Leo, Part 1

April 30, 2015 at 5:46 pm | Posted in Africa Stories | 10 Comments
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Dar es Salaam
April 1964

No letter from Leo today. One usually arrives each week but sometimes two weeks go by between them. When he left Dar es Salaam at the end of January, he said he’d be gone “four weeks, six at most.” That was three months ago.

I look up from my desk and my gaze lands on the whirring air conditioner that blows cold air into my face, gently stirring my blond hair. Dar es Salaam is survivable in this cool office. The work isn’t hard; my boss is pleasant.

When our United Nations bureau closes at two in the afternoon, I stroll three blocks along Independence Avenue to a door nestled between two shops; it leads upstairs to an apartment. A South Asian family resides there – a mother, father and three daughters – and I rent a room from them. I’m nearly always the only white person on the street, the commercial centre of town. Although the avenue includes a few major buildings, such as the United Nations complex and Barclays Bank, it is largely lined with small shops. Colorful clothes hang in storefronts, pots and pans rest on tables, and spicy odours drift from chai cafés. I hear boisterous voices chattering in several languages. I pass Asian women in richly hued saris and some clad in typical western dresses. I see African women with multi-coloured cloths wrapped around their bodies like sarongs. Some African women, Muslims, wear black, full-length, translucent drapes covering their heads and clothes; they clasp the black shawls, holding them up to their faces, yet seldom completely conceal their features; I often glimpse their gleeful eyes and laughing mouths.

But now I’m in my office, which opened this morning at seven. It’s around nine and coffee break doesn’t start until ten. Hearing a quick knock on the door behind me, the one leading into a hall, I spin my chair around and see my boss. That’s unusual. Generally he comes to the other door, the one that connects his office to mine. His eyes appear dazed and his lips are pulled taut. Something is amiss.

“Someone…someone wants to talk to you,” he says. “Will you please come out to see him.”

What have I done now? I probably made an inappropriate remark – occasionally I do – and am about to be chastised by a senior officer.

Rising from my chair, I walk across the room and enter the hallway. There, behind my boss, stands Eduardo Mondlane. I recognize him immediately, even though we met only once, five months earlier, when Leo took me to meet him – at Mondlane’s request – the day I arrived in Dar.

My boss gazes at him in awe. Not me. My back straightens. What does Mondlane want? He and Leo are now adversaries.

Mondlane and I never meet because we participate in different community circles. He and his wife socialize within the upper echelon embassy circle – a group that includes Tanzanian cabinet ministers and high-ranking diplomats from the U.S., U.K., Sweden, Denmark and Canada. I get together with members of the mid-level diplomatic corps, a group that includes representatives from Sudan and Ethiopia, Tanzanian junior ministers, and embassy attachés.

Eduardo Mondlane is president of Frente de Libertação de Moçambique (FRELIMO), a political party formed in 1962 that is fighting to free Mozambique from Portuguese rule. Dar es Salaam serves as home base for FRELIMO. Dar is also serves as headquarters for other liberation groups: SWAPO and SWANU (groups formed to liberate South West Africa, later called Namibia); ZANU and ZAPU (groups formed to liberate Rhodesia, later called Zimbabwe); and South Africa’s African National Congress (ANC). The ANC office is on Nkrumah Street, directly opposite FRELIMO’s headquarters.

I arrived in Dar in mid-November 1963. At that time, my fiancé, Leo Milas, held the position of “secretary for defense and security” in FRELIMO. Near the end of January 1964, Mondlane dispatched him on a trip – ostensibly to garner support (and raise funds) from Arab countries. Six weeks after Leo left, Mondlane arranged, through political connections, to bar him from re-entering Dar.

Mondlane is a former U.S. university professor, age 43, and almost bald, with his remaining hair neatly trimmed. Like most liberation activists, he wears the requisite khaki shirt and pants. But he looks too clean, too stately, to be mistaken for one of the rumpled freedom fighters who roam the streets of Dar. Married to a white American, Mondlane lives in a bungalow in a former all-white district of Dar (still primarily a European enclave that now includes a few prominent Africans and Asians). Leo once told me that Mondlane is a diplomat but not a warrior.
My boss leads us to a small room containing a table and four chairs but no air conditioner. He asks Mondlane if it is suitable and when told that it is, shuts the door, leaving me with Mondlane. We sit face-to-face with the desk between us. It is cool enough. The U.N. building is chilled by vibrating air conditioners in the occupied offices.

Mondlane introduces himself – as if I don’t know who he is. I politely acknowledge the introduction and, for once, say nothing more. My silence forces Mondlane to begin the conversation.

He clasps his hands loosely on the table and says, “Leo Milas. He is an American named Clinton Aldridge.”

I remain silent. Mondlane ought to know that I’m aware of this rumour. Several people have mentioned it in my presence.

“Surely you don’t still believe he is a Mozambican?” Mondlane asks.

“I only know what people have told me. He says his family immigrated to South America from Mozambique when he was young. Others say he has no ties to Mozambique. I met Leo in Los Angeles where all the Africans I knew said he was Mozambican.”

“But I have seen documents that prove he is American.” Mondlane’s voice grows more forceful. “You must believe that.”

“I don’t know the truth,” I reply.

I don’t ask to see the documents. Now is a natural opening for Mondlane to produce them but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You don’t want to remain with him. He is not who he says he is.”

“I still love him, no matter what. But I don’t know whether he is African or American.”

“How can you love him? He is an imposter.”

“I love him because he is a good man.”

Mondlane continues speaking, using the same words, the same sentences, asking why I don’t break off our engagement. He never follows up on my “he is a good man” comment. While he talks, I continue to say, “I don’t know.” Sometimes I add, “I still love him no matter whether he is African or American.” And this also is true.

It becomes a merry-go-round conversation. Mondlane repeats; I repeat. Round and round we go. Why does he care whether or not I remain with Leo? I’m not important.

I had always believed Leo was African until I heard the rumours. Then I mulled over our interactions and remembered a couple of incidents suggesting that he could be hiding something. Not until hearing those rumours had these incidents caused me to doubt anything he said. They are such small things. My mind must make several tenuous connections for them to signify anything, so they may mean nothing at all. I will not mention these to Mondlane. Will not give him any additional ammunition to use against Leo.

Mondlane fails to intimidate me, possibly because he looks too smooth and acts too composed. Although tall, nearly six feet one, Leo is taller, six foot five. Mondlane is black, but Leo’s skin is blacker. And Leo does look like a freedom fighter – rough, imposing, frightening. He has never frightened me. But I have observed the way others look at him and how easily he intimidates most people simply by his visual appearance and austere manner.

Mondlane persists. He wants me to say that I will break off my engagement to Leo. All the while I wonder why this is so crucial. Mondlane is a prominent man with powerful political connections. I refrain from discussing politics and don’t get involved in African political activities – unlike Mondlane’s white American wife, who is engaged in activist projects and sometimes rumoured to be working for the CIA. Recent rumours – probably spread by Mondlane’s faction within FRELIMO – have hinted that Leo is a CIA agent. But my gut feeling is that whatever he is, he isn’t a deep-cover CIA spy. During our time together, I’d picked up a number of subtle nuances suggesting he views the U.S. tendency to meddle in African politics with disdain. And, if anything, Leo is somewhat pro-Marxist.

Mondlane tries for almost an hour to get me to say something other than “I don’t know” and “I still love him.” Finally he pushes back his chair, stands up, and calmly ends the conversation.

I return to my small office by passing through my boss’s larger one, and smile. My boss smiles back and now appears placid, his usual expression. Later I would discover that Eduardo Mondlane once held a high ranking post at the United Nations New York office and was still considered an important man by many U.N. administrators. This explains why my boss was so astounded when Mondlane asked him to arrange a private meeting with me, his 23-year-old secretary.

 

Victoria
March 2008

I want to write about living in Africa and, in particular, describe my relationship with Leo. Events remain in my memory, names do not. I remember, for instance, that during our meeting in the U.N. building, Mondlane used the American name attributed to Leo; I forgot that name soon after hearing it.

The letters Leo wrote me are useful for reference but now the internet helps to fill in missing details. Using Google, I discover that Milas is a common surname throughout Africa. After five pages of listings, with roughly 15 different websites on each page, I find three almost identical documents. All state that: Leo Milas was an American CIA agent who infiltrated FRELIMO in 1962; his American name was Clinton Aldridge; and he was expelled from FRELIMO by Mondlane in August 1964. One of these documents has been released by a U.S. intelligence agency, one is published by a Swedish “charity” foundation, and one is an old FRELIMO bulletin. All three documents probably acquired their information from reports written by Eduardo Mondlane. They provide the name I forgot, Clinton Aldridge. Also, they state that Leo was not expelled from FRELIMO until August 1964, but I know that Mondlane used his political clout to prohibit Leo from re-entering Dar in early March, thus preventing him from speaking with other party members prior to being expelled. Before August of that year, Mondlane must not have had a strong enough grip on FRELIMO to make the expulsion official.

The internet contains many articles on Mondlane: his biography; several photos, including a good portrait taken around the time I knew him; a description of problems he encountered in 1968 because FRELIMO was making little headway against Portuguese rule in Mozambique; a picture of his wife and three children surrounded by dignitaries at his funeral after his assassination in Dar es Salaam on February 3, 1969.

But nothing on the web mentions Leo’s activities after August 1964, activities he described in letters to me. During that time, he wandered from Cairo to Nairobi to Khartoum, where he lived for two years as a political activist until being imprisoned for seven months. After leaving Khartoum, Leo moved to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, where he became a lecturer at Haile Selassie I University in early 1968. From then on, he seemed to have abandoned his political aspirations, preferring to concentrate on his teaching career and future with me.

I arranged to travel to Ethiopia in June 1969; we were to get married. But shortly before I left Canada, he wrote, “Put your travel plans on hold.” The FRELIMO executive had accused him of being involved in Mondlane’s assassination. Following Mondlane’s death, internecine fighting – always present in FRELIMO – broke out in earnest and anyone who stood the remotest chance of challenging the main players was rendered powerless or murdered. Leo was dismissed from the university and threatened with imprisonment.

In October 1969, Leo wrote again; he sounded desperate. He asked me to sponsor his application to immigrate to Canada. He didn’t include the two required passport photos with his application, so I wrote back, requesting these photos. He didn’t reply. Our correspondence had been disrupted for months while he was imprisoned in Khartoum, but he got back in touch with me as soon as he could; this time, as well, I expected to hear from him – eventually. He knew he could contact me through McGill University where I had two more years of study for my PhD. But he never wrote again. At first I thought he had been imprisoned, but slowly, as years went by and I failed to hear from him, I began to accept that he was dead. After all, he loved me and, if alive, he would have found a way to get in contact.

