The Staff

They are waiting in front of the house as our tuktuk arrives from the airport, lined up along the driveway in identical poses, backs straight, hands clasped gently at their waists, smiling. Two women and three men. One of the women is wearing a smart business suit, the other is dressed in a housekeeper’s smock. One of the men is in a blue security uniform, one is wearing a high-collared white chef’s uniform, and the third is dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. None of them are sweating, despite the oppressive humidity.

I’ve never had a household staff before, and I’m not quite sure how to react to them. I’ve rented lots of houses and apartments over the years in my travels, but this is the first one that comes with a staff. Growing up, my only exposure to anything similar was watching the grouchy Mr. French on the 1960’s TV sitcom Family Affair.

We’re paying $80 a day for our week-long stay. We get the whole house (a British Colonial-era beach house probably built in the 1930’s), 15 well-manicured acres located directly on Kenya’s legendary Diani Beach, plus a live-in groundskeeper, housekeeper, personal chef, and security guard. All for about half the price of a stay in a stateside Hampton Inn.

The woman in the business suit raises her hand as I climb out of the tuktuk. She introduces herself as the property manager, then turns to present the others. As she calls their names, they step up and shake my hand. I smile and try to hide my anxiety. I have no idea how to treat these people. I will be living with them for the next week. Is it their job to care for the property, which is still owned by the family of the original British colonials? Or is it their job to cater to the clueless American tourists who rented the house without realizing that it came with a full-time staff?

After the introductions, the property manager pulls me to the side and gives me her phone number. “Please call me if you need anything at all, or even if you have any questions.” I smile and shake her hand again. I am comfortable with her. She is a business woman and I understand the role of a property manager. The others, not so much.

They are welcoming Jeanne and carrying our bags to the house. The chef, a tall and handsome man in his thirties, pulls me to the side. “I will need to speak with you concerning your menu. You will tell me what you like, and I will go to market and purchase the materials and ingredients.”

Is this guy going to make all our meals? Breakfast, lunch, dinner? “Okay,” I mutter.

Next, the groundskeeper pulls me to the side. He tells me in a low voice, “Do not feed the monkeys. If you feed them once, they will remember and they will never again leave you alone.” He gives me a once-over, then a pitying look. “especially, you must watch out for the baboons. They are not afraid of mzungus.”  Mzungu, I have learned, is the Swahili word for a white person.

This alarms me. My experience with baboons is limited to watching National Geographic specials. Will they drop out of the trees and bite me? Could they kill me? The prospect of being torn apart by a furious mob of baboons isn’t at all appealing.

“They are not dangerous,” he says unconvincingly. “But you must keep the doors locked because they know how to open the latch and enter the house. And when that happens,” he spreads his hands apocalyptically, “it is very bad.”

Next, the housekeeper pulls me to the side. “Don’t sit under that tree,” she advises, pointing. “The monkeys like to pee on mzungus.” Is she kidding me? I search her face but she seems deadly serious (I will learn the very next day that she was quite serious when a monkey indeed pees on me as I walk under the tree).

Finally, while Jeanne chats happily with the others, the security guard pulls me to the side. “Do not walk on the beach after dark,” he instructs me.

“Is it dangerous?” I ask.

“No,” he says. I wait for an explanation, but he has already turned away to help with the luggage.

I turn back to the property manager, who has been watching these interactions impassively. I must look a little desperate, because she gives me a reassuring look. “You’re going to have a great time,” she says. “Relax and enjoy the beach.”

As she turns to walk away, I hear the distant rumble of thunder over the ocean. I happen to glance over at the groundskeeper and catch him staring at me. His voice is low. “Remember, watch out for the baboons,” he whispers.

Something moves in the tree above my head and we both look up. There is a dark shape in the branches staring down at me. The groundskeeper looks at me with the expression of an undertaker inspecting a cadaver, picks up my luggage and carries it into the house.

UPDATE: Despite my initial awkwardness, we soon became great friends with the people at the rental house, sharing stories, family photos, coffee and tea. The baboons did indeed open the front door and enter the house (as did the monkeys, who Jeanne fed despite the warnings), but we chased them out before they did anything apocalyptic. We even walked on the beach after dark, and the only thing that happened was that we saw a million crabs. All-in-all, it was a wonderful and very memorable experience that I will always treasure.