Sibahle had her going away party last night in the township. After a few drinks, I was ready to pour a beer over my head and jump on the bar - I was really in it. Dancing with these incredible dancers without a hint of self consciousness. Learning drunken Xhosa. It was mIdnight in a township that common sense would say, any white man with a camera should clear by 7pm. But it really wasnt on my mind at all, for better or worse.
But later - that changed. A man approached me in my joyful state and asked me what I was doing with this camera, this equipment, these bags. I told him I was doing a documentary. And, then, I saw what I thought to be a flash of anger in his eyes. Or maybe he was just drunk. But he raised his voice and asked me again.
"A documentary" I said (yelled) - half drunk. (Yes - that is the kind of filmmaker I am). This time, I knew he was angry - and I wasn't welcome. His friends circled me.
But at this point my friend (rather, my translator / bodyguard, who I pay to pretend like he is my friend) stepped in to do his job (translate / protect). The man retreated- the threat subsided, and in the end, he put his hand out for the traditional Xhosa handshake (which of course, I have mastered, along with all the pertinent Xhosa greeting phrases).
Later, I found out he thought that I was here to create "Darky-Memories" not a "Docu-mentary".
Yes, Darky Memories... Which were fightin words. Or maybe he was just looking for a fight.
But yes - darky memories. I laughed. But realized, that was his truth. And clearing things up probably didnt change anything. That much was clear as the night went on.
Suddenly, I found myself stuck in my head, and dissecting whats in everybody else's - standing in the corner by the uncooked meats. My feet hurt, and I was constipated from a week without vegetables, fiber, and grains.