When using Google, I normally scan six or seven pages and stop searching. One evening, I keep scanning. Was anything else ever written about Leo Milas? After 22 pages, I find a reference to a report written by Seifulaziz Leo Milas. I’m taken aback. Jolted. I had forgotten that Leo added a new first name in 1964. Initially it was Seif Al-Aziz, an Arabic name matching a travel document issued to him by an Arab country (he never told me which one). After leaving Khartoum, he changed it to Seifulaziz. He signed his letters, “Love, Seif” and my letters to him always began “Dear Seif” but in my mind, he was always “Leo.”

I enter “Seifulaziz Milas” into the search engine and find references to a number of websites. Several contain papers written for InterAfrica, a research group based in Addis Ababa that publishes scholarly reports on Ethiopia, Somalia, and the Sudan. Seifulaziz Milas wrote four papers between 1999 and 2007.

Possibly his son, I think. Leo was living in Addis when last I heard from him. By 1999, he would have been 66 years old – too old to be starting a scholarly career. But Seifulaziz is not an African name. Leo sort of made it up, although he could have passed it on to a son.

Then I come across a reference in a book entitled Me Against My Brother, which was published in 2000 by Scott Peterson. On page 45, Peterson recounts an anecdote about meeting “Milas Seifulaziz, a very tall, lanky Mozambican consultant with Unicef” in the late 1990s. The tale revolved around the fact that the left lens of Milas’ eyeglasses was smashed but, because of his poor eyesight, he nonetheless wore these glasses. This short passage perfectly describes Leo – older but not changed much in appearance or manner.

He’s alive!

I feel a dull ache in the center of my gut. For 50 years I believed he was dead.

To Be Continued…

(Hopefully within six months)

This photo was taken in my U.N. office by a colleague.  You can see that I am wearing the same dress that appeared in several of my agent's photos.  That means it was taken not too long after I arrived because that dress disintegrated in hot, humid Dar.  My hair was straight because I took three showers a day.  The photo was just a quick snapshot; no special lighting.   Just me as I looked in my office that day.

This photo was taken in my U.N. office by a colleague. You can see that I am wearing the same dress that appeared in several of my agent’s photos. That means it was taken not too long after I arrived because that dress disintegrated in hot, humid Dar. My hair was straight because I took three showers a day. The photo was just a quick snapshot; no special lighting. Just me as I looked in my office that day.

Selfies

January 14, 2015 at 10:05 pm | Posted in Photo Groups | 6 Comments
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It was not until I purchased an iPad, three months ago, that I realized what selfies were. Until then, I read about them in newspapers but didn’t understand what was being discussed. Not really. I guess I had some vague idea. After I purchased the iPad, I got the picture (pun intended) about selfies. But I had no desire to take one.

In bed last night, around midnight, I couldn’t sleep. Tossed and turned. Played solitaire on my iPad. Then suddenly, I thought, “I want to take a selfie.”

So I looked up the instructions for using the camera and took one – without makeup, my hair messed from lying down. “Oh, how horrible,” I thought. I quickly got up, slathered on makeup and took a few more. Below is the result. Now you can see what a “kind of pretty” 21-year-old looks like when she reaches 74.

Generally, I don’t use a foundation, as I did in those “after” photos except for very special occasions, and I don’t have many “special occasions” any more. I just use eyebrow pencil and lipstick as every day makeup. For this impromptu photo session I also added blush on my cheeks and an eyelid liner. When I modelled at 21, I used lipstick, eyebrow pencil, and eyelid liner. I guess I should have used foundation and blush as well, because it seems to improve my appearance in photos. (I don’t think that foundation improves appearance in “real” life; it looks too fake except under evening lighting conditions. Blush seems to make my face look a bit nicer, but usually I’m too lazy to add blush to my every day makeup routine.)

Before Makeup

Shannon Moeser without makeup on Jan 14, 2015.

Shannon Moeser without makeup on Jan 14, 2015.

After Makeup

Shannon Moeser after slathering on makeup, Jan 14, 2015.

Shannon Moeser after slathering on makeup, Jan 14, 2015.

Lapse of Attention

September 30, 2014 at 4:22 pm | Posted in Non-fiction Essays | 1 Comment
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I walked into a waiting room in my underpants. No, it wasn’t a dream. It really happened at a yoga centre, in front of a dozen other students, two of whom were male. My long tank top covered the front of my panties, so my underwear wasn’t visible while I faced the group. Then I walked out the door and down the hall for a last minute visit to the bathroom. There I discovered my gaffe. Oh! Did anyone notice? I was wearing white panties and the black tank top didn’t cover my bum.

No use trying to hide it. Re-entering the waiting room, I said, “I forgot to put on my shorts.” Another student replied, “I noticed as you went out. I didn’t know whether to say something.” Two others nodded. They also had wondered if drawing attention to this embarrassing situation would make it worse.

I quickly entered the dressing room, put on my shorts and returned. A few muffled giggles but I took it with good humour and soon after we entered the studio. Before long, everyone’s mind was on the downward dog and not on my momentary lapse of attention.

Perhaps someone thought, “Poor dear. Had a ‘senior moment.’ She’s over 70.” But I wasn’t worried. Before I retired, my academic specialty was memory. Many times I lectured about our finite working memory and how the amount of information we can process at any specific moment is limited.

The capacity of working memory cannot be increased but we learn to perform a greater number of simultaneous activities by chaining movements together. For example, a baby learning to walk falls many times before acquiring the muscle coordination that we, as adults, accept as a single flowing movement. A teenager learns to drive by mastering a complex integration of motor activities and visual signals. Once acquired, these action routines run smoothly using a small reservoir of working memory that is neither completely conscious nor completely unconscious. This reservoir frees up memory capacity to concentrate on other tasks while still using a small amount of attention to monitor our motions. When sensory information attracts this semi-conscious monitoring system, we switch focus.

I can easily understand this by visualizing Britta, the receptionist at our yoga centre. I imagine Britta, with her shoulder-length blond hair, sitting upright at her desk entering information into a computer. Right now, she is concentrating on the computer task. A telephone rings and she immediately switches attention to her telephone-answering task. She can make the changeover quickly because her initial response has become automatic. (“Good morning. Iyengar Yoga Centre. How may I help you?” she says, in a lilting voice.) By the time she reacts to the caller’s question, her mind is fully engaged in the conversation. Then, a new student enters the office, prompting Britta to direct a small amount of her awareness to him. She smiles and holds up a finger, another habitual response, to let the visitor know she’ll address his concerns as soon as possible. After ending the telephone discussion, Britta turns her attention to the person standing at her front desk. Once she has taken care of his needs, she returns to her computer chore.

This is how the brain multitasks – by swapping conscious attention among ongoing activities. Some people believe that multitasking refers to the performance of two or more tasks simultaneously. But we can concentrate on only one task at a time and each switch takes a few milliseconds to refocus the brain. So errors can occur during the restart interval.

Consider driving and texting. Our driving motor skills operate automatically, without need for much conscious thought, until something unexpected occurs and we need to quickly shift total awareness to the driving task. A car swerves into the oncoming lane. A deer darts into the street. If the mind is engaged by text messages, the driver does not have enough time to shift attention. In a crisis situation, a few milliseconds can be too long to delay the change from automatic to focused driving and prevent a crash.

A driver can devote so much attention to texting that he or she doesn’t allocate any working memory to the background task. Just the other day, I read about a woman in North Carolina who concentrated on posting a message to her Facebook page. All her efforts were focused on this endeavor and the small amount of working memory she normally would have used to monitor her driving was allotted instead to texting. She crossed the median of a highway, hit a truck and died.

I usually can talk while changing into my yoga attire, because putting on clothes is a routine task. The few times I need to switch more working memory to the dressing effort are generally triggered by external cues. But I was engaged in the conversation and didn’t notice the shorts tucked in the corner of my bag. And so I committed what psychologists call a ‘slip of action.’ I didn’t switch more working memory to the habitual task at a critical stage.

I used to amuse my students by telling them about other blunders, such as the many times I ended up driving to the wrong place. For example, going home via my usual route, planning a side trip to the bank, I’d end up in my own driveway, having forgotten to make the turn that led to the bank. Or intending to go to the rec centre that was two blocks past my office, I’d instead find myself in the university parking lot. I often drove familiar routes on autopilot – until two minor fender benders in my early 60s motivated me to re-evaluate my driving habits.

The capacity of working memory reaches its peak at age 21 and declines steadily thereafter. It drops more sharply after 50. Now I keep my mind on the road while driving. No daydreaming. No writing reports in my mind. Older drivers learn to accommodate for working memory decline until eventually, around 80, they lose the ability to drive safely. This doesn’t mean we lose our minds as we age, just the ability to monitor several sources of information and switch attention quickly when needed.

I doubt that I’ll ever again forget to put on my shorts in the changing room. In the future I’ll allot more attention to dressing. But I know I’ll do something equally silly, like forget where I parked my car (I now carefully note its position, especially in underground parkades), or mislay my keys (I have one designated location but if my routine is interrupted, it can take hours to find them), or walk through the front door without the book I planned to return to the library. I’m not losing my mind. As my working memory loses capacity, I must allocate more space to the focused task and less to the reservoir containing rapidly changing sensory information. But this means that sometimes I miss a signal directing me to rapidly shift my focus. No more multitasking for me.

Me in downward dog in the yoga studio.

Me in downward dog in the yoga studio.

Me in the downward dog in the yoga studio.

Me in the downward dog in the yoga studio.

Zanzibar Holiday – Part 3

February 4, 2014 at 10:55 am | Posted in Africa Stories, Memoir -- Non-fiction Stories | 1 Comment
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On our way to Prison Island in a motorboat, we roared past slow moving dhows and fishing boats.  As we neared the island, I saw several buildings in front of a forest, but not until we landed did I grasp why the place was special.  Dozens of giant tortoises lumbered along the shore.  I was enchanted.  One looked up as I approached it and Eddie persuaded me to climb onto its shell.  It didn’t move while I perched on it and Eddie took my picture.  Posing for this photo was much easier than holding awkward postures in a modelling session.

After enjoying a romp with the tortoises, I glanced around.  Large shade trees with thick trunks and wide-spread root systems sheltered us from the heat of the sun.  The old prison was still intact, its walls weather-beaten but its door secure and windows closed, protected by bars.  Several bungalows surrounded the prison, their doors locked and windows veiled by curtains.  But no people.  Just the smell of salt air, the nearly inaudible rustle of tortoises moving slowly over sand and grass and, in the distance, the faint hum of fishing boats.  For once, Eddie appeared uninterested in examining his surroundings; he simply watched me.  I remembered that, in his letter, he had written:  “I am working on a secret job and require quiet, so I am not in Zanzibar Town tonight, although I can see it over the waves.”

