First week on the job

This week at the Employement Help Desk I’ve met all kinds of professionals - electricians, teachers, counselors, nurses - all ready to settle for work as housekeepers, janitors, babysitters. Most clients are coming from Zimbabwe, or “Zim.” Unlike refugees from Congo or Sudan, most Zimbabweans are “economic migrants” coming to South Africa hoping to find good work. The economic situation in Zimbabwe is dire. As of January 2009, inflation was at 231 million percent. It is safe to say that, excluding those working for foreign companies and government officials, all Zimbabweans are struggling.

My role at the help desk is to help people create CV’s, make phone calls and faxes to potential employers, make copies of identity documents, and create email accounts.

This morning the rain is coming down louder than drums. I recognize a woman named Isabel and her mother. They are in a hurry because they’ve left two kids at home and are eager to get back to them. I try to help Isabel get through her business quickly. She is tailoring her CV for a job as a waitress.

“Do you have any experience as a waitress?” I ask.

“Yes.” I think she is surprised that anyone would not have waitress experience.

“I put it on my sheet. Theo’s Café and Raalose” she says, pointing at her sheet.

“Oh cool.” I hurriedly enter all the information. I notice that she is trained as a teacher. I don’t let anything show on my face. I bet she is a good teacher.

As I shuffle to and from the printer, I notice a woman who has been waiting here all morning. She is holding a baby, nursing him whenever he starts fussing. Twenty minutes later on another mission, I meet her talking with Brian (another help desk worker) next to the printer. They are talking quietly and earnestly, but I can’t hear what about. Her blouse is open, completely exposing her breasts, but she is so focused on the conversation and bouncing the baby that she doesn’t seem to notice. Brian is unfazed by the woman’s open shirt, but when he realizes that I can see what’s going on, he looks down in embarrassment. I keep my face neutral as I slowly walk back to my desk.

Anita is my last client of the morning. She needs to change the format of her CV, a request of a potential employer. Antonia overhears this and marches over to my desk, clearly on a mission. Antonia is my boss. I don’t love her. She often goes on unnecessary rants in her peppy Austrian accent, which I find quite irritating. I am fighting an urge to roll my eyes at this ridiculous speech about the proper format for a CV, but Anita is smiling and nodding patiently. She has been waiting here since 9 am and it is nearly 2. We make the new CV and I help her start a gmail account. We chat while we wait for pages to load.

I escape for my lunch break and I catch up with Anita on the wet sidewalk outside the centre.

“Hi again!” I chirp.

“Hello!” Anita looks like she is about the burst out laughing. I’m pretty sure that’s just her style. I hope. We laugh for unclear reasons.

“Where do you stay?” she asks.

“In Observatory.” I’ve learned to say this word with an accent so it is more quickly understood. Ohb-sare-vah-to-ry, roll the r.

“Oh yes, close to town, nice. I stay in Khayelitsha. Too far. One hour to one-and-a-half, depending on the driver. I am wishing I just had my own car.”

Khayelitsha is the big township near the airport. I learned today that the Zimbabwean section of Khayelitsha is called Harare, after Zim’s capital. Anita stays there.

“Wouldn’t it be great if a car just fell out of the sky?” I gesture towards the patch of blue above us. She laughs. We walk past the security guard who I see every day. I usually barrel past him without saying hello, either late for work or anxious to get out of the dark. I hope now he can see that I’m not mean.

“Which kind of car would you have if you could?” Oh man, such a camp counselor question. Eish.

“Oh, I would have a Benz.” Pause. “Or a BMW.” She laughs as she shakes her head.

“Yeah, why not go all the way!” I’m relieved she didn’t think it was a baby question.

Anita asks me how old I am. I say 22 and she says something about so young. She asks if I am still single and I say yes, and she says good, take your time. No hurry. I ask if she is married. Anita’s face dims and I’m sorry I brought it up even before she answers.

“I have been married, yes, but we parted ways.” Anita sweeps one hand toward the sky.

She would like to have a husband again, though. I say me too, and we laugh and her face lights again. See you on Monday, we say, and we part ways as well.