There’s much more to say about this nanny job! In fact, looking at the word doc it’s five times as much. Sorry!
This job was also advertised on Craigslist, but that’s where the similarities end! Actually, even there, family #2’s ad requested a German speaker who would ensure a mixed variety of developmental activities, music, art, movement and language. All good things of course, but the tone was very different!
I met family #2 on 6 May, after barely catching a bus to their gated community north of the city, known as ‘countries’. The bus was no ordinary bus, but a special, un-numbered one that leaves from designated street corners that are often confusingly close to an actual bus stop. The buses make just a few stops on their way to Nordelta (the North) and are expensive. As such, they’re only used by rich people when they venture into the city. Either them, or lucky nannies like me whom their bosses wish to save from travelling on public transport. I didn’t mind normal buses, but these were definitely nicer.
When I accepted the interview, I was told their house was 30 minutes from the city. It was actually closer to 1.5 hours. I either walked or took the subway; 30 minutes, and then took the bus for an hour. They paid for my transport and I was happy to read and look out the window. More importantly, the job paid an improved $8.70 an hour (once I got there) and promised five hours a day, Monday to Friday. I was finally going to make some (comparatively) decent money, woo hoo!
I got the job at the interview and started that very afternoon. First I had to email Tristan about it as we had no phones. I still got home to a worried Tristan, as I finished two hours later because the mum; Carolina, didn’t get back when she said she would. It wasn’t a great start but I was happy to have a steady job. The mother-in-law was there for the interview and luckily approved. Both her and Carolina were surprised that I wasn’t scared living in San Telmo. They thought it was very unsafe to live in the city. Based on the television news I can see why, but the media is hugely sensationalist.
The kids were Francisco (Fran); 8, Valentine; 6 and Kirramaria (Kirra); 18 months. Fran was a mature, kind-hearted kid, Valentine was full of beans and Kirra was cute as a button and but threw a tantrum most days. I worked from around 12.45 to 5.30, but my day was three hours longer with the commute. My hours often changed, as some days Carolina would text for me to start or finish earlier or later. After a confusing and unnecessarily heated argument in week two, she re-agreed on minimum three hour shifts; anything less wasn’t worth the travel.
Once at the community and through security, I had to ride a bike which, depending on the state of the tyres, took between 10-25 minutes. I only got paid from when I arrived at the house, so I didn’t dilly dally. The bike belonged to the family and was a fixed gear rust bucket with barely functioning brakes whose tyres went down overnight. I almost quit one evening when it was raining and Carolina wouldn’t drive me to the bus stop. My glasses fogged up so I couldn’t see, I fell off the bike when a car came along and the brakes wouldn’t work and then I missed my bus. After waiting in the cold and spending the ride home in wet clothes, I got a flu and missed a day of work. I was not happy! The kept saying they’d fix the bike, but they never did.
Their house was a double-block, two-storey, empty feeling monstrosity with a big lawn, pool, spa and private pier to the lake. They’d only moved in five months before, so there were lots of boxes and unfinished lighting et cetera. I thought it odd that such a wealthy family hadn’t gotten around to finishing the house and the little furniture they did have wasn’t great. It was a stark contrast to the fancy cars and high-end fashion they all wore. Even Kirra’s wardrobe was 100% Osh Kosh Bigosh, Guess, Gap, Polo, Ralph Lauren, blah blah blah. I have to confess though, it was nice to doll her up for an outing…
The day the kid’s friends (also German-speaking), visited & I got them all grubby drawing with side-walk chalk. Mwa ha haa.
The German Factor.
The dad’s father was German and the family preferred to identify with that rather than being Argentine (I wonder who they barracked for in the world cup final?). Carolina had learnt German and the boys went to a German speaking school. I was employed as I speak German, but it felt odd to be liked so much for my ancestry. There’s a big German community in Argentina, and while it was interesting and sometimes nice, the strength of the preference was a little disconcerting. Especially as a lot of families descend from Nazi war criminals escaping trial. Hardly something I want to be associated with. Argentina also accepted Jewish refugees, which is odd politically but also socially; imagine running into each other at the supermarket on the other side of the world?
Speaking to and even teaching Kirra in German was fine; it was helping Fran with his homework that was a challenge. Back home I hate Google translate, but here it was a blessing! However, even that couldn’t help me with the maths homework. A calculator could though! Just as long as I didn’t have to explain how an answer was achieved…
Guille; The Cleaner.
I also used Google translate to help me communicate with Guille (pronounced Giji). As I didn’t start until 12.45, she cared for Kirra until I got there and worked 9-5, five days a week. The house did not get that dirty! After talking to family #1 (in San Telmo), they said that many families hire a full-time cleaner more for status than for need. So silly.
Guille also cooked dinner for the family, which must have been dry and unappetising by the time they ate it at least two hours later. I’d rather just cook myself! Guille also cooked lunch for Kirra and I, which we all ate together. It gave me a chance to practice Spanish, but at the end of the day my brain could hurt from speaking three languages!
After counting my pay in the kitchen one time, Carolina reprimanded me as Guille might see and get offended because in her words, they ‘pay her much, much less’. Hrm… When the whole house got sick, I did make Guille go home rather than stay, but I regret not also telling her to ask for more pay. She also cleaned for another family on the weekends.
Guille and I.
I think both parents worked at the family company (something to do with a flour mill?), so when the boys got sick they stayed safely at work while Guille and I cared for them. Inevitably, we both got terribly ill (Guille twice) and had to take more unpaid days off work, as did Tristan. Eventually the parents did get sick and I didn’t feel all that bad, especially as we suspect it was due to the water system.