“You were working here,” I said quietly.

He looked into my eyes and nodded.

After about an hour on the island, we returned to town, and once back at Eddie’s apartment, he said, “You should rest now.  I promised an Arab friend that I’d take you to his home for dinner.”

*

Shortly after arriving in Dar, I was escorted to a concert at the home of an Arab, and warned that I would be seated with the women.  During the event, females huddled together, surrounded by a black curtain, unable to view the males or the musicians.  I didn’t enjoy the experience.

However, this time Eddie said his male friends wanted to meet me, so I would not be sequestered.  Eddie knew all my dresses were sleeveless and knee length – clothing generally frowned upon by Arab Muslims – but if Eddie thought it okay, it would be.  (Most Muslim women covered their arms and legs, but not all covered their hair or faces.  Ismaili women wore saris and, in Dar, they frequently wore western-style clothes while working in offices.  An acquaintance, the wife of the Second Secretary at the Sudanese embassy, wore colourful long garments that covered her body from shoulders to feet, and draped a scarf over the back of her head, but left visible her exquisite face.)

Shortly before nightfall, Eddie and I picked up Omar who lived in another part of town.

“Let me ride with the lovely lady, Eddie,” Omar said.  “You can drive us.”

He held the door as I hopped out of the front seat and into the back.  We chatted as Eddie drove east, towards the other side of the island.  I was surprised by Omar’s appearance.  His complexion was as brown as many coastal Africans, and his hair more frizzy than curly.  So I asked how Zanzibar Arabs differed from Zanzibar Africans given their similar appearance.

Omar replied, “Some families have a tradition of being Arab and others have a tradition of being African.”

Identification based on a tradition.  They looked alike and had the same religion.  Some were descended from Arabs who profited by trading between the Arab peninsula and the islands; some were descended from Africans who profited by trading between mainland Africa and the islands.  Both groups played a part in the slave trade.  The Arabs fathered children with African women; these children adopted Arab traditions and so were considered Arab.  Sometimes these children married the children of African traders and were considered African.  This ethnic mixing blurred the distinctions between these two groups.  However, those identified as Arab owned most of the land and were generally wealthier than those identified as African.

Later, after my trip, I discovered the revolution in Zanzibar had been led by an African from Uganda.  Once the Sultan and his cohorts fled, this Ugandan was shoved aside and eventually barred from returning to Zanzibar (after a trip to the mainland), and then barred from Tanzania once Tanganyika and Zanzibar merged.

This meant that Zanzibar was now controlled by an African political group that differed minimally from the Arab group; both parties had similar ethnic, religious and cultural backgrounds.  The African group, representing a larger number of poorer citizens, espoused a socialist policy, not unlike that advocated by Julius Nyerere, President of Tanganyika until its merger with Zanzibar and, after the merger, the first President of Tanzania.

Arriving at our host’s home after a 20-minute drive, I wasn’t sure where we were.  The house sat in the middle of a field that might have been a spice plantation.  Our host and his friend (possibly a relative) had lighter complexions than Omar.  They were both young, around 35, just a bit older than Eddie.  We were invited into a large living room, furnished with many comfortable sofas and chairs, coffee tables, table lamps, oriental carpets, and ornate wall hangings.  The bright rich tones in the carpets and wall hangings mixed tastefully with the softer shades of the furniture.  Relaxed in a large cushioned chair, I felt at ease surrounded by the four men.

The host, his friend, and Omar asked me questions – about Canada, my family, living in Dar, and why I came to Africa – and I felt like a star.  They were charming and appeared to have a genuine interest in my responses.  So I smiled and answered to the best of my ability, not trying to be demure or evasive.  Looking back, I must have been glowing – a friend used to say that I “bubbled” whenever I became the center of attention.

We moved to a large rectangular table in the dining area, where two young women joined us.  They wore black cloaks flowing from the top of their heads to the ground, but no face veils.  Once we had seated, the host rose, went into the kitchen, and came back carrying a fork, its prongs a bit bent, which he presented to me.  Everyone laughed.  Arabs ate with their hands.  I felt like saying that working-class Canadians often grasped food with their hands as well, unlike pompous Europeans with their multi-cutlery settings.  I picked up the meat and some vegetables with my fingers, as they did.  But I couldn’t match the deftness at which these Arabs – and Eddie – scooped the rice using only their hands.  For rice, I used my fork.  Between courses, servants brought bowls of water and cloths so we could clean our hands.

With regards to how it tasted, the meal was a bit of a disappointment.  Having become used to the hot curry and cool fruits in Indian cuisine, I found it rather bland, with its emphasis on lamb, vegetables and rice.  I did enjoy the sweet dates served for dessert.

After dinner, we returned to the living room and the two women accompanied us, although they sat in a corner and never spoke.  Everyone was in a hearty mood, teasing each other and plying me with more questions.  For once, I was tired of talking about me – there was not that much more to say – and I noticed the host’s collection of conch shells displayed on a low table between the sofas.  I had purchased two similar shells from street sellers in Dar, but had never imagined such a variety.  I enthusiastically praised his beautiful collection and the ingenuity of their placement, each with unique markings, arranged by size.

The host immediately offered me one as a gift.  I was astounded, not believing he meant it.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes, yes.  I want you to have one.”

“Which one?”

“You choose.  The one you like best.”

My hand hovered above the display and I was about to pick a large one with unusual markings when Omar whispered, “Take that one.  It’s rare and one he prizes.”

Omar gently pushed my arm towards a small shell.  Like an imp, I chose it.  As I picked it up, I caught a flicker of pain in the host’s eyes, followed immediately by a smile.

Soon after, Omar, Eddie and I took our leave, among profuse expressions of gratitude for a most enjoyable evening.  The host presented the shell to me, carefully wrapped.

Years later, I realized that I had committed a cultural gaffe by praising the host’s collection.  Traditionally, Arabs will offer an object of admiration to a visitor as a gift.  Not to do so would lower the host’s esteem in the eyes of his companions.  I didn’t know this, and Omar used my ignorance to play a joke on our host by encouraging me to pick a highly-prized shell.

I have since realized that among these people, one-upmanship was a game, and that was the reason I was invited to dinner.  My host had dared entertain in his own home this strange blond woman who broke many cultural taboos.  It was a way of outshining the community’s more conservative Arabs.  They would have something to talk about for months.  And, indeed, in a letter I received from Eddie six weeks later, he mentioned that an Arab who had not been present that evening had asked him about me.  On this small island, there seemed little to do except entertain each other with stories.

*

Back at Eddie’s place, we again relaxed in his living room.  He told me a bit about Prison Island, how the main building was used as a quarantine station for years; how more recently, the island had served as a getaway for city residents who sometimes used the bungalows for overnight shelter.

“Since it is no longer a secret, I might as well tell you.  I was working on Zanzibar’s budget.  That is why I needed a quiet place.”

He had worked in Zanzibar for years beginning as a clerk when it was a British protectorate.  He called himself a Zanzibari, but he had no family here, just friends.  Again he mentioned his wife and two children who were now living in Nairobi.  Although his government contract included a five-day leave to visit Nairobi each month, he had not been allowed to go in June or July.  Expecting to take the trip early in July after completing the budget, he initially told Solange he would not be in Zanzibar during the Saba Saba holiday.  Later, however, he was informed that he could not go until Cabinet passed the budget, which would likely take another month.

I again told him about my boyfriend who had left Dar at the end of January, supposedly on a one-month trip, but had been barred from re-entering Tanzania due to political infighting with his former colleagues.

Both of us were alone, and lonely.

“Well,” I said.  “I still have Solange.  I wonder how she spent her vacation.” 

“I don’t like Solange,” Eddie said.

“You don’t know her well.  She’s very kind.”

“She should have stayed here.  You were sick.  She should not have left you alone.”

“But Joseph and his family had made arrangements.  She had to honour them, even if I couldn’t.  I improved rapidly, and thoroughly enjoyed touring with you and Dick-Dick.”  And to myself, I added, “Plus I wanted to stay because you had a real toilet.”

*

The next morning we moved quickly.  I worried about missing the ferry; only one ran each day between Zanzibar and Dar es Salaam.  I fretted about getting through immigration and the possibility, however remote, that officials on the mainland would find reason to deny me entry.

Eddie remained calm and had me out the door in plenty of time.

“Are you going directly to work after you leave me at the ferry terminal?” I asked Eddie.

“Yes.”

“You told me in your letter that you would have to work ‘round the clock’ this weekend.  Instead you showed me around the island.”

“Now I am going to suffer.  I’ll have to work all day and all night to catch up.”

“You aren’t going to work straight through the night?” I asked.

“Yes.  I must.”

Passing through the market square, we could see a long line-up at the terminal, even though the ferry would not be leaving for 45 minutes.

“Oh,” I said, “I forgot to buy my scarf.  Can we stop?”

Eddie looked at the line-up and said, “I’ll get it and mail it to you.  Or maybe I’ll be able to give it to you in person.  I must go to Dar for meetings on the budget.  But I don’t know when.”

He drove up to the main gate.  As I hopped out, Eddie said, “Don’t forget to send me a note to let me know you got home safely,”

I spotted Solange and rushed to greet her.  I turned to wave goodbye, but Eddie had already curved his car away from the melee.  The smell of sweating bodies.  The noise of people jabbering in several languages.  It was all so familiar.  Yet for two days I had peace and the luxury of intelligent conversation.  Already I missed it.  Only the familiarity of Solange lulled me.   She was, as I’d told Eddie, very kind – though by no means sophisticated or brilliant.

We easily passed through the immigration queue and, after we settled on the ferry, I started telling her what I had seen – the old town with its narrow alleyways, the slave cave, and Prison Island with its giant tortoises.

Solange interrupted.  “I’ve seen plenty of giant tortoises in the Seychelles.”

“Where did you go?” I asked.

“I met lots of people.  We walked around town and visited.”

Probably Solange believed I should have returned to Joseph’s house once I felt better, that Joseph had plans and Eddie kidnapped me.  But I thought my holiday had been more fun.  Eddie knew what an outside visitor would want to see.

Heading home, we said little more, but unlike the ferry ride three days ago, when I was quiet because I felt low, I hummed to myself as we bounced over the sea.

A photo of a dhow taken on the way to Prison Island.  Photograph taken July 6, 1964.

A photo of a dhow taken on the way to Prison Island. Photograph taken July 6, 1964.

