Confessions of a Hostie 3

by Danielle Hugh

  During my breaks, I'll often type away if it is practical to do so. I love writing on the plane. It is ironic being on a plane and writing about about incidences which have only just occurred.

  I am not a note-taker. These days I can type quicker than I can write, so writing about incidences when they have only just happened is the best way for me. I am fortunate to have a pretty good memory, so it is not always imperative to write immediately. I once joked that when I was a little girl I had a fairy godmother. She granted me one wish: Later in life I could either be extremely wealthy OR I could have a good memory. Sadly I can remember which one I chose.

  Not only do I write at work, I am regularly traveling around in my own time - and I always have my computer handy. It has been so long since I watched a movie or read a book while traveling. I find it the perfect time to unwind and type. For me, writing is not a choir.

  At work we are often affected by flight delays. It goes hand-in-hand with airline travel. There are so many variables: weather, mechanical hiccups, crewing issues, airport and security matters, computer and airline glitches, air traffic congestion, and the list goes on. Anyone who thinks every airline and flight will achieve 100% on-time departures and arrivals is dreaming.

  In my years of flying I've spent countless hours hanging about airport lounges. When a flight is delayed and the rest of the crew are grumbling; I grab a latte, turn on my computer, and type frantically. I love it. There is no such thing as a wasted moment when you are passionate about something.

  We travel by bus to and from the crew hotels we stay. Airports are never in the city center. We don't always stay in the prime locations, yet most of the destinations involve sizable travel time, by bus, to and from the airports, often between 30 minutes and an hour - sometimes longer. Most of the cities are large, with traffic congestion and delays. On a recent trip, I was away for a week, worked to three destinations, and I spent eight hours on buses. International airline crew spend more time in buses, yearly, than most would spend in their car.

  What did I do in those eight hours?

  I typed.

  After a long day's work, most of the crew nod off or listen to music on each bus journey to our hotel. I type, finding it the perfect time to reflect on the day's events - or to forget about them (depending on what sort of day it was).

  When away on trips, for me, the best time to write is at 2.15 in the morning. I often wonder what other crew do in the early hours of the morning when there is little else to do. I know some go to the gym, some watch TV, and some must stare at the walls. It pays to have a hobby in this job. I have a few, but tapping away at the computer keys is one of my favorites.

  Most crew have some sort of hobby or activity they are able to do while away. Some are into photography, some read, others study, and some run businesses. Thomas mentioned he has an investment company, coming from a business background before he joined the airline 16 years ago. He has continued to do both. Many do.

  Thomas said something very funny onboard. I told him I do my best thinking in the early hours of the morning. He said he does most of his thinking while waiting at traffic lights.

  He said with a smile 'Mostly I think that I really should buy a car.'

  I laughed. I love a great sense of humor. I am not the best joke teller, but am not bad at remembering jokes - the good ones.

  I keep typing away: 2.17 quickly becomes 6.17.

  The breakfast buffet is open. Almost every hotel I've stayed has a buffet breakfast of some description. Most are exceptional. This one in Joburg certainly is. With that said, I try to avoid buffets. I, like most, tend to eat way too much when it is all laid out in front of me. Showing restraint is often difficult.

  'I'll go to the gym after breakfast' I justify to myself as I enter the buffet area.

  When I see all the lovely food, I mutter 'I'll definitely go to the gym - maybe for an hour.'

  Not surprisingly, some of my crew are already seated - and indulging. Franco and Thomas are at a table with one of the pilots, Ian. They wave me over to join them.

  I delay the impending food-fest by having a latte. I have the chance to peruse some of the buffet choices by looking at the plates of the three boys. Meat is piled high. From my experience African buffets are a vegetarian's worst nightmare. I must say that the sausages look delicious.

  After this impending feasting indulgence, I'll go to the gym for an hour and a half.

  Thomas and Ian are playing golf straight after breakfast. I listen as they talk excitedly about how good the golf courses are in South Africa. By the sounds of it, they have played plenty. Mrs. Bacher becomes part of the breakfast conversation. Thomas admits he has a fiery temper on the golf course. Swear words accompany every poor shot - and he confesses there are many.

  'Swear words or bad shots?' I ask.

  'Both' he reveals. 'But do you know what Danielle, today I won't swear, not once. Instead of the customary profanities, I will replace my favorite swear word with: Bacher.'

  He repeats Bacher repeatedly, remembering it is pronounced Bucker in South African. Thomas's accent is perfect. He says it with such anger. Jerry Seinfeld's nemesis was Newman. Every time Jerry saw him, he would grit his teeth to say 'Newman'. Thomas's rendition of 'Bacher' is similar - and the more he says it, the more he likes it.

  'Bacher is such a great swear word' he reveals cheekily, 'it is like a cross between bugger and f...'

  'Yes, I know what you mean' I interrupt as another latte is delivered.

  I have no doubt the word Bacher will become ingrained in his vocabulary.

  Franco eats his third sausage; these are not petite hotdogs, each should come with their own postcode. Franco also declares he will be going to the gym. I also grab a sausage - I'll be at the gym for two hours.

