Use code SXZRYS at checkout for a special 10% discount off markup until 11/14/19!

Cocky

Blogs: #18 of 91

Previous Next View All

The images of the South African resort were complete and I was free to roam the country in a little pickup truck provided by the client. It was part of the arrangement in lieu of a little less financial compensation for the gig, but the extra adventure as as good as gold as far as I was concerned.

It’d been nearly a month at the high-end wildlife resort and I was itching to get out on the adventure portion of the trip. The client had been so good to me, but the white South African staff exposed so much blatant racism on a daily basis, that I was starting to feel sick to my stomach.

The gig was going so well that it was surely going to turn into several lucrative years and there was already talk of my next assignments. I tried to look away at how the black staff was treated, and just told myself “that’s just the way it is here… you’re getting paid and treated well… just keep your mouth shut and everything will be fine. Besides, Apartheid has only been finished a few years so it’ll likely just take some time before the social culture catches up.”

At least, that’s what I told myself… but the reality was that most of the VIP guests, owner, investors, etc. were wealthy “one-percenter” types from the Southern U.S. They were all hard-core conservative republican types who loved the Bush/Cheney regime and lower taxes. I can’t even bring myself to utter some of the things I heard coming out of their mouths while having too many drinks, but it wasn’t pretty. In short, the whole “it’s a different culture” argument didn’t really hold water.

What could I do? It was a dream job that was almost certainly going to lead to more sweet assignments. And yet, the dirty sickness persisted in my guts.

Mostly kept my mouth shut, but eventually I’d slip up after a little too much vino and start telling them what I really thought of their views. It seemed even more disgusting that they were also proudly wearing their Christianity on their sleeves. How could they gleefully rally behind their lackey politician dog’s of war, pocket public monies in the form of industrial war complex profits, send the children of the less fortunate off to fight and die to protect their financial interests, all while claiming to be devout Christians?

Maybe the money was just too good and they were just telling themselves lies to justify it? Much like I was?

It became painfully clear to me that I didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to keep up this charade. More and more I’d let my honest opinions slip out and it was clear I wasn’t “one of the boys”. At first it was just an honest opinion or two blurted out over drinks, and then while I was practicing driving on the other side of the road, I’d pick up the black staff who’re waiting on the roadside outside of the resort and take them to the townships (slums) where they lived. Often it’d take me 3 or 4 trips to get them all home for the evening.

I don’t know if I was being cocky about it, or just trying to do something to ease my own hypocrisy so that I could sleep at night.

When the the young, lilly-white, blond-haired concierge who was in charge of the staff got wind of what I was doing while allegedly practicing driving on the left side of the road, she got very angry with me. She screamed that it wasn’t acceptable and that the truck I’d been using would have to be disinfected and hosed down.

Eventually, I was free from the place and out on my own. I took every chance I could to pick up just about anyone who needed a lift on the side of the road without regard for their skin color.

After spending a few nights in a low-end backpacker hostel on the Northeast coast of South Africa around Coffee Bay, one of the staff girls asked me where I was off to next. I told her my trip was about over and I needed to return the truck to the resort before flying back to the U.S. She asked if I’d be passing through Port Elizabeth on the way. I told her I was.

“Please master, could I please ride along with you to visit my family?”

“As long as you don’t call me ‘master’ then off course! I’d love the company.”

I think her name was Sheila. She seemed a bit uncomfortable at first and surprised that I’d so easily agree to let her ride with me. She asked if it was normal for a black person to be riding with a white person in the United States. I told her is was certainly, but that it wasn’t always that way. And, that it would eventually be that way in South Africa too.

Rolling over the rolling hills that hugged the cliffs that hugged the jagged Coffee Bay, I noticed some boys all playing by the roadside and striking poses like cocky rap stars near some round huts near the roadside. I asked Sheila if she minded that I stop to make an image or two before we continued.

As I framed up the scene, I noticed a rooster insisting he not be left out of the frame.

Perfect. :)

Sell Art Online