by Anne Wheeler
“Yes, he was. So, I quit school, and I came home. This is where I belong. This is where I like to live, where I trust the people. Now you tell us another story.”
“I will tell you all a story, and you — I gesture to all of them — tell me your stories. They don’t need to be long stories —” “We have excellent stories.” He cuts me off, a little defensive. “We have many stories, short and long. We will tell you story for story.”
“Good. Good, that seems fair.”
So, we begin a volley. All through the night, we trade stories. And what amazes me is that, from this firepit on the shores of the Indian Ocean, my country seems more extraordinary to me than ever before. Growing up, I thought it so ordinary. I dreamed of living in Europe and other exotic places. Like Africa! What I tell them now about my country seems as exciting and strange to me as it does to them. I come from a place where grizzly bears come down from the mountains in the spring in search of food after sleeping for months; where ice fog hangs in the air so thickly you can’t see your own feet; where sap that weeps from the trunk of a maple tree is boiled into syrup, then thrown into the snow where it turns into candy.
I tell stories about my youth, my family, the people I know. I used to stand up bareback on my horse and race my cousin across the endless, empty flatlands where hundreds of thousands of buffalo used to graze. Now the buffalo are all gone. I realize that as a kid I had such freedom; we could stop and camp wherever we wished and nobody worried. As long as we did our chores and got good marks at school, we were pretty much on our own.
I tell them about my godfather who wandered the far North, where the sun never sets in the summer and never comes up in the winter. He was looking for gold. For decades he lived with the Eskimos — as they were called in those days — who taught him how to survive. He learned how to build a house from a particular kind of snow. I explain that to people in the North, there are many kinds of snow, such as snow falling, snow on the ground, and snow used to make houses.
We have indoor swimming pools that are heated by boilers all through the long dark winters, and stock car races where drivers smash into each other on purpose. Our cowboys and cowgirls drive the cattle up into the highlands in the summer and bring them back to the ranches for the winter. Our soldiers have fought wars on the other side of the planet against people they knew nothing about — some of them never came home and nobody knows what happened to them.
In return, they tell me about clearing huge tracts of land for the sisal plantations. Kanu’s grandfather worked for a German who brought the first plants over from Mexico in the belly of a stuffed crocodile. Some of them spent their lives building churches for missionaries who told them that if they believed in Jesus, they would never die. In the early days, many members of their tribe sailed off on trading ships and didn’t come back. Nobody knew what happened to them. They tell me about racing ostriches and about dolphins that come to the sound of drumming, chasing the fish into the small bays so people can catch them with their bare hands. They tell me about squid who remember wrongdoings and seek revenge, about boats washing up on their beaches — some of them ransacked by pirates. Others mysteriously empty of people but full of food.
After several hours, I am offered a drink of tombo, a strong home brew, and the questions become more personal and direct.
“Yes, I was expected to get married at around twenty-one years of age and I was expected to be a virgin.” That is so funny and extraordinary to them that I have to say it a number of times in a number of ways before they comprehend.
“How could a woman be a virgin when she is so old? Are you a virgin?” they ask seriously.
I am red-faced and try to laugh it off. “That is too personal.”
Hasani can’t translate personal. But he says something that satisfies them for now.
“Do you go to church?” someone asks. I admit that I rarely do.
Some women tell me that they start having sex when it’s natural — when it is meant to be. That is the way they are made. When you are hungry, you eat. When you are afraid, you run. When you want to mate, you mate. The Christians told them that they had to wait for permission from God or they would go to Hell — but then, those who didn’t wait, didn’t go to hell or anywhere, so they began to question the power of this “God.” One woman my age has six children. Most have three or four. Hanu and his wife, Leela, have many great-great-grandchildren.
“Yes, I am twenty-four and not married. No, I don’t have children. Yes, that was my choice. Of course, I use birth control.”
What a sorry specimen I must be in their eyes. A woman of twenty-four with no children, who takes pills to prevent a pregnancy. They have never heard of birth control. They want to have children — it’s a measure of their worth, it’s a source of happiness, and it’s part of life’s journey. It’s the whole point of being alive, Leela tells me.
I don’t make sense to them. “What are you doing here, all by yourself? Where is your family? Where are you going? Why did you leave? What are you looking for here?” The simple questions are the hardest to answer. Why did I leave my widowed mother at home to live alone? I stammer and contrive answers that are impossible to defend. I realize my mother must be wondering what has happened to me. By now she must think I am married. I will have to send her a telegram telling that I changed my mind.
Suddenly, I miss her terribly.
Here I see three and four generations sitting together, living together in tiny houses, while my family is scattered around the world. My mother sold our family home because her children moved away and rarely come home; there was no reason to have a big house. I have cousins I have not seen for fifteen years. I have degrees I may never use. Here they are struggling to build a school so that they can find work in a world that is quickly descending upon them. They know they must adapt, but what will be sacrificed in doing so?