  We are not leaving for Soweto until almost lunchtime, so we have time to enjoy breakfast, as well as the gym. Franco no longer refers to it as breakfast; he now calls it grazing.

  When Thomas and Ian leave to hit golf balls, I chat one-on-one with Franco. He really is an interesting fellow. He and his partner travel extensively in their own time, visiting out-of-the-way destinations like Greenland, the Himalayas, and parts of Africa not on most tourist maps. He shares photos on his computer tablet. I am spellbound by his stories as well as the spectacular photos. Several lattes later - and a whole lot of grazing - I hear all about his last adventure - to Greenland. I am certain Franco has enjoyed reliving his trip as much as I've enjoyed listening.

  I thought I was well-travelled, yet my exploits can't compare to Franco's. I listen with fascination, encouraging him to tell more.

  You would think most flight attendants would be passionate about travel. It is not necessarily so. The last thing many crew want to do in their spare time is jump on another aircraft. Some, however, love to travel. Franco enjoys going to less populated areas. I am a bit like Franco, with a preference for staying away from big commercial cities. We fly to many anyway. Some have magnificent natural beauty. I love water, so cities like San Francisco, Hong Kong, Vancouver, Venice, Rio, Cape Town, Sydney, and a number of European cities set on iconic rivers are my favorites for landscapes. In my own time I prefer to go to smaller out-of-the-way places. Some are near big cities, so I am often able to visit those while on a layover, but most of my adventures are on holidays or on days off work. Even so, I am envious of Franco's exploits.

  It takes a lot of planning, time, and money to travel, particularly getting to hard-to-reach destinations. Franco and his partner are fortunate to have the job they have, with access to cheap travel, as well as no real financial or family burdens. It still takes effort and courage.

  Greenland sounds and looks amazing. I encourage Franco to show me more photos.

  I expected Greenland, not to be green, like the name suggests, but to be all white. Most of it is in the Arctic Circle. I thought snow would be everywhere, all year round. Franco was there in the summer; from the photos I see he is dressed in standard hiking gear.
It doesn't appear to be that cold. Some of the mountain ranges are spectacular - and I even see green (in the photo that is, but I am also green with envy). One photo takes my breath away. Franco and his partner are sitting in a natural pool of water. He tells me it is a natural hot spring, one of many in Greenland.

  'It was the perfect bath temperature' Franco relays with a smile.

  In the photo, behind the hot spring, is a blue water bay with magnificent mountains in the background. I could not see any snow in the shot, only flowers, green grass, and rocky outcrops; yet in the bay's water are dozens of icebergs. It just goes to show how cold the ocean water must be.

  'Did you dip your toes in there?' I ask pointing toward the water near one of the icebergs.

  'Not on your life' he replies.

  Franco is the sort of guy who is able to talk with most people. He is interesting as well as interested. He is definitely a people-person. His sexual preference is men, yet he likes everyone. Most would not immediately pick him for being gay. I did, but I couldn't care less about his, or anyone else's sexuality for that matter. Franco is a really good guy. He cares about people; that's what our expedition into Soweto is all about. I am looking forward to spending the day with him.

  Just as I am finishing my second sausage - while contemplating that two hours in the gym might not be enough - in walks a well-dressed, handsome young black man.

  'Patrick' yells Franco beckoning the young man to come over.

  Franco knows Patrick well; their familiarity evident. Franco is genuinely excited to introduce Patrick to me, with Franco glowing in his descriptions of me. Although flattered, I am focused on meeting Patrick. What an impressive young man he is; beautifully spoken and attentive. He speaks only when spoken to, with a maturity belying his years. He stays only a short while as he has work to do. We shall see him in a few hours anyhow. I'm looking forward to it.

  After Patrick leaves, Franco tells of Patrick's desire to learn - to give back to his community. Patrick is well-educated, yet aware of those less-fortunate than himself. He and Franco have been to Soweto many times. The color of Patrick's skin does not necessarily mean he is accustomed to life in a shanty town. In reality, Franco has spent more time in slums than Patrick. Until recent times Patrick had not been inside a shanty town. He'd heard stories, but was sheltered. Both men do this charity work for the right reasons. I am impressed and humbled.

  children's rights

  I meet Franco and Patrick in the hotel's foyer at 11:30. Franco and I had a great workout in the gym. I was a little askew with my two hour workout promise. I often am; even so, the one hour spent in the gym was intense. The big breakfast was the ying and the workout the yang. Balance is important in this lifestyle.

  We jump in Patrick's modest little car. In the spirit of sharing, Patrick is giving a lift to another coworker, a cleaner, who lives in or near Soweto. She is from a family of eight. I ask questions about her family and home life. She is a lovely young lady, quite shy, yet friendly. She explains that she doesn't actually live in Soweto, referring to her home as 'just outside Soweto.' After we drop her off I note the location. It was a shanty town, not overly far from where we end up driving to. There appears to be no distinct boundaries. I am sure it is part of Soweto. I have the feeling she is embarrassed to acknowledge she actually lived there.

  Being self-conscious of the location you live is a common trait. I hear so many people, when asked where they live, mention a nearby, more well-known locality. It is always a better suburb cited, never an inferior one. I guess some traits are consistent around the world, even here in South Africa.

