The tea boys of Abu Dhabi

I’ve discovered I’m a bit of a hypocrite.
Some of you may say you’ve known this about me for some time, but I hope you’d just be kidding.
The realization of my hypocrisy occurred when I discovered a curious tradition here at the newspaper in Abu Dhabi where I work. Some say the tradition is quaint. Others say it’s disturbing.
You see, the newspaper has a couple dozen men of varying ages who bring tea and coffee to our desks. They are actual employees of the company, but I’m told they're paid a pittance. They make most of their money from tips.
They are very similar to the chaiwallas of India, the men who bring chai tea and other beverages to office workers in Mumbai, Delhi and other big commercial cities in South Asia. They became well-known after the movie Slumdog Millionaire. It’s a very convenient service they provide, but some say it smacks of the caste system of the colonial past. In Abu Dhabi, they’re not called chaiwallas, but tea boys. All of them are from India, Bangladesh or Pakistan. They wear light blue waiter's smocks. Some of them look like me.
I’m quite torn about the tea boys. On one hand I have a problem with the very subservient existence for these Asian and Arab men to serve tea to the mostly-white journalists in our newsroom. On the other hand, I admit I do use their services. I ask them a few times a day for a cup of tea, a newspaper or some coffee made from a French press. Others have them fetch cigarettes, lunch, laundry, dry cleaning, mail or packages. The going rate for a cuppa joe from a tea boy is about four dirhams, or a little over one American greenback.
One of the senior editors at the paper and a fellow American says he doesn’t like them because his tea boy can’t make a decent cup of coffee. He says he’d rather use the manpower to maintain a proper newspaper archive, which currently doesn’t exist. It’s significant to note here that my American colleague used to be the managing editor of a major metropolitan newspaper in the US. You can tell he’s good at spotting deficiencies and re-allocating resources.
Almost all of the British journalists (which constitutes the majority of the newsroom) use the tea boy service. I started doing so simply because it saved me time. I guess the rest of the newsroom does it for the same reason. Am I really that much of a lemming?
The tea boys can be very territorial about who they get to serve. They figure out pretty quickly whos tips the best, then they stake their claim. The point is that your tea boy chooses you, and til death or dismissal do you part.
The photo above is of a guy named Sridan, from Mumbai. He’s in his fifties, small and slight, with an indecipherable accent, a slight limp and a big smile. I got assigned to the business desk, and I also got Sridan, who now knows I like green tea, a bottle of water and a newspaper to start my day.
My sister’s husband says there’s nothing wrong with keeping people employed, even if it’s in a subservient, slightly racist way. I pointed out that the problem with this system is that there’s very little chance that Sridan, or any of his children, will ever be considered for any job except that of a tea boy or its equivalent. How would you like to be well into your fifties and still be called a boy?
I have no idea whether Sridan or any of his colleagues are happy, but that may not be the point. I’d like to know that if a young person with brains and ambition, no matter his or her race, upbringing or social rank, has a shot at beating the odds and going to college and working at a good job. Sridan and his ilk, along with their children, probably don’t have that chance. And Sridan will keep serving me tea.