Confessions of a Hostie 3 (20 page)

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.

We spend several hours with the children -
singing songs, reading books, and interacting. I've been to
countries where the kids suffer malnutrition. That is
heartbreaking. These kids all appear healthy. That is
something.

The children are mesmerized by the toys we
bought. The toys will stay at the kindergarten, we hope. The
clothes, including sheets and adults clothing, are given to local
tailors. They will use the material to make an array of clothing
and bedding items. I am sure some will be sold, but at least the
money will come back to the community. When you donate things it is
difficult to control what happens with the items after they are
dropped off. In this instance we have the opportunity to hand the
toys directly to the children. The looks of appreciation on their
little faces are priceless.

Voltaire once wrote: Appreciation is a
wonderful thing. It makes what is excellent in others belong to us
as well.

We leave the kindergarten late in the
afternoon, after the last of the children have left. Some of the
kids are picked up by a parent or a relative, but most walk
unaccompanied back to their respective homes. Remember that some of
these kids are as young as five. Outside of kindergarten I would
imagine they would spend most of their lives unsupervised. I would
later see many of the kindergarten children, as well as even other
younger kids, playing in the laneway behind the kindergarten. I
never saw a toy or even a ball. The kids just played amongst
themselves.

Most of the kids I know, back home, can't
even keep entertained while their IPad or other electronic gadgets
are being recharged.

The son of the kindergarten coordinator tries
to convince us to have a beer with him. It is an odd request. We
are here to help the children, not to party. He is insistent.
Patrick is hesitant, being a non-drinker, but Franco and I finally
agree to have one drink with him. The young man's English is not
very good, so understanding him is difficult. When he insists on a
beer we thought it might be from an outside vendor or even in the
young man's home. He takes us to a bar - of sorts.

We are led through a series of internal
corridors lined with people drinking. The walls are unpainted tin,
timber, and iron - I think. It is so dark that I can barely
distinguish anything. I feel very uncomfortable, as too does
Patrick. We come to a dead-end. A barred gate is closed and locked.
I look through the bars; the lighting so dim it is difficult to
ascertain what and who are in the room or rooms behind the
bars.

A man comes to the gate, but does not open
it. He takes a drink order through the bars from our young man, who
turns to ask for money for the beers. I hand over enough Rand to
well and truly cover drinks for everyone: three beers and a
Coca-Cola for Patrick. The man behind the locked gate returns with
the three beers and the change. Although it is almost pitch black
dark, I watch the proceedings like a hawk. The young man hands a
beer to Franco and then me, before handing me the change. I saw him
slip some of the money into his pocket before giving the remainder
of the change to me. It is not a lot of money, but it makes me
nervous.

'Where's Patrick's Coca-Cola?' asks
Franco.

The young man forgot to order it, holding out
his hand for more money.

This time Franco hands over the money. When
the drink and the change is handed back I again see the young man
slip some notes into his pocket. He deliberately didn't order the
Coke so he could fleece more money from the change given.

I want to get out of there; so too Franco and
Patrick. With the young man stepping away from the barred gate, I
take a closer look behind the scenes as my eyes have adjusted
somewhat to the darkness. It looks as though people are gambling.
As we prepare to step away, a fight breaks out. A body is flung
against the bars. With drinks in hand, we run.

I saw no evidence of electricity anywhere in
'the bar' area, yet the drinks were icy cold. Whether they had a
generator to run a fridge or somehow bought in ice, I don't know. I
was just glad to get the hell out of there.

I did not draw attention to the young man
taking some of our change. I would be surprised if Franco or
Patrick did not notice what was going on. In the scheme of things
the money was barely enough, combined, to buy one cup of coffee. We
can only imagine the life this young man has. He sees us, being
outrageously wealthy through his eyes, come into the slum for a few
hours and think we are going to change the world.

I don't agree with what he did, but can
understand his motives.

As we prepare to leave Soweto I notice a man
selling carved rock sculptures, being small representations of
African animals. He has a tiny foldable card table with only six or
seven sculptures. I have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of these
type of souvenirs at markets throughout Africa. What makes this
different is the vendor tells that these sculptures were
hand-carved locally, right here in Soweto.

I ask who the sculpture is. I am told it is a
woman who lives only a short walk away. I buy the largest and most
intricate piece, a rhino, and insist we meet the sculpture of this
artwork. The directions to her home are simple. We can see it down
the laneway, almost opposite the kindergarten. Franco, Patrick, and
I go to the woman's home. She is very old, only having several
teeth, and she cannot speak any English. Patrick cannot understand
her either.

I show her the rhino statue I had just
bought. She smiles. I slip her some money. She invites us into her
home. I thought she might show me the machine or tools she used to
sculpt. I could not see anything.

Communication is an issue, but I smile to
politely follow her around her dilapidated tiny home. It is more
crooked than the kindergarten and much smaller. There is a little
paint on the walls, but not much. It is as if whoever started
painting it ran out of paint. I cannot see how this shanty is
waterproof as I can see daylight through the cracks in the walls. I
have seen larger and more comfortable doghouses than this. Even so,
she is proud to show us her humble abode.

We thank the lady for showing us around her
home, slipping her some more money. I am confident she is not a
sculpture artist at all. I think the man who sold me the rhino
palmed me off to the first person he could think of. She was
probably a relative. Even so, she was generous to allow us into her
home and the money I gave her will certainly help her life. I also
have a beautiful souvenir - plus a story to tell.

