporting themselves cleaning luxurious large homes while earning two to three dollars and hour. It is difficult to see so many people living their lives so close to the edge.
My son and daughter-in-law have a full time (5 days a week, 8 hours a day) housekeeper, Penelope, as well as a one day a week gardener/handyman, Body. They pay the housekeeper 140 R or about $20 dollars a day. This is more than the going rate. The gardener earns 100 R a day in addition to housing in the small separate room in their back yard. As a trusted individual, his duties also include simply being available for my daughter-in-law and her children as extra security when my son is traveling on business.
Everyone is pleased with this arrangement. Penelope and Body have fair and reasonable employment at easily afforded rate. If, however, they required the kind of wages paid in the U.S. there would be no employment. As a The ambivalence of this situation is bewildering to a diehard liberal in favor of “living wages” such as myself. Penelope is supporting an ailing husband and living in a tiny hut in a township some distance away. She spends 25 Rand (and 2 to 4 hours) a day on taxi transportation. By U.S. standards, this is dreadful. She is pleased.
The upside of this for my son’s family is that the house is never dirty. Really. I don’t remember seeing any dust, anywhere. Cobwebs, truly you are joking. The white marble floors would not be my first choice with two very small children but not to worry, they are mopped practically every day. Rugs are vacuumed daily – not that once around the center of the room I tend to do, but the move the furniture kind. Bathrooms glisten and windows shine. Dirty clothes unfailingly find themselves washed, sun dried, ironed, and replaced in drawers and closets. Beds look lovely with ironed sheets and my grandson goes to school with pleats in his jeans.
The relatively small garden and floral areas around the patio are weeded and constantly cared for; cars are washed regularly and if the latch on the patio door is stuck, or switch needs to be replaced Body is there with his screw driver.
The other side, of course, is that there are often people in the house when you would like to be alone. Want to pick up an afternoon T.V. show? The living room is getting daily clean up. The kitchen is being polished when you’d like to make a snack. And, when you leave a pair of shoes at the base of the stairs, they won’t be there when you get back. I’ve have many a panicky moment searching for something that I need right now only to find it in the one place I know I would never put it – where it belongs.
It does bring people together. Sometimes this isn’t so good. I have seen domestic servants treated with remarkable condescension and callousness. On the other hand, it has helped us to see the magnitude of the problems of the poor more clearly. They had a wonderful live-in-maid last year. “Greta” was in her mid-forties but looked younger. She showed up on their doorstep fleeing very difficult situation and desperately in need of work. She was reliable, hard working, non-complaining and the only one who could coax my little granddaughter down for a much needed nap in the afternoon.
When my son returned from Christmas in the U.S. they were informed that Thembie had died – from Pneumonia. Just like that. She had not been feeling well when the left, but all assumed with a little rest she would be better. The magnitude of her illness, or the consequences of no affordable medical care hadn’t occurred to them. This kind, pleasant woman had taken a long taxi trip to Durban, where she had family, and simply died.
This year we have been concerned for Penelope and her family. Xenophobia took over the townships as poor unemployed people looked for a scapegoat and zeroed in on “foreigners” who they felt took their jobs and their homes. It isn’t true, but all of us when we are down and out have a tendency to go after the weakest among us.
It turns out Penelope and her family are Zimbabwean, and had good reason to fear for their lives. Despite the fact that Penelope has resided in South Africa for decades Jeff insisted that if she and her husband were identified as “foreign” and harassed, they were to claim sanctuary in Jeff’s home. Things have calmed down, but we all still worry. When you live with those whom poverty affects so dramatically, you are touched and frustrated and sometimes afraid. But you can’t pretend these things only happen to those ubiquitous anonymous beings – “Someone else.”
This is how it is here. A lot of cheap labor. In homes, malls, stores, wherever you go you always see people, invariably black, sweeping, mopping, polishing. The country is remarkably clean and tidy. If you raised wages, unemployment would be even more crushing than it is. But it still rankles to realize that grown adults are supporting themselves cleaning luxurious large homes while earning two to three dollars and hour. It is difficult to see so many people living their lives so close to the edge.
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