Approaching Prison Island.  Photograph taken July 6, 1964.

Approaching Prison Island. Photograph taken July 6, 1964.

Shannon Moeser on Tortoise on Prison Island.  Photograph taken July 6, 1964.

Shannon Moeser on Tortoise on Prison Island. Photograph taken July 6, 1964.

Eddie and Dick-Dick on Prison Island.  Photograph taken July 6, 1964.

Eddie and Dick-Dick on Prison Island. Photograph taken July 6, 1964.

My Zanzibar scarf.  Photograph taken February 3, 2014.

My Zanzibar scarf. Photograph taken February 3, 2014.

Close-up of my Zanzibar scarf.  Photograph taken February 3, 2014.

Close-up of my Zanzibar scarf. Photograph taken February 3, 2014.

My conch shell.  Photograph taken February 3, 2014.

My conch shell. Photograph taken February 3, 2014.

 

 

 

Zanzibar Holiday – Part 2

December 11, 2013 at 6:23 pm | Posted in Africa Stories, Memoir -- Non-fiction Stories | 1 Comment
Tags: , ,

Rejuvenated by my long slumber in Eddie’s guest bedroom, I wanted to explore Zanzibar and asked Eddie to take me sightseeing.  He was reluctant because he thought I might have a relapse, but I insisted and promised to tell him if I felt tired.

Off we went in his car, after he made a telephone call.  A few minutes down the road, we picked up Dick-Dick, who was around my age.  Looking back, I realize we were introduced but much of what was said quickly faded from my still-hazy mind.  All I saw at the time was that he was devoted to Eddie, a follower.  Later I discovered that he was a young lawyer working in the Zanzibar Attorney-General’s office.

Dick-Dick was dressed immaculately in an orange cotton shirt and pressed white pants.  Eddie wore black pants and a white shirt, its sleeves rolled up, just as he had the evening before – not the same clothes, just ones that were almost identical.  In tropical Africa, clothes were regularly washed because, by the end of the day, they reeked from perspiration.  That was why I wore sleeveless dresses: perspiration evaporated into the air and I didn’t need to wear perfume, a common cover-up used by women who wore dresses with sleeves – even short sleeves – that soaked up sweat.

We drove down the short hill and, after a few turns, were in a maze of streets, most so narrow that Eddie’s car left only a slim gap on each side.  These must be one-way streets, I thought, until we met another car face on.  Oops.  A two-way street wide enough for only one car.  No wonder we were driving so slowly.  Eddie backed up onto another road while the other car continued on its way, then he eased into a dead end lane, parked, and we started walking.

Tall stone buildings lined both sides of the road, leaving it in shade, but what fascinated me were the thick wooden doors.  I rushed from door to door, running my hand over the ornate wood carvings surrounding their frames and rubbing the heavy brass studs jutting out from the door panels.  No two entrances were identical.  An entire street filled with plain stone walls, barred windows, and unique portals.

Above the door frames, a few had elaborate rectangular borders, but the largest, and most richly decorated, were crowned by carved semi-circular arches.  One door was partially open; we peered inside, but could see only a stone staircase leading to the floor above.  Alongside of one richly polished door were a number of brass plaques indicating that its owner carried on a business within the premises.  My picture was taken in front of that one.  These were astonishing entrances into what appeared to be stone fortresses; all had the look of guarding prized possessions.  I asked Eddie what the carvings on these doors represented but he didn’t know, nor did he know what lay behind them.  He and Dick-Dick seemed as captivated by these mysterious buildings as I was, yet they lived no more than ten minutes from this labyrinth of treasures.

A woman in a black burka walked down a side lane and hurried away; Eddie quickly took a photo of Dick-Dick and me to so he could capture a silhouette of her in the background.  Then another car drove by and I snapped its picture.

Except for that one woman and the two cars, the streets were empty, silent.  Afterwards, I would find out that this area was home to the wealthiest, most powerful Arabs, the ones targeted by the African revolutionaries who overthrew the Arab government.  Just six months earlier, thousands of Arabs had been massacred in the uprising.  The turmoil had stopped but the bare streets suggested ongoing wariness.

We walked back to the car and drove to a market square near the ferry terminal – a five-minute ride.  Cars roared and people bustled about.  A street vendor squatted on the sidewalk encircled by the fruit he offered.  Open-air shops sold food and clothing, and Eddie purchased mangos and chapatti (Indian flatbread).  At a kiosk, I examined a gold silk scarf decorated with images of Zanzibar – a dhow, the beach, an Arab coffee seller and an ornately carved door like those we just saw.  I wanted a souvenir of my Zanzibar trip.  Should I buy it?  With one more vacation day left, I might need my shillings for something else.  Eddie suggested I wait.

“It will be here tomorrow,” he said.

*

Eddie and Dick-Dick discussed plans for an evening dinner, after which we drove back up the hill, dropping Dick-Dick off at his home.  At the apartment, Eddie and I relaxed in the living room.  The furniture was minimal – a wooden sofa with cushioned seats, a matching chair, small coffee table, and a floor lamp.  No ornaments, pictures, wall decorations, or carpets, nothing to suggest that a family once lived here.  Eddie told me his wife had fled with their two children shortly after the January uprising.  Although the insurgency was aimed primarily against the Arab leadership, some Asians were also killed.  Consequently, many Indians departed when the governing Arabs fled.  Eddie said his wife managed to move most of the family wealth to Nairobi.

Curled on the sofa, I talked, primarily about my life in Dar and my family in Canada, but also about my uncertain plans.  When I arrived in Africa, I was determined to make it my permanent home.  Now I wasn’t so sure.

After shifting in my seat, I glanced at Eddie to see if he was paying attention.  He gave a small nod of encouragement, so I continued describing the difficulties I was experiencing in my quest to settle down and get married.

If Eddie were not already married, I would have considered him a possible candidate for a husband.  Although not conventionally handsome, he did have a rugged, world-weary appearance, and he was about 30, the perfect age for me.  But most important, he was intelligent, decisive, and possessed an eager mind – all qualities I found attractive.  But he was married, and so I didn’t flirt with him.  I knew how to turn the wattage up and how to turn it down.  With Eddie, I turned it down.  There were no coy smiles, no fleeting glances into his eyes – tactics I used with potential romantic interests.  Instead, I acted normally, smiled appropriately as a friend, and spoke in my customary tone, telling Eddie stories about my life, not attempting to cloak myself in mystery.

On his part, Eddie said he liked the way I spoke my mind, clearly and without pretense.  This communication style was how I had always talked, but during the past couple of years it had slowly dawned on me that speaking this way – forthright, blunt, and often lacking reserve – turned many off.  People seemed to prefer light banter and feigned compliments – a conversational skill I’d never mastered (and never would).

After talking for over two hours, we got ready for dinner, then picked up Dick-Dick.

*

During our two-hour tour through old Zanzibar, Dick-Dick seldom said a word to me.  I knew he was being included because it would not be proper for Eddie, a married man, to be seen escorting a single woman.  Yet Eddie didn’t seem worried about what Joseph might say.  I don’t think that Joseph belonged to the same Asian community as Eddie and Dick-Dick.  In East Africa, there were Ismaili, Goan, Parsee, Hindu, Sikh, Muslim, and Christian groups, all descended from workers who arrived from the Indian subcontinent.  To an outsider, the groups were difficult to distinguish; they dressed alike and had similar names and customs.  But different communities seldom mixed socially.   Eddie had made it clear in his letters that Joseph was not among his friends.

When we left for dinner, I wondered if we would run into Solange.  Zanzibar Town did not have a large population and Eddie certainly had known where to find us the night before.  Solange and I couldn’t communicate by phone because Joseph, like most Tanzanians, did not have a home telephone.  Eddie had one, but he also had a car, both signs of relative wealth.  Still, given Zanzibar’s small Asian populace, I thought we might encounter Solange on our evening outing.

We didn’t.  This reinforced my assumption that Joseph belonged to a different Asian group than Eddie and Dick-Dick.

At the restaurant, we didn’t mention Solange or Joseph, nor talk about families or work.  We had a carefree conversation about life in Dar, recreation in Zanzibar, and food.  Eddie ordered a curry fish dinner and I requested a moderate level of spiciness for my portion.  I could still remember the dinner prepared for me seven months earlier at an Indian café in Dar, my first curry meal.  Although hungry, I took two bites and couldn’t eat more; my mouth was on fire, a burning sensation that lasted for many hours.  Since then, I’d learned to tolerate a reasonable level of spice by smothering the dish with cool fresh fruit – slices of bananas, mangos, and avocados in particular.  Luckily our fish curry was accompanied by many cooling fruit sauces, which I piled on my plate – and then I ate the entire feast.  Tangy and sweet at the same time.  Delicious.

*

 The next morning, Eddie said, “After breakfast, we can take a trip to see the slave cave.  Dick-Dick has told me he knows where it can be found.”

Dick-Dick greeted us wearing a white shirt, white shorts and polished sandals.  I smiled to myself; he was dressed like Europeans in old colonial Africa, so unfashionable in the new Africa.  I wondered who he was trying to impress – Eddie or me.  Eddie, as usual, had donned another white shirt with rolled up sleeves, and black pants.  I imagined his closet: a row of black pants and white shirts with rolled up sleeves – a uniform suggesting nonchalance when in fact, I was beginning to realize, he was anything but carefree and easygoing.

We drove north, hugging the coast, gazing down on white sand beaches nestled amongst rocky cliffs.  Once we left the city, the road was empty; we might have gone by one or two other vehicles, but mostly it was just us, the highway, and a spectacular view.  Then the route jagged inland, passing through fields dotted by tall coconut trees amid shorter brush-like foliage.  We stopped to watch four African women working the rough land.  They were wearing western-style print dresses, which suggested they were Christian rather than Muslim.  African Muslim women wore black chadors – open cloaks flowing from the top of the head to the ankles, which were held together by clutching the loose sides with one hand.  Often, on the streets of Dar, I could see them laughing from behind this partial face veil, when they held the cloth away from their lips.  In Dar, non-Muslim African women wore brightly colored African-printed cloths wrapped around them.

   The four women walked towards the car, saying nothing; we probably appeared as extraordinary to them as they to us.  I pulled out my camera and they stood in line.  Unlike the Arab woman who had scurried away yesterday, they wanted their picture taken.

One of them, an old woman, displayed stretched earlobes and wore a faded African-print cloth slung over her shoulders like a cape.  The stretched earlobes and cape were traditional adornments used by the Maasai and other tribes living in the Tanzanian interior, but not by coastal Africans.  Like the Maasai, she had very short hair, slender facial features, and a proud gaze.  How had she ended up in Zanzibar?   Could she have been a former slave or the daughter of a former slave?  Zanzibar had a flourishing slave trade – one of its main sources of income – until slavery was abolished near the end of the nineteenth century, but the island continued to keep and export slaves, surreptitiously, for another 40 years.