In the early morning sun, I succumb to my fatigue and fall asleep by the fire. I wake up to hear my car purring like a happy cat. It is fixed and ready to go. Hasani shows me what they have done. They have made several new fuses and have repaired the circuitry with tin foil from cigarette packages. It should last until I get to my brother’s home in Tanga.
Apparently, in Uganda, when I took my car into a garage to have my tires replaced and my horn fixed, the mechanic replaced the fuse with a bullet! Last night, when I heard the truck coming and banged on the honker, the bullet fired! Luckily, it was facing away from me.
All my stuff has been neatly packed inside my car and they have tied a huge basket of mangoes to the roof. I guess they noticed how many I ate this morning!
After many hugs, I offer them my camera, but they laugh and ask me to take their picture. Unfortunately, I have no film left; it’s all been exposed. Hasani apologizes with a shrug. “We will have to remember each other by the stories we have told,” he says.
I look at their loving faces. The tattoos and filed teeth are secondary to how I see them now. “I will remember you all. Always. You saved my life.”
“I am sorry if we scared you at first. You were strange to us.”
“And you to me! I’m glad my car broke down! It was like a gift from the gods — exactly what I needed.” I learned more about Africa in one short night than I had in the previous seven months. And I learned a lot about myself as well.
Hasani shakes my hand. “We will always remember the mwandishiwahabari from the far North, with her tiny skirt and her big voice.”
“The mwandishiwahabari?”
“The storyteller. Yes, that is what you are!”
“Well, I never thought of myself that way before — but I like the idea. I loved what we shared last night — it lifted my spirits.”
“That is how we will remember you,” says Hasani, “and your extraordinary country. So different. I could not live like you, wandering about. I would feel lost.”
“Sometimes being lost opens up new possibilities. It brought me to you.” Hasani likes this idea; he
thinks it is amusing. “But,” I add, “I could not live like you either. I would be restless.”
“If you were not travelling, and I was not here, we would not have met. We are both fortunate that our lives have crossed.”
“Yes, we are.”
I shake hands with every one of the villagers. The young boys try to attack me from behind, but this time I grab them and give them a “grizzly bear hug.”
The old man, Kanu, seems sad to see me go. “Thanks for backing me up last night. I know it was difficult for you,” I say to him. He holds my hand tightly and nods; he doesn’t need a translation.
His wife gives me some beads. “She made from an aluminum cooking pot,” he tells me. “She got it from some third-world aid program. But when she cooked with it over an open fire, everything burned.”
“Asante. I will keep them forever.”
My world has shifted. I feel like I am leaving one life behind and starting another. This visit has been a transition of sorts. And being with these people has made me hungry for the prairies, for my family and friends. With a sweet sense of optimism, I am going home. Everything seems possible again.
As Dudu and I head down the road, I hit my horn and it works! I see the villagers in my rear-view mirror, cheering me into the future.
SYNCHRONIZING 16-MM FILM FOOTAGE TO SOUND, FILMWEST, 1977. ANNE WHEELER ARCHIVES.
DOWNSIDE UP
Edmonton, 1972
IT’S AN ARDUOUS JOB synchronizing 16-mm film footage to sound, cranking the 1000-foot reels back and forth, finding the clapboard slates (when they exist) and lip-reading, trying to guess what people are saying, then finding it on the magnetic tape (when they don’t). For hours, I’ve been down in the unfinished basement of our offices, standing at our makeshift bench, splicing and taping the takes together, when I hear the phone ringing in the reception area upstairs. Our office manager, Joanie, is not answering — she must have gone out, I guess. So, I leave the reels spinning and race to answer it, thinking it might be the guys calling from a pay phone down near Drumheller, where they are shooting today.
Maybe they need something.
Maybe it’s my mom reconfirming supper.
Maybe it’s a bill collector. Heaven knows we’ve been hearing from them a lot lately.
“Good afternoon. Filmwest Associates,” I answer, in a cheerful, sweet voice, sounding like a receptionist in an upscale trendy office, rather than the tired and sweaty gal that I am.
“Hi ... is Dale in?” The voice is big and deep.
“Ah, no he isn’t. Can I help you?”
“You the secretary?”
“Ah, no. She’s not here today. I’m a partner here.” I say this with confidence, though I’m not sure that the term partner is a legal one. We’re a company, a collective, a co-op — depending on who it is we’re talking to these days.
“A partner?” He pauses in disbelief. I hold the silence. “Well,” he continues, “I’m phoning from the Saddle Lake Reserve, eh? Dale and I were talking about your company doing some filming up here. You know about this?”
I remember this guy. I think he’s the chief. We had several meetings with him and different members of his council last winter — they have one of the most progressive reserves in Alberta and have secured some substantial grants, big money, to spend on educational initiatives. I had better handle this call very carefully — it could lead to something big.
“Of course I know about this,” I answer, not mentioning that I was at those meetings. “You are developing your own curriculum and want to make a number of films in your own language. Fantastic project. We’re very excited about working with you on this.”
“Oh ya?” He sounds encouraged. “Well, what we want is for one of your guys to come up here and do a bit of filming. Tomorrow.