  It must be surreal for this young lady to live in such simple accommodation, yet go to work at a five star hotel. She should not be ashamed, yet obviously is. By the way, our hotel is listed as five star - and I know I am going to sound like a snob - but, compared to many other hotels we stay, it is not that luxurious. This is based on my perspective as a global traveler, comparing apples with apples. Running down a five-star hotel when we are about to drive into one of the poorest communities on the planet is probably not wise. The car is getting closer to the heart of Soweto.

  We drive into where the kindergarten is. When I say 'drive in', it is more like a cross-country adventure. There are no sealed roads with pristine curbing and channeling, it is a pot-holed dirt laneway only a few paces wide which takes us close to the kindergarten.

  There is only one other vehicle in the lane - and I use the word vehicle loosely. It is a van of sorts, held together by rust. Patrick explains the van is like a local taxi, where a dozen or more people pile in and pay a small fee to be dropped off somewhere. The vehicle is not roadworthy and unregistered. My slippers have more tread than the tires; all tires being different, not just brands, but sizes. I am guessing the driver would be unlicensed also. It does not seem to matter here.

  Trying to describe a shanty town to someone who hasn't been is not easy. It is a collection of residences made out of whatever they could get their hands on at the time: tin, timber, mud bricks, old tires, chicken wire - anything. They say one man's rubbish is another man's treasure - or in this case: one man's rubbish is another man's home.

  There is no power, no running water, and no sewerage. There are communal toilets shared by a group of homes. How do they get rid of the waste, I wonder? I don't ask; it is probably best not to know.

  The kindergarten is constructed similarly to the surrounding shanties, featuring several small buildings around a central playground. Again, the word playground might be misleading. The playground area is tiny, each building is tiny - everything is tiny. Around 30 children cram into an area equivalent in size to my apartment's bathroom. The walls are not lined. The building looks ready to fall down. The materials thrown together to make the building are now covered in paint, making the building look better than it actually is. No amount of paint can hide the fact that everything is crooked, uneven, and seemingly just thrown together. The walls lean and the pieces of tin which form the roof are held down by old tires and rubbish. Even so, it appears to be waterproof.

  The floors are compacted dirt, but kept clean. The playground is also dirt.

  Before I talk about the kids, being the most important thing, I want to share a list displayed prominently on the wall in the main 'classroom'. It is entitled: CHILDREN'S RIGHTS.

  I took a photo of the list, having tears in my eyes when I read it. I will repeat that list, although it was handwritten (poorly), inclusive of many spelling and grammatical errors. I've interpreted it as best I could (and spellcheck has fixed many of the errors).

  This is what it said:

  CHILDREN'S RIGHTS AND RESPONSIBILITIES

  1. I have the right to be taken seriously and the responsibility to listen to others.

  2. I have the right to privacy and the responsibility to respect others privacy.

  3. I have the right to quality medical care and the responsibility to take care of myself.

  4. I have the right to a good education and the responsibility to study and respect the teachers

  5. I have the right to be loved and protected from harm

  6. I have the right to own my own belongings and the responsibility to respect the belongings of others.

  7. I have the right to special care for special needs and the responsibility to be the best person I can be.

  8. I have the right to have a say in my own care and any changes to my care and must take responsibility for my own actions.

  9. I have the right to make mistakes and the responsibility to learn from those mistakes.

  10. I have the right to be well fed and the responsibility not to waste food.

  11. I have the right to a comfortable home and the responsibility to keep it neat and clean.

  12. I have the right to be proud of my heritage and beliefs and the responsibility to respect others.

  13. I have the right to be told house rules and the responsibility to keep truthful.

  14. I have a right
to a lawyer in a courtroom and the responsibility to be truthful.

  15. I am a real person and have the right to be treated with respect and dignity and a responsibility to treat others with respect and dignity.

  It is my observation that many of the basic human rights these kids have been asked to stand up and demand are taken for granted in most parts of the world.

  As for the kids - wow - they are so beautiful. They are happy, outgoing, and respectful. Many have not seen someone like myself. I am a novelty. The children have a sense that their kindergarten is run with funds and assistance from people like myself, yet they are just kids. We may look and dress differently, but they know Franco and I are not threatening. They know we are there to help. The kids are overwhelmingly friendly, wanting to hold my hand, and to be my pal. I am in awe.

  Franco is absolutely fantastic with the kids. There is a special warmth he exudes; genuine and enthusiastic. He dances, sings, and interacts with every child. His smile is as infectious as the kids'.

  Patrick has stayed outside the kindergarten room. I don't think it because he is shy or doesn't want to interact with children; I think it is because he doesn't want to interfere with Franco and my time with the kids. I see Patrick watching and smiling. I invite him in. He respectfully declines.

  The woman who runs the program has a son, around 20 or 21, who has come to meet Franco and myself. Patrick talks with the young man before he enters the crowded kindergarten room. I find the son a little brazen; untrustworthy. He appears more interested in the goods we bought than our intentions of spending time with the children. The young man claims he has met Franco once before, but Franco fails to recall the specifics of the meeting; a fact which concerns Franco.