The fake lakes had a green ooze on them, and family #1 had told me that the ‘countries’ sometimes operate off the books, so their utilities can fail. Serves them right for not only cloistering themselves from the rest of society, but for doing so in such a way that they don’t get taxed properly. I even heard that the government fly helicopters overhead to ascertain the population and assets.
In their defense, Carolina was helping Guille’s niece; Solange, into school. Sadly, her mum was a drug addict who came and went, so Guille often cared for her. Sol hadn’t started school because they needed her mum’s signature, which was also needed for either Guille or the State to take guardianship. At the time her mum wasn’t to be found… Sol joined Kirra and I for a few days and while she was a bit difficult to discipline, she’s a sweet kid.
Day to Day.
On an average day I arrived, tidied up some toys, woke up Kirra and had lunch with Guille. Kirra was making great progress feeding herself; I hope Guille or the next carer didn’t underestimate her. We’d play inside for a while (often with water or playdough), dance to music and spend at least some time outside. We either explored the backyard or walked to the playground or to feed the ducks. While the ‘country’ looked very pretty, going outside meant lathering yourself in bug repellant because the mozzies were fierce! I suppose it’s due to the fake lakes and that the area is essentially swamp-land.
The backyard.
Perfect ducks for the perfect (looking) lakes.
At around 4.30pm the boys would get home, get out of their uniforms and have a snack. One day the dad; Alfredo, was home and asked if I’d been putting sugar in their Nesquik milk drinks. Of course I hadn’t, but I was told that they all have 1-2 teaspoons of sugar, even Kirra! I wasn’t really in a position to voice my opinion. Alfredo also allowed the boys to put 4 spoons in their tea (yup, caffeinated), right before Fran had to do homework. Fran could barely concentrate and Valentin would not stay away, so we got little done. Poor Fran was so high it was actually quite funny. They were good boys though, and quickly decided to barrack for Australia in the world-cup! Not that we lasted long…
If Kirra was sleeping due to a late nap or was out for lunch with Carolina, I’d organise the playrooms. This meant spending countless hours sorting through lego. Inevitably, the boys would up-end the containers and I’d start again another day. Eventually Carolina got flatter containers and I managed to convince the boys to stop emptying them and use our system (eg, curved pieces in one, flat in another). I never thought I’d put so much thought into lego, or be blogging about it months later!
Each day Carolina would leave a list of things she’d like me to do. For example, listen to ‘Baby Einstein’ CDs (actually not bad), sort the kids clothes, sew name labels on school uniforms, fix a broken night-light, replace old shoelaces, make bread with Kirra or take her on their little boat. I never got around to the latter two, and I also failed my mission to fix a broken kids bike. You know, not being a bike mechanic and all…
Happier to be ‘The Help’.
My feelings toward Carolina weren’t great after our fight about shorter hours or her making me ride in the rain. However, to add insult to injury, when I used her fancy, age-customised scales I saw that she was three years younger than me. I’d nannied ten years previously and was already feeling a little down about doing menial nanny work again, so taking orders and being given obvious advice from someone younger, richer and more ‘settled’ than me kind of sucked.
In the end though, I don’t envy the life of family #2. For all their money, they’ve isolated themselves in a soulless, mosquito ridden gated community in a swamp. Taking the bus along the highway, I saw smelly swamp, gated community, more smelly swamp and another gated community. Other than a few superficial-looking ones by the entrance, there’s no cafes, bars, restaurants or shops (I think Carolina did a lot of online shopping). To receive visitors they have to organise a pass for them days ahead of time, or have them leave their car at the entrance and pick them up.
I heard that people are often hijacked in their cars as they return from work and make a bee-line for their community. It makes sense. Of course the ‘countries’ are targets for criminals, being, as they are, a concentration of wealth conveniently located in one place. There’s even a market for selling passes and the security codes to people’s houses. To get my pass I had to provide my passport details and the name and date of birth of not only my stepfather, but my biological father (not mother…, hello sexism).
The families really do put a lot of trust in their hired help. We know the codes, have access to their property and belongings, do their dirty laundry, are often left alone and generally, we know we’re being underpaid and working under often unfriendly conditions.
I suppose they know this though, because at the end of each day I joined a line of other domestic workers waiting to have our bags checked. I don’t know what they were looking for. Silver candlesticks? How do they know whether something belongs to me or the family? If I was stealing small items like jewelry they’d be in my pockets or deeper in the bag they only ever really glanced into.
I’ve come to the sad conclusion that the bag checks are more psychological than practical. Even so, I find it hard to believe people are so evil; would they check bags just to make workers feel like crap? Perhaps it’s just the security staff pacifying the residents. But then, the residents must be dumb enough to think bag checks actually do anything… For me, all the checks did were threaten to make me late for my bus and wait in the cold for 30-50 minutes… They sometimes succeeded.
Mistrusting the help might also explain why at least the house I worked in was totally bereft of ornaments, art, knickknacks, lamps or really anything nice. It could be because they’d moved in five months ago, but there was literally nothing. I didn’t even see a jewelry box or nice perfumes. Was everything hidden? What’s the point of owning nice things if you have to keep them out of view?
It was an interesting experience with family #2. I for one know that I prefer to live with culture and people around me, eat non-dried-up dinners, enjoy my garden sans bug attacks, drink virus-free water and feel safe enough to display my possessions and drive home from work. They can have their ‘country’ life!
Needless to say, I feel less guilty about leaving family #2. Carolina and Alfredo took the news well though and wanted me back if I returned to Buenos Aires. After only 3.5 weeks I was still sad to leave the kids (especially Kirra), and I made the boys promise to keep their lego containers organised!
Los viajes de Bianca. 