My reflections were interrupted when Eddie started the car and Dick-Dick, in the back seat, consulted his map.  I’d always believed that Zanzibar was one large island.  Instead, Eddie explained, it was a group of islands, two large ones surrounded by many tiny ones, most of which were uninhabited.  Even the two large islands were relatively small, as each could be driven from tip to tip in less than three hours.  Their primary industry was agriculture and they were often called the “spice islands” because they exported cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, and black peppers.

After consulting his map, Dick-Dick said, “I think we turn here.”  A dirt road curved back towards the coastline.  There were no signs, the road got rougher, and Eddie asked, “Are you sure this is the correct way?”

We chanced upon the ruin of an old Arab house, its crumbling walls mostly intact although its portals – former windows and doors – were hollow.  Eddie walked around it, thoughtfully examining the inside layout, and then spoke to an Arab sitting on the ground in front of the gap where once a door stood.

When we got back into the car, Eddie said, “According to that fellow, the cave is a bit further down the road.”

Soon after, we stopped at the cave entrance.  Dick-Dick and I descended steep steps cut into the limestone rock.  Eddie took our picture, and then followed us.  After a 90-degree turn and a few more stairs, we were on sloping, uneven rock, the only light a dim beam seeping through the narrow slit at the entrance.

I cautiously took a few steps, moving downward towards the sound of running water.  The air smelled musty, damp.  Tentatively I advanced a bit further until it was pitch-black.  In my imagination, a row of chained slaves stood beside me.  How fearful they would have felt in this dark hole.  My mind echoed with their cries of despair, their wails and moans.  And although only imaginary images, I became frightened.  I moved back towards the light, where I would not be disturbed by eerie visions.

But Eddie continued downwards, moving meticulously among the rocks, caught up in the adventure, not at all disturbed by the blackness.  He reached the water.  This cave had been created by a natural stream flowing to the sea and was used clandestinely after slave trade was officially abolished.  The tunnel led to the ocean and slaves could be held in the chamber until safely loaded onto a boat.

Dick-Dick had joined me, and we waited together under the faint light until Eddie returned.  Then we all climbed back into the brilliant sunshine.

*

With no stops, we were back in town in 30 minutes.  At the market, we ate lunch while Eddie and Dick-Dick discussed plans for the afternoon.  They had expected the cave tour to take longer than it did.

“Prison Island,” Eddie said.

I overheard Dick-Dick say, “Restricted … no visitors allowed …” but didn’t hear Eddie’s reply.

Eddie turned to me and said, “We have decided to take you to Prison Island but first we must make a stop.”

We drove to the front of a three-story, white, colonial building, with balconies surrounding the second and third stories, many square windows, and an arch over the main door.

Eddie entered, followed by me, then Dick-Dick.  As we walked along quickly, I kept my eyes on Eddie but in my peripheral vision noticed rows of desks, and sitting behind them were clerks.  All males.  Most were African.  They stared at our small procession and I sensed hostility.  What was this foreign female doing in a restricted government building?  Eddie was oblivious to the stares.

We reached the top floor and Eddie entered an office while Dick-Dick and I stepped onto the balcony; I snapped a quick photo – looking down on buildings in the heart of Zanzibar.

Eddie returned and our procession wound down the stairs and across the main floor.  A few hostile stares lingered but most workers had returned to their tasks.

Eddie had obtained the keys to a motorboat owned by the government.

Shannon Moeser in front of Zanzibar door, July 5, 1964.

Shannon Moeser in front of Zanzibar door, July 5, 1964.

Dick-Dick and Shannon Moeser in front of open door in Zanzibar, July 5, 1964.

Dick-Dick and Shannon Moeser in front of open door in Zanzibar, July 5, 1964.

Dick-Dick and Eddie in front of Zanzibar door, July 5, 1964.

Dick-Dick and Eddie in front of Zanzibar door, July 5, 1964.

Dick-Dick and Shannon Moeser in Zanzibar street, near woman in burka, July 5, 1964.

Dick-Dick and Shannon Moeser in Zanzibar street, near woman in burka, July 5, 1964.

Car in narrow Zanzibar street (this was a two-way street), in July 5, 1964.

Car in narrow Zanzibar street (this was a two-way street), in July 5, 1964.

Fruit seller in Zanzibar market, July 5, 1964.

Fruit seller in Zanzibar market, July 5, 1964.

Four Zanzibar women on road to slave cave, July 6, 1964.

Four Zanzibar women on road to slave cave, July 6, 1964.

Arab ruin on way to slave cave, July 6, 1964.

Arab ruin on way to slave cave, July 6, 1964.

Dick-Dick and Shannon Moeser descending into slave cave, July 6, 1964.

Dick-Dick and Shannon Moeser descending into slave cave, July 6, 1964.

Rooftops of Zanzibar town taken from the third floor of a government building.  (Unfortunately the film was overexposed.)  July 6, 1964.

Rooftops of Zanzibar town taken from the third floor of a government building. (Unfortunately the film was overexposed.) July 6, 1964.

Zanzibar Holiday – Part 1

November 24, 2013 at 8:35 am | Posted in Africa Stories, Memoir -- Non-fiction Stories | 1 Comment
Tags: , , ,

A hole.  The toilet was a hole in the ground.  I wasn’t prissy.  As a teenager in Canada, I’d often used my aunt’s outhouse and just wrinkled my nose to block the stench.  This hole was more sanitary – there was water flowing into it – and didn’t smell nearly as bad as that outhouse.  But my western body had not developed the muscles needed to rise from a squatting position.  The wall was not close enough to use for balance; if I crouched too low, I would fall on my bum.  I peed – a bit – not very efficiently.  Luckily there was a shower nearby, so I washed.  But what would I do for the next three days?

*

Three weeks earlier, Solange had said, “Let’s go to Zanzibar for the Saba Saba holiday.”

And I thought, “Why not?  I’ve lived in Dar es Salaam seven months and haven’t seen hardly anything outside the city.”

So I helped Solange compose a letter seeking a place to stay – a note to Dr. Coutinho that included our photographs.  I’d never met him but Solange told me he often visited the U.N. office where we worked  A few days later, Solange mentioned that Dr. Coutinho had written to say he would not be in Zanzibar during the holiday, and so instead she’d made plans for us to stay with her friend Joseph and his family.  Joseph was part of Solange’s circle, not someone I’d have encountered through work or social functions.

On June 22, 1964, I received a letter from Dr. Coutinho.  His small, neat handwriting contrasted with his lavish, unrestrained prose.  After thanking me for “my very sweet letter” and describing how he was on a “secret job” that required quiet, he added:

How pretty Solange is – and you, wow!  Incidentally, I am married, although my wife is permanently in Nairobi – not divorced nor separated – but allowing me the liberties of life so soon.   

Then he continued:

My friends were disappointed that you and Solange were to stay with Joseph – that’s his name I presume.  They were planning to take you two out on a picnic to a neighbouring island … and on my suggestion would have shown you around Z’bar Island.  All that unlucky for me and without me.  You could then have had Monday with your host.  But your host will not like that, I am sure – too bad!    Nevertheless, please do write and let me know how you feel about it all.  Say what you want done – rub against the magic lamp – and my fair lady thy will shalt be done.

 He signed it, “Eddie, that’s me name.”  One small slip, me instead of my.  His first language would be one of the Indian dialects, his second probably Swahili.  English was likely his third language, yet he made only one error in two pages of dense handwritten prose.

When he previously responded to Solange’s request, possibly he had made a similar suggestion – that he could arrange for his friends to take us on a picnic and tour of the island.  If so, she hadn’t mentioned it when telling me that Eddie (Dr. Coutinho) would not be in Zanzibar during our visit.  Maybe she knew that accommodation with Joseph also meant that Joseph organized our entertainment.  Eddie’s mocking comment – too bad – suggested friction about his proposed scenario.  That could be why he was now writing directly to me.  Still, the trip had been Solange’s idea and she was making all arrangements, so I wrote Eddie a short note, thanking him for his concerns, and stating that Solange had already set up our schedule.  What I didn’t tell him was that I was feeling listless and was just going along with whatever Solange planned.  I attributed my low spirits to the fact that my boyfriend had been away from Dar for almost five months.

The day before we left, I received another letter.  This one was brief.  Eddie said he would be in Zanzibar during our visit.  He wrote:

I was not allowed by my Minister to go to Nairobi yesterday.  I must stay here for a very urgent job that entails ‘round the clock’ sessions.  I am still being hopeful that I might meet you – but if not do please be my guests some other time.

*

  Solange and I worked at the Dar es Salaam United Nations regional office.  Dar es Salaam was the capital of Tanzania (formerly Tanganyika).  Tanganyika was granted independence in 1961.  Of the approximately 4,500 Europeans who had been living there,  nearly 1,000 departed.  This exodus resulted in a shortage of English-speaking office workers.  Within a few days of arriving in Dar, I quickly obtained a job as an executive secretary, with my own private air-conditioned office, even though I was only 23.  Solange had no secretarial skills but spoke fluent English and Swahili, and easily found employment as a receptionist at age 20.

In Dar, there were three major racial groups – European, South Asian, and African.  Each had its own residential sections (one for Europeans, several for Asians and Africans).  This segregation was initially established by colonial policy and continued after independence through neighbourhood housing preferences.  Although I was European, I lived in the South Asian downtown area, boarding with Muslims – an Indian Ismaili family.

Solange was part African and part European, with possibly a bit of South Asian as well.  She had emigrated from the Seychelles with her mother and several younger siblings, living with them on the outskirts of the city, in an area accommodating many Christians – both African and Indian.  Solange was a devout Catholic.

Both of us had African boyfriends, but mine was no longer living in Dar and Solange was in the process of breaking up with hers, so a short vacation would help us forget our troubles.

East Africa in 1963-64

East Africa in 1963-64

When I arrived in Dar es Salaam, it was the capital of Tanganyika; now it was the capital of Tanzania.  Initially, Tanganyika was one of four countries forming British East Africa, the others being Kenya, Uganda, and Zanzibar.  Tanganyika was the first to gain independence – in 1961.  Independence was granted to Uganda in 1962 and to Kenya and Zanzibar in 1963.  A bloody coup occurred in Zanzibar on January 12, 1964, just one month after attaining independence.  The Sultan (with his Arab government) was overthrown and replaced by an African-led Revolutionary Council.  This occurred while I was living in Dar but all I remember about that incident was a bit of tension in the streets for a couple of weeks.  My work and social life carried on as usual.

