The Help

Picture this: I'm sitting in my living room this morning at 7AM, sipping my morning coffee, wearing my bed-time staple of brightly-coloured underpants and too-tight tank top, trying to decide whether I should play a quick round of Mario Kart on the Wii or get started on my writing duties for the day. I hear a knock upon my door. Since I don't know anyone in the country, let alone my apartment complex, I immediately assume it is an axe murderer. So, I grab my trusty lead curtain rod (the temporary replacement for Blue Strike - my large London hammer - which is currently in a box somewhere between Europe and the sub-Saharan) and tip-toe over to the sink-top window, where I crane my head in an effort to spot the villain. A face pops into the window and I scream! And the face screams! And I drop the lead rod on my feet and scream again! After several seconds of feeling pain and then feeling foolish, I look back at the window and see that the face of my would-be killer is an attractive black woman, who is now laughing instead of screaming. I begin to wonder if maybe she's not a murderer - maybe she's - the cleaner?

As it turns out, her name is Catherine and she came with my apartment. Every Wednesday she comes to clean the apartment, do the ironing, and (probably) spy for the landlady. Which is fine with me - if I was renting an apartment to a twenty-something male who's only luggage at move-in was an Xbox carrying case, I'd have a spy as well. Catherine is also married to Simon the security guard from my apartment's front gate. They are both quite lovely and I'm lucky to have them around.

I quickly threw on a shirt and tie and high-tailed it out of there, but I couldn't help but feel a bit guilty in retrospect. Here I'd been feeling uncomfortable having this woman - a stranger - in my apartment a 7:00 in the morning. However, she was there to clean my house! Something I should be doing myself. The poor woman is probably going to pull my clothes off of the drying rack and iron them and she'll be subjected to my underwear collection, after which she'll likely label me a sexual deviant. She's going to make the bed, and wonder why a 25 year old man sleeps with a stuffed tiger (I plead the Fifth). And I can't even remember what state I left the shower in! I certainly hope I didn't snot-rocket or anything foul in the morning (we all do it sometimes - don't we?)

There is often this double standard when it comes to those who help us live our everyday lives. Cleaners and gardeners and security men - we love to complain about them, but what would we do without them? This is especially prevalent in South Africa. Not because South Africans are rude - in fact, they've been (as a collective) the friendliest people I've ever met in my entire life. However, the reality is that more people down here have this "help" than anywhere I've been before, and this is of course a product of this still-evolving nation's social/political history.

An outsider can imagine himself to be a sultan when visiting here. When I arrived at my hotel, I was the only guest and therefore had a staff of three employed just to wait on me. For the first two days, this was awesome. Mostly because the people themselves were awesome. But having someone to refill my cookie jar, to take my breakfast order, and to get me a towel at the pool was quite lovely. And then guilt set in. Here are people that work twice as hard and make half as much (if that). They walk to and from work everyday, probably have families to support, and often work more than the traditional 40-hour work week.

I obviously don't have an answer. But it does rub me the wrong way that even I, on an entry-level salary, can afford a weekly cleaner, an apartment with two-security guards, and to eat out every night was the majority of the people in the country are struggling to make it on a dollar or two a day.

There is apparently a fantastic book called The Help and I now intend to read it. It is about maids in the American South who were trusted to "raise their employers' children but not to polish the sliver." This sounds absurd in a sense, but when you think about it we've all witnessed similarly insane double standards when it comes to issues of race.

It would be easier to feel comfortable about the "help" if they weren't so damned helpful. Everyone I have met in a service/hospitality role down here has been obnoxiously efficient and friendly. The cook at my hotel practically forced delicious breakfasts of omelets, fresh fruit salad, filtered coffee (not the instant muck I make myself), and toast down my throat every morning and she seemed delighted by no more than a "thank you" and "how are you today?" as a reward. I felt like the exploding man from "The Meaning of Life" and all she wanted was common courtesy. The shocking thing was that some of the other guests didn't even go that far. I've never been the most mannerly of men (anyone who has seen my unique way of wielding a knife and fork can attest to that) but when someone makes me a three-course breakfast, I say "thank you thank you thank you!" I have visions of getting someone to serve me meals while singing "Be Our Guest" but I'd probably be so overwhelmed that I'd die on the spot.

All of this culture shock of course comes after a week spent in France for work. For some reason I felt less guilty accepting Foie Gras from gorgeous French wait-staff than I do taking things from all of the people here. I have no documentation over whether one group is paid better than the other, and no evidence that they are treated any better or worse. But it just feels wrong, after all the progress we have made in the world in terms of race, for there to be such a marked division between those who serve and those who are serviced.

I have no answers and I am making no accusations. Ninety-nine percent of the people I've met in South Africa, black or white, have been kind and have treated their fellow humans down here with respect (from what I've seen). I just wish it was a little more Last Holiday and a little less Gone with the Wind.

:) Mike