We leave Soweto on sunset. The red hues of
the sun glisten off the assorted garbage and rubble holding down
many of the roofs. It should not be a pretty sight, yet it is.
African sunsets are spectacular no matter where.

Earlier I'd suggested to Franco if we could
take Patrick to dinner. Franco thought it a good idea. Patrick
devoted most of the day to us, getting nothing financially from the
day, although Franco had slipped him some money to pay for the
car's fuel. Patrick is not from Soweto, having no family there.
Like us, he considers himself fortunate. He is giving something
back. He is also a student of life. He knows Franco and I travel
the world, often seeing things he could not fathom. He is quiet and
respectful, yet asks questions from time to time. They are
fantastic questions. I love being asked smart questions. He is a
shrewd young man going places. He is happy to come to dinner with
us, suggesting going to downtown Joburg.

I have only been to downtown Johannesburg on
a tour bus. It has an unsavory reputation, but according to Patrick
it is improving. The government is making a concerted effort to
encourage businesses and locals back to the area. Patrick tells of
a very good steak restaurant. South Africa does brilliant steaks.
Franco and I instantly say 'yes'.

The restaurant is buzzing. Franco and I are
the only non-Africans. We attract a few glances, but not
unwelcoming stares. I feel quite safe and the atmosphere is
fantastic.

We are lucky to get seats. The restaurant is
similar to an American diner in its setup, with booths as well as
tables. We get the last available booth, ordering steaks all
round.

I've chatted with Patrick throughout the day,
finding him highly intelligent, thoughtful, and astute. I am as
keen to learn from him as he is to learn from me. Very few 22
year-olds have impressed me as much as he. Only a few weeks ago I
spent time with Helen's niece Holly. She is the same age as
Patrick, yet they are worlds apart - and not just geographically.
Holly has all the materialistic things the modern world can
provide, but lacks awareness of others. Her life stops and finishes
within her own little world. Patrick has little material luxuries,
yet has his eyes wide open. He searches, he learns, and he grabs
life with both hands.

Patrick is destined to be a great man.

I sit up with a jolt. The room is pitch-black
except for the glow from the bedside clock: 2.15 a.m. I chuckle out
loud - this time it is 2.15 exactly. I may have had only four or
five hours sleep, yet I feel refreshed, fulfilled. I have achieved
something. Yesterday was a huge day, but memorable. Franco and I
sat with Patrick for several hours at the restaurant. We were
exceptionally tired, yet sometimes exhaustion must take a backseat
to great conversation. Patrick talked of his goals, his dreams, his
vision was to help others. This was not rhetoric, he was totally
selfless in his motivation. I was so impressed. His words will stay
with me.

After Patrick dropped Franco and me back to
the hotel, I went straight to my room. I fell asleep within seconds
of my head hitting the pillow.

2.15 in the morning is a great time to
reflect on the day in Soweto. At times it is a surreal life I lead:
one day on a beach in Hawaii, a few days later knee deep in snow in
northern Europe, and days later waking up in a five star hotel in
Africa to travel to one of the poorest shanty towns on the planet.
It can be daunting.

I see the best and worst of humanity - and it
is not always about money or the lack of it. I've come to realize
that attitude is more important. I went into Soweto learning to
look beyond the dilapidated shanties - beyond the dirt floors,
beyond the poverty. The smiling faces of the children is the most
memorable imprint. These kids have next-to-nothing, yet they are
happy.
They expect little and appreciate
everything
. I can't help but look at someone like Mrs.
Bacher to realize she is the opposite.
She
expects everything and appreciates little
.

It angers me that the likes of Mrs. Bacher
would carry on about things so petty. It makes me want to be a
better person, to disregard the unimportant. Next time I get
agitated because the girl at the coffee shop gave me a cappuccino
instead of a latte I'll brush it off as an honest mistake, next
time a passenger touches me to get my attention I'll become less
distressed, next time I serve the likes of Mrs. Bacher or work with
a Wendy I'll stop to take a deep breath and then put things into
perspective.

I have a privileged life. Most I know do. I
am fortunate to travel extensively, having the opportunities to see
the many faces of humanity. The more I see, the more I
comprehend.

A day with learning is a day well spent.

Recently I read an article about a
supermodel. As I read I thought how lucky she was; perfect skin,
perfect body, a perfect smile on a perfect face, but was it a
perfect life? In her eyes she did not have a good life at all - and
most of her gripes were about her own appearance, lamenting about
how many physical faults she had. It came across just how unhappy
this girl was. I thought: if a supermodel is not happy with the way
she looks, then what hope is there for the rest of us?

There will always be aspects of life we are
not content with, yet all of us, even the supermodel, have facets
we enjoy and embrace. I, for one, am so happy with my lot in life.
Being a hostie doesn't define who I am or how I live my life, but
it is a lifestyle enabling opportunities I might never have had the
chance to explore. I've also met the most incredible people. That I
am grateful for.

Over the years I've had so many people ask
for advice on how to become a flight attendant. Rarely am I asked:
What is it really like to be a flight attendant? There is a
definitive difference. Most want to hear about the cafes in Paris,
the bars in New York, or the shopping in Hong Kong. Few wish to
hear about cleaning toilets, mopping up vomit, or waking up at 2.15
in the morning so jetlagged and disorientated you have no idea
where you are.