Less than four months later, on April 26, 1964, Tanganyika and Zanzibar merged, forming a single country – Tanzania.  That was just six weeks before Solange suggested visiting Zanzibar during the Saba Saba holiday.  Saba Saba (Swahili for seven seven) was a festival held on July 7th in Dar es Salaam.  Our office would be closed Monday and Tuesday, July 6 and 7.

As the finishing touches of the alliance forming Tanzania had not yet been completed, Saba Saba would not be celebrated in Zanzibar this year, making it easy for Solange to find us accommodation.  For me, it was a great opportunity to visit another part of Africa at a relatively low cost.

*

On July 4th, Solange and I worked until noon, our usual Saturday quitting time, and then caught the ferry.  I carried a small navy bag containing two extra cotton dresses, a robe to wear when visiting the bathroom, extra underwear, a toothbrush, toothpaste, lipstick, and my camera.  My purse held my passport and a few shillings – enough money for a small emergency, not so much that I would worry if it disappeared.

For three hours, we suffered on uncomfortable wood benches.  The sky was deep blue, the ocean calm, but still our boat bobbed and rolled.  My stomach uneasy, my mind a bit hazy, I said little.  Usually we talked incessantly about work, our love lives, and our families.  Unlike most young women in Dar, we two were free – allowed to work, date, dance, travel alone, and make choices without male interference.  We wore simple cotton dresses, sleeveless, fitted to display our legs and the natural curves of our bodies.  This was what we always wore in Dar, which was cosmopolitan, even though about 65% of the population was Muslim.  We never thought that our attire might not be appropriate in Zanzibar, a conservative Muslim town seeped in Arab tradition.  The immigration officer, however, was surly, especially to me.  He eventually stamped our passports but we were restricted to a four-day visit.

Joseph, a South Asian, greeted us at the Zanzibar landing dock.  He had hired a cab to drive to his apartment, a short distance away, close to the sea and the town centre.

At Joseph’s apartment, we met his wife, who showed us our bedroom.  She said, “We have only two beds.  Our daughters can share one and you can share the other.”

They were twin beds.

I didn’t expect luxurious accommodations and had assumed that Solange and I would share a bed, but I worried about its size.  In Dar, I had learned to lie in the middle of my bed, with no part of me touching the mosquito net.  By sharing a small bed with Solange, parts of my body would brush against the net, and those blood-sucking fiends would land on vulnerable areas of my anatomy.  Throughout Joseph’s house, I could hear the high-pitched whine of mosquitoes, just waiting.

Nonetheless, after the long ferry trip, I just wanted to relax and soothe my queasy stomach.  I plopped on the bed besides Solange and we napped.  When we woke, I headed for the bathroom, and discovered the hole.

*

Our host had arranged to take us to dinner at a restaurant.  Solange and I wore our simple dresses; Joseph had donned a crisp new cotton shirt and his wife a light blue sari.  We strolled down the street, talking and laughing until we reached the restaurant, where Joseph was greeted by friends.  He had brought special guests – Solange and me.  In front of us were mangos, papaya, bananas, and guavas.  There was curried chicken and rice.  Plantains cooked with peanut curry. Lively music.  Non-stop chatter.

A man slipped into the seat beside me.  Unlike the others, he was dressed informally, wearing a simple white shirt, his sleeves rolled up.  He spoke only to me.  Eddie.  He was taking a break from work and would return to his office after dinner.

 In the middle of the festivities, I felt dizzy, sick.

“I need fresh air,” I said.

Outside I vomited.  On the sidewalk, thank God, not in the restaurant.  Eddie stood beside me.  I saw Solange, maybe Joseph …

“I need to lie down.”

Everything was a blur.  Eddie took charge.  I was in his car, then in a bedroom at his apartment.

“Lie here while I get a doctor,” he said.

How would he find a doctor on a Saturday night?  I only needed to rest awhile and I would be fine.

I removed my dress and draped it over the back of a chair.  Then I crawled into bed and covered myself with a sheet.  A few minutes later, Eddie arrived with a doctor, who examined me while Eddie hovered in the background.  “Malaria,” the doctor said.

How could I have malaria?  I took my quinine pill each morning.  But I had been feeling low lately.  Thought it was because I was lonely, my boyfriend now living in Cairo.  Maybe I had also been fighting an infection.

The doctor gave me medicine; I swallowed, and fell asleep.

*

In the middle of the night, I woke and saw the shadowy outline of a man.

Rape!  I’m going to be raped.

I vaguely remembered the doctor leaving as I fell asleep.  I was in an empty apartment with a stranger.  I didn’t move, though my eyes were open.  Did he realize I was awake?

As my vision adjusted to the darkness, I saw the figure clearly through the mosquito net.

Eddie sat on a chair.  His brows were furrowed, his gaze focused on my face.  He didn’t move, just stared like a grief-stricken father.  He barely knew me but he was worried.  He was watching over me, making sure I didn’t take a turn for the worse.  I relaxed, closed my eyes, and fell back to sleep.

*

A soft breeze blew through the window cooling the humid air.  Through half-opened eyes, I saw my navy bag by the door.  My mind was no longer groggy, my stomach no longer upset.  Still, it was my full bladder that impelled me to push aside the bed sheet, untuck the net, slip on my robe, and find the bathroom.  Relief.  Eddie had a real toilet.

Back in the bedroom, I dressed and then ventured into the kitchen.  Eddie sat at the table, writing.  He looked up and smiled. Not a broad smile, just a gentle, quizzical half-smile.

“I feel better now,” I said.

Eddie got up and sliced a banana into a bowl.  He suggested I try to eat while he fetched the doctor.

I ate and still felt hungry.  Eddie returned with the doctor who examined me, said my temperature was normal, gave me another pill, and told me to take it easy for the next few days.  Then the doctor left.

Eddie prepared us a small breakfast – a mango, sweet rolls and coffee.  I thanked him for looking after me and fetching my bag.

“Solange did the packing.” he said.  “I hope nothing is missing.  I invited Solange to come along and join us but she wished to stay with Joseph.”

When speaking about Solange’s decision, the tone of his voice implied criticism. Without addressing the topic directly, Eddie conveyed the message that he expected me to stay with him.  I knew that if I insisted, he would drive me to Joseph’s place.  But I didn’t really want to go.  Here I had my own bed, fewer mosquitoes, and a real toilet.

Solange and me in Dar before we went to Zanzibar.

Solange and me in Dar before we went to Zanzibar.

Solange in August 1964

Solange in August 1964

Myarchives.net Is Dead

March 19, 2013 at 4:14 pm | Posted in Non-fiction Essays | 30 Comments
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The My Archives Vintage Porn internet site has vanished.  In mid-October 2012, its picture gallery disappeared but regular members continued to visit by linking directly to discussion forums.  These forums, and other components such as the chatbox and private message system, remained intact.  At first we were told the gallery was backed up and would return online after a programmer updated the operating system.  But as time progressed, the gallery remained inaccessible and other structures stopped working.  When only the chatbox and discussion forums still functioned, I frantically started copying posts from my 36-page discussion thread.  Among the more than 800 posts to this thread were several thoughtful exchanges that I didn’t want to lose.  Another member told me how to quickly back up the entire thread; three days later, the website crashed.

My Archives lasted less than eight years.

***

How long should internet material endure?  Should it last as long as print material?  Will digital forms of communication replace printed matter?

A while ago, I decided to re-read a Ruth Rendell book of short stories that I first read in 1982.  It was not in my local library system, so I tried Amazon.  An anthology, consisting of her four published books of short stories, was issued in 1987 with several reprints.  Amazon’s third-party dealers were selling used copies.  For $6.50 (which included postage), I purchased a 1991 edition of Rendell’s Collected Short Stories in excellent condition, pages just slightly tinged yellow.  With careful handling, it will last another 30 years.  Ruth Rendell is now 83 years old but her writing will last long after her death.

***

I wonder if Tony T thought his comments would last at least a few years after he died.  Tony T was the moral centre of the My Archives discussion forums. Many visitors to the website ignored the discussion forums; they only were interested in looking at “dirty” pictures.  But a loyal group took part in the forum exchanges, where members analyzed and debated various aspects of the porn industry and model anatomy.  Whenever a discussion became contentious – and several did – Tony T would weigh in with a balanced comment.  Even when there was no controversy, Tony often posted comments that encouraged reflection on a topic.  He joined the community in 2005 when the site contained only photos taken prior to 1980.  About a month before the gallery disappeared, Tony wrote his final post, stating that his cancer treatment had not succeeded and he was moving to a hospice.  We don’t know if Tony has died, or whether his family tried to notify us only to find that they couldn’t enter the site using its entrance link.  Before My Archives vanished, one member was copying what he considered the most important discussion forums.  I don’t know how to access these copies.  All I have to remember Tony are a few private messages and his comments on my discussion thread.

***

Photos posted to My Archives were submitted by members – mostly scans of pictures found in vintage porn magazines.  Images from books that had lasted 40 to 60 years, as well as some 90-year-old postcards.  Print material endures!

Volunteers vetted the posts and ensured they were placed in correct folders.  The domain name was owned by “Tiger.”   He paid for the server space – a major expense given the huge number of posts each day, especially after the cut-off date was changed to 1989 in 2006 and to 1999 three years later.  The few advertisements, all for pay-for-view porn sites, were supposed to cover expenses.  They probably didn’t cover these costs, particularly when a major overhaul of the operating system was needed.

***

One reason expenses overran revenues was internet thievery.  Images posted on My Archives could be copied and pasted to another site.  I didn’t realize this at first, and by the time I discovered it, my pictures were published on numerous tumblr sites.  Tumblr is a network for sharing internet photos.  A visitor would capture an image from My Archives and post it on his/her tumblr site; others would “reblog” the original post until it circulated around the network.  My modelling name was usually included with the image (that’s how I acquired more fans); however My Archives was never identified as the original source, so it never received “value” from this circulation of its images.

Had I known my photos were going to be passed around the internet, I never would have put the private ones on My Archives.  These were pictures I owned that were not scanned from magazines.  Initially I hoped to sell some of these private shots as autographed pictures, but now anyone can copy them without my permission.

Within its own realm, tumblr is relatively innocuous.  Unfortunately, these images are captured by other internet users who place them on commercial websites.  I’ve found my photos on sites selling hair products and espousing political views I don’t agree with.