“Tomorrow?” I stutter. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
“Well, tomorrow is the beginning of something big. We’re going to turn over the land, plough it up for the first time, eh?”
“Really! First time? That is historic.” I mean it.
“Ya. Our people ... we were never farmers but things change, eh? We are trying to find a new way to live off this land. Going into the farming business, planting crops. I talked to Dale about this and he said I should call and let him know so we could try this filming thing out ... have a test run and see how we get along, you know?”
“Oh sure, of course. Good idea.”
He talks on and on about the tractor they bought while I keep pondering exactly what I should say here.
“We thought we’d be doin’ this a month ago, but there’s been a lot of rain up here, so we had to wait ’til it dried up a bit. So send your cameraman here tomorrow morning. Saddle Lake Reserve. Okay?”
“Sounds great.” I muster some assurance. “We’ll get someone up there with a camera. What time?”
He doesn’t respond. I wait for a moment and can hear him talking to someone else, but can’t make out what he’s saying — he must have his hand over the receiver. Then he comes back on the line. “Where’s Dale?”
“We’re doing a film for the National Film Board of Canada south of Drumheller, about three or four hours from here. He’s with the crew.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. “Anybody else there?”
“No, just me right now. But don’t worry. I’ll call Dale and the other guys. We’ll get this organized.”
“You got a number for them?”
“No, they’re on the road. They’ll call in, but I can get this organized for you.”
He’s not easy with this. “When’s he coming back? We’re going to start early, eh? About nine.”
I hear more muffled voices asking him questions. I can hear him respond, “It’s only her there; she’ll speak to the guys later — they’re on the road. We got no choice.”
I’m feeling put down, so I decide to go for it. “Dale calls in every night,” I lie. “We’ll make it happen, don’t you worry. We’re all equals here,” another lie, “and we make decisions together. If Dale said we’ll do this for you ... as a trial shoot ... then we will.”
He’s still not happy. “Tell Dale to call me. I gave him my card,” he says with finality.
“It might be pretty late.”
He’s already hung up.
I have no idea how I am going to pull this off. The guys, all eight of them, have taken every piece of equipment we own with them and are not due back for several days.
I leave a message for Dale at the hotel where the crew is staying, but don’t expect to hear from him tonight. I can’t wait — I know there are no 16-mm cameras available in Edmonton, so I’ll have to hustle and get one flown in from Vancouver. It’s an hour earlier out there. If I call now, they’ll get a camera package on a plane first thing in the morning, and I can pick it up before heading north. I’m not sure how we will pay for it, but I can’t dwell on that detail right now.
Dale does call back, curious. His first thought is that I have found something technically wrong with the footage they’ve been shooting. They sent it off from Calgary to Vancouver a week ago, and I’m the only one who has seen it. After reassuring him that the shots look good — but I wish they would remember to use the clapboard and not just roll — I tell him what I’ve done.
He’s staggered. “No kidding! I’ve been waiting to hear from this guy for weeks. I thought they must have changed their minds about us. He was talking about bringing someone in from the States.” He gathers his thoughts and takes charge.
“Listen, Wheeler, we need to impress these guys. If they like what we do, it could set us up for years. We should send Rico up to shoot it.”
Rico is our best shooter. We all know that, but it’s not the way it’s supposed to work around here. There are ground rules. We all get paid the same, no matter what job we are doing, and we rotate the jobs so that no one gets stuck doing something tedious (like synchronizing rushes) multiple times in a row (like yours truly).
We present ourselves to the outside world as though we are a political experiment, each receiving 250 dollars a month, all work valued the same, but the reality is that some jobs are more valued than others and some personalities have more clout. So there is a hierarchy, whether we want to acknowledge it or not. Being the only woman filmmaker, I am a little paranoid and suspicious that I’m not in on every decision.
“You don’t need to send Rico for this, Dale! I can do it.”
For some reason, I have never been sent out alone with a camera, though I have been everyone’s assistant. Sometimes I get to shoot second camera (extra shots for the film), and so far my footage has turned out okay — not brilliant, but okay. I just need more experience.
“Wheeler, we can’t fool around here.”
“I’m not fooling around here! If I were anyone else sitting here in Edmonton, like one of you guys, there would be no question. You’re all working down there. And I’m here. Ready to go. I’ve shot stuff. Nothing has ever gone wrong — except for when I loaded the film in backwards — but that was more than a year ago! You know and I know that it is long past my turn to shoot.”
“Maybe, but that’s not the point.”
“Well, what is the point, then? We’re a ‘collective’ remember?”
He stumbles for words. “Well, I’ve talked to this guy a lot and, ah, he has certain expectations.”
“Expectations?” I am finding it hard to hold down my anger. “Like a bunch of guys going up there and doing something heroic together?”
“We’ve had a few beers. He’s a good guy.” That’s the closest he’s going to get to a confession.
I resist the impulse to verbally go for his throat. It will get me absolutely nowhere. Calming myself down, I try the