Other porn sites also contained photos copied from My Archives.  For example, one member found a photo of me on Vintage Stockings.  Although this image had originally appeared in a magazine and conceivably could have been scanned directly from that magazine, I knew that this one was captured from my post on My Archives; unique changes I had made to the magazine image were present also in the Vintage Stockings version.  Management at Vintage Stockings relies on posts by its members and members can “pass off” images taken from other websites as their own scans.

Similarly, some My Archives members posted images from other internet sources on My Archives.  The photo below was posted in the “Gloria Dawn” folder of the gallery by a member who did not know where he initially obtained it.  Since then, I have been trying to locate the original source.   I know it is a Ron Vogel shot and it looks like it appeared in a magazine – but not in any magazine I own.  (If anyone knows its original source, please let me know.)

Gloria Dawn photo posted on My Archives.  (Source unknown)

Gloria Dawn photo posted on My Archives. (Source unknown)

***

When it comes to stealing images, the worst perpetrators are eBay sellers.  About two years ago, other My Archives members informed me that eBay dealers were selling prints of photos I first posted on My Archives.  Because these photos contained my image, I was able to have the auctions stopped.  However, eBay will not halt auctions unless I find the offending photos and fill out a complicated form.  Finding the stolen images among the thousands published on eBay each day is the problem, and I must rely on friends to inform me about them.  In one year, I had photos removed from those listed by slipboy, fleamarketkings, your-usa-seller, ultrararefinds, arieteii and massrappc.  I started writing my name and “My Archives” on each new image I posted.  This didn’t stop the thieves.  Below, on top, is a private photo I just had removed from a listing by t50fox.  Beneath it is the original I posted.  You can see that t50fox simply cropped the image to remove its source (and then had to compensate by cutting off the top and bottom portions of the photo to fit it onto 8 x 10 photo paper).

Gloria Dawn photo being sold on eBay.

Gloria Dawn photo being sold on eBay.

Gloria Dawn photo I posted on My Archives.

Gloria Dawn photo I posted on My Archives.

I sent a message to t50 fox asking:

Did you copy this image off an internet post?

He replied:

I don’t recall the original source of the photo.  As a hobby, I have collected photos from many sources (scans, originals, downloads, etc.) for many years.

My photos are of little consequence to eBay thieves because I was a 1960s model, just one of the horde of unknown 60s vintage models (unknown at least until I joined My Archives).  For every print of my image they attempt to sell, they list 30 different photos of Bettie Page and 10 of Joyce Gibson.  Many of these images were initially published on My Archives.  In their eBay listings, print sellers use words to suggest that they are selling prints of original photos they posses; to mislead buyers, they use phrases like “reprinted from my personal collection,” “60s vintage print,” or “original print.”  What they really sell are copies of images downloaded from the internet.

People who originally posted these images cannot get the auctions stopped because eBay has no mechanism to allow for removal of pictures stolen from other internet sites.  (I can get my personal images removed because the sellers do not have my permission to advertise and sell pictures of me.)  As one former My Archives member wrote to me:

I can recognize my work most of the time and most of these jerks refer to their items as part of “their private collections.”  I knew my Bettie photos would show up elsewhere but I still get cranky when I see my stuff pop up unattributed.  When a dirty little scumbag appropriates a Bettie that I paid $200 for and then spent a gazillion hours reconstituting and refining, I can’t stifle my rage.  EBay won’t answer my complaints and it doesn’t give you a proper way to report thieves.

EBay makes money from these thieves, but given the millions of legitimate auctions that take place each day, I wonder whey they facilitate felonious behaviour to earn a few thousand dollars a year.

***

The internet is still evolving and many who initially flocked to publish material have discovered that ideas and images are easily stolen.  Many sites will disappear during the next few years; their stories and pictures will vanish.  Newspapers have already found that it was not a good idea to provide information free of charge.  Porn sites that once offered free access are now charging their customers.  At present, I post my images on www.gloriadawn.wordpress at a low dpi and small size so clear prints cannot be produced from them.  They still can be shared by tumblr members using small-sized viewing devices, but if the effort and cost of maintaining my website becomes too onerous, and no one wants to purchase autographed photos, this site too will come down.

***

In an email to me, Tony T wrote:

Like you my main interest lies in the true vintage and retro periods, although I also like the early days of photography, the 1860s onwards – I think the ladies of the 1900s/1920s like the Ziegfeld beauties are something else.

My own feelings about the site have been gradually changing since they allowed firstly the 80s some years back when I voiced an opinion that it was the thin end of the wedge, then the 90s.  This latter has resulted in a takeover of modern posts that can be found on any porn site.

When I visited MA yesterday there were five pages of new posts since my previous visit the day before.  Four of the pages were 1990s videos.  In the gallery updates there were again five pages of which the major proportion was either 1990s models or silicone enhanced 1980s ones.  There were two sets of pictures from Harrison Marks Kamera magazine and a couple of other pictures that were of interest – so I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.

All this from a site that started out to archive vintage and retro material before it was lost in the mists of time!

Like Tony, I feel that the site lost its original mandate once 1990s material was added.

***

My Archives is dead.  The list of model indices for the 1950s and 1960s – a massive undertaking – is no longer available.  It served as a wonderful resource for identifying models.   Many vintage models who had been identified and allotted folders will return to being “unknown.”  No other porn site provided this service for the vast number of women who graced figure magazines printed in the 1960s.  (The Spiderpool group is still attempting to identify a select group of models who worked during the 1950s.)

I miss the back-and-forth interactions with others who appreciated the classic porn era, interactions that provided information about the industry that I wasn’t aware of, even though I worked in it.  Now I still post stories about my experiences on my two wordpress blogs, but this format does not allow for back-and-forth discussions.

Perhaps it was inevitable that My Archives would die given the unhampered capturing of its images, the lack of protection from theft.  I am seriously wondering if I should continue to maintain the gloriadawn blog, or whether I should just write my stories and self-publish a few copies of a book to give to family and friends.  At least print endures.

Nude in Black and Blonde

March 13, 2013 at 6:24 pm | Posted in Memoir -- Non-fiction Stories, Modelling Stories | 14 Comments
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It’s 1963 in Los Angeles and I’m twenty-two and restless, bored by office work and trying to revive my career as a figure model. Pictures of me as a blonde have appeared in a dozen men’s magazines, so my hair is now black. Change the hair colour, change the name and readers will think it’s a new girl. That’s what people in the business believe.

My agent books me with new photographers and between sessions I work at one- and two-day office positions for a temp agency. When not on a job, I share stories with other girls living at the Hollywood Studio Club. We’re all young and employed – or trying to find employment – in the entertainment industry. A few of my friends seek stardom, but most, like me, are just looking for a bit of glamour, some excitement. Figure modelling is not a long-term career. My future, I believe, lies in finding the right man, but since my “great romance” disintegrated eight months earlier, no special man has turned up.

Black hair may be hindering my quest for a new relationship. In my case, it appears true that “blondes have more fun.” But as a brunette, I’m getting more bookings.

In mid-June, Bill, my agent, phones to arrange a modelling session with Elmer Batters. I met Batters once, in Bill’s office, and vaguely remember seeing the two men hunched over my photographs. A matched pair, I thought, two middle-aged jowly men, with forgettable faces, thick waists and thinning hair.

The next morning, Batters parks in front of the Studio Club and I slip into the passenger seat clasping the leather hatbox that stores my modelling accessories: black bikini panties; black garter belt; black bra; sheer pink baby-doll peignoir; tight blue slacks; blue sweater with buttons opening down the front; open-toed gold shoes with two-inch heels; and a makeup kit containing eyeliner, mascara, eyebrow pencils, and several shades of lipstick.

I’m wearing white bikini panties, a white garter belt and an armour-like white bra designed to support large breasts. Its clasps are unfastened; when they are hooked, the bra’s straps pull tight, leaving deep red grooves in my shoulders. So I’m wearing a dress over a loosely swinging bra. My long-sleeved, flowing shirtwaist dress is white with a green leaf pattern; it’s office apparel, not a modelling accessory.

Elmer Batters drives east towards the San Fernando Valley and then beyond into the desert. He says little. Most photographers attempt to put me at ease by conversing prior to a shoot.

We ride for an hour until we reach a desolate road, finally stopping at a derelict movie set. Not much remains except scruffy wooden planks and crumbling plaster buildings. Beside this deteriorating structure is a railway track leading nowhere. A gurgling stream runs nearby; no other sound permeates the silence.

From the back seat of his car, Batters pulls out black nylon stockings with seams that he asks me to exchange for my pale seamless ones. He also hands me a pair of black stiletto shoes. But he doesn’t want me to remove my dress, just my bra. He shoots pictures of me in the dress, top buttons open, with my breasts revealed but still supported, making them appear full and firm. I pose on a concrete ledge dangling my legs over the creek, leaning against the front of his car, sitting on a faded wooden sidewalk and standing in front of a tattered screen. Finally, he asks me to remove the dress. Now I’m wearing only white panties, white garter belt, black nylons and black stilettos. With no support, my breasts droop.

Behind the buildings is a rusty dump truck, its front wheels propped on blocks. I’m beside the truck. Click. My foot rests on the high step below the cab. Snap. After Batters covers the tattered seat with a towel, I sit sideways. Clack. I’m inside the cab, curled in the grungy passenger seat, my feet resting on the dashboard. Whirr. Was it only a week ago that I was lounging seductively on a red brocade sofa?

I rely on photographers to tell me how to pose my body; I control the tilt of my head and facial expressions. But sometimes Batters shoots photos before I’m ready – so there’s no seductive smile, no sparkle in my eyes. And he doesn’t seem to care about my sagging breasts.

After I climb down from the cab, he leads me to the railway track where I totter on one rail wearing the stilettos. No longer worried about my looks, I concentrate on keeping upright. My feet are sore. I’m wobbling. The shoes must go! Returning to the car, I remove the hated footwear and change into my low-heeled pumps. Batters sighs. Then he guides me to a cluttered room with a low ceiling and slight mouldy odour. I straddle a rusty bathtub in my stocking feet, balancing on tip-toe. A dirty mattress covers much of the floor. Batters rolls up his towel to make a pillow and I lie on this mattress, but my body is stiff and I don’t smile or look towards the camera.

Batters snaps his photos quickly. Then we leave that stuffy cellar and head for the car. While he stores his cameras and tripod in the back seat, I fold my dress, carefully pack it in my case and then slip on my pants and sweater. Despite being parked in the shade, the auto is hot. Batters opens all four doors. When shooting in the crisp desert air, a gentle breeze cooled my semi-naked body. Now sweat runs down my forehead. Batters rummages through his back seat, finds two Coke bottles and flips off the caps. Although the pop is warm, I sip mine gratefully.

I start a conversation and Batters responds. We talk about the weather and then I introduce the topic of models and their looks. My ideal is the Playboy image – the glamorous, full-bosomed beauty.

Batters presses his lips tight. He says, “Men don’t want to look at fake women.”

“They aren’t fake,” I respond. “Men like to look at pretty girls.”

“No, they don’t. They want to look at the type of girls they see every day. Ordinary girls … naked. Girls they know they can get.”

He twists to the back seat, gropes around, and pulls out a magazine. Flipping it open, he shows me a page. “Look,” he says, “She is my most popular model because she doesn’t look special. She looks like someone a man can date.”

I glance through his photos. The model is average-looking, but she does things with her mouth that remind me of oral sex. When I point this out to Batters, he doesn’t respond, but instead tosses the magazine into the back seat and starts the car.

We stop at a bungalow in the San Fernando Valley. Most of my modelling stints occur in houses – places belonging to friends of the photographer – but previously these have been upscale homes, tastefully decorated. This is a shabby one-bedroom cottage with cracks at the bottom of the door. Its furniture appears to have come from a thrift shop: pink sheers covering the front-room windows, a matted sheepskin rug in front of an old tan sofa; a starburst clock above the fireplace mantel; a lime-green lamp; and, in the bedroom, purple curtains matching a purple bedspread.

I smell no whisper of perfume, no whiff of food. The place feels unoccupied – another forlorn setting, different from the desert but emitting the same sense of loneliness.

Before shooting begins, I hurry into the bathroom, splash water on my face, dab it dry, reapply my lipstick and touch up my eyebrows. I attempt to fluff my hair but my bangs stick to my forehead. In the desert, my hair had a soft wave; it flattened in that hot car. No hope for the bangs; backcombing gives the top some lift. Batters may not want me to look pretty – but I do.

I emerge from the bathroom wearing black underwear and embodying a new resolve. When he seems about to shoot, I lower my eyelids and don’t raise them until I’m ready. Dipping my chin, forming a half-smile, I look into the camera lens; this is my technique for simulating sexual desire in my photos. I hold my chest high and my shoulders back, raise my arms whenever possible, and thus make my breasts curve upward and appear fuller. Batters takes photos of me sprawling on the bed, stretching over the sofa, and sitting, cross-legged, in front of the fireplace. In only a few shots am I totally nude; in most, I’m wearing black panties, garter belt and nylons – and sometimes my open-toed gold shoes.

A lot of the time, Batters’ head is bowed while he views me through cameras. When he looks up, he doesn’t meet my eyes. Is he shy? He seldom speaks, simply waves an arm to direct my movements.

Finally we finish and he drives me back to the Studio Club; I have just enough time to clean up before walking downstairs to join friends for dinner.

That night in bed, I cannot stop thinking about Batters’ comment. He takes pictures of “ordinary girls.” In person, I do look ordinary as a brunette. In photographs, it’s different. The contrast between dark hair and my pale complexion can appear dramatic. That’s why some photographers place me in lavish settings: kneeling by an electric blue wall, reclining on a red brocade sofa, or huddling among lush green foliage. But I have large eyes, a stubby upturned nose and rosebud lips – childlike features, not dramatic ones. In person, with dark hair, I do not look striking. Men never fawned over me before I became a blonde.

Photographs be damned. I hate vivid colours. With fair hair, pale makeup and subdued clothes, I feel at ease; men notice me. I want to be blonde again.

The next day, I purchase hair supplies. To save money, I’ll do it myself. I’ve watched hairdressers bleach my hair for five years. How difficult can it be?

***

I have orange hair. Bright. Orange. Hair.

Around my scalp is a one-inch halo of pale yellow hair. The rest, the part previously dyed black, is now orange. I mix another package of bleach, cover the orange for an hour, then wash it out. My hair is a slightly lighter, even brighter, orange.

I wear a wig to dinner and consult with girls at several tables.

“You should go to Clairol,” one suggests. “They’ll know what to do.”

Unknown to me – and most other people – Clairol maintains a private salon in Hollywood where new products are tested. The girls chosen as models receive free hair services.
The next day, at Clairol’s beauty parlour, a colour expert examines my hair. She says, “You should have used a colour stripping process before you tried to bleach dyed hair.”

I’ve never heard of their colour stripping product. It isn’t sold in regular stores with their bleaches and toners. If I’d gone to a hairdresser…

The colour expert applies the stripping solution, waits an hour and washes it out. My hair is a slightly dimmer orange. “There’s no way to get the dye out now,” the expert says. “We’ll have to use a toner to mask it.”

Miraculously, she finds one, a dark blonde toner that turns my hair golden. A stylist trims the frizzled ends and I leave the salon with an appointment in two weeks. I will be their training model for “what to do when disaster strikes.”

I visit my agent to show him my new look. He takes four head shots, examines the prints and says they appear fine. He doesn’t have another photo session lined up but says, “There’s a big job coming soon. A soft core movie. It’s going to be another Immoral Mr. Teas.”

I know that Mr. Teas was a surprise hit featuring bare breasts and humour. However, Bill’s contacts in the entertainment industry are limited to photographers; he processes their colour film. A year earlier he couldn’t arrange trade show employment for me. Now he thinks he can get me a movie part?

I visit the temp office and they have a two-day job with a talent agency, one that evolves into a two-week position. My first day there, Martin, an entertainment lawyer, drops by, notices me and asks me out. Maybe I don’t have model bookings but I’m having fun, as Martin escorts me to restaurants and nightclubs. I’m blonde again. My social life has revived.

A month later, Bill calls. The movie job has come through. A four-day booking. One hundred dollars a day, double my usual rate. Fantastic!

Later, I reflect. How did I get this job without an audition? Topless girls in a soft core movie don’t need to act but they must look alluring on the screen. How a model moves in front of the camera is just as important as breast size.

Two days later, I drive to the studio, a warehouse in the San Fernando Valley. A makeup artist applies foundation to my face and neck (but not my body), and then skillfully highlights my lips and eyes. She is followed by a hair stylist who backcombs my weakened hair to give it volume. I join two other girls. We’re all clad in skimpy black satin underpants and black nylons (with seams) that have tight elastic bands to keep them from falling down (so no garter belts). I’m wearing my gold shoes with the two-inch heels. The three of us are standing outside the makeup room, awkwardly staring at walls, because there has been a delay in shooting our scene; the crew and movie camera are in another section of the warehouse, filming an episode that was supposed to be completed yesterday. Shivering in the cool hall, I drape my blue sweater around my shoulders and clutch the top.

A familiar face appears. Elmer Batters. He catches my eye, holds up his right hand and crooks his finger to indicate “come here.” He leads me to a room containing two large beds and begins taking photos, this time working with me, watching my eyes, waiting until I’m ready. He is the film’s still photographer. I know now how I got this gig.

Photos That Never Made The Cover

January 18, 2013 at 9:24 pm | Posted in Photo Groups | 5 Comments
Tags: ,

These “Gloria Dawn” photos were shot by Ron Vogel with the intention of becoming cover photos but were never published.

Gloria Dawn in Blue (1) by Ron Vogel

Gloria Dawn in Blue (1) by Ron Vogel

Gloria Dawn in Blue (2) by Ron Vogel

Gloria Dawn in Blue (2) by Ron Vogel

Gloria Dawn in Black Lace (1) by Ron Vogel

Gloria Dawn in Black Lace (1) by Ron Vogel

Gloria_Dawn_black_lace (2) by Ron Vogel

Gloria_Dawn_black_lace (2) by Ron Vogel

Gloria_Dawn_black_lace (3) by Ron Vogel

Gloria_Dawn_black_lace (3) by Ron Vogel

Favorite Face Photos

October 17, 2012 at 3:44 pm | Posted in Photo Groups | 6 Comments
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These are some of my favorite “Gloria Dawn” face photos. Several of them have been cropped from larger photos:

Gloria Dawn by Ron Vogel

The above photo is one that was never published. It was taken by Ron Vogel in May 1962. Here my eyes and hair colour are correct, whereas in many published photos, my eyes are brown and my hair is whiter than it really was.

Gloria Dawn by Bill Margate

Another photo that was never published. It was taken by my agent, Bill Margate, in January 1962. It was never intended to be published, but formed part of my portfolio shown to photographers. This was the first photo in which I showed my teeth when I smiled; before viewing this, I had always smiled with a closed mouth.

Gloria Dawn by Michael LeRoy

This one was taken by Michael LeRoy in May 1963. Again, that big smile. Again, never published.

Gloria Dawn by Ron Vogel (2)

Here I’m more pensive. This photo was also taken by Ron Vogel — this time in February 1962 — and although this particular version was never published, a similar photo was published in Bachelor’s Best in 1964.

Gloria Dawn by Ron Vogel (3)

Another photo by Ron Vogel, with a flirting look. Again a photo that was never published. Taken in May 1962.

Gloria Dawn by Donald Klumpp.  (Published in Escapade, Dec 63)

Gloria Dawn by Donald Klumpp. (Published in Escapade, Dec 63)

A nice photo of my face taken by Donald Klumpp and published in the December 1963 issue of Escapade.  Klumpp took several good pictures of me but only published one set (in Escapade).  See also:  http://pinupmemories.wordpress.com/2013/02/10/gloria-dawn-aka-shannon-m/ for an excellent copy of Klumpp’s Escapade centerfold taken at the same time as the above picture.

Gloria Dawn by Michael LRoy.  (Published in Monsieur, 1964.)

Gloria Dawn by Michael LRoy. (Published in Monsieur, 1964.)

A colour photo by Michael LeRoy that was published in Monsieur magazine.  LeRoy took only a few colour photos during his shoot.

Gloria Dawn by Elmer Batters

This photo by Elmer Batters was taken in June 1963. It was published in Nylon Jungle, v1 n6 (1963). Again, that flirty look.

Gloria Dawn by Elmer Batters.  (Published in Late Show and called "Leslie Southern" in the magazine.)

Gloria Dawn by Elmer Batters. (Published in Late Show and called “Leslie Southern” in the magazine.)

Another photo by Elmer Batters, this time taken when I had dark blond hair.  It was published in Late Show and I was called “Leslie Southern” by the magazine.

Gloria Dawn by Michael LeRoy (2)

Here is another unpublished photo by Michael LeRoy, taken in May 1963. This one is somewhere between a flirt and a smile.

Gloria Dawn by Ron Vogel (4)

Ron Vogel published several pictures of me laughing. He was the only photographer who was able to capture me while in the midst of a laugh. This one was was taken in February 1962 and published in Sir, 1966. Unfortunately the magazine’s print quality was poor, and so this is not a high-quality photo. But it is a good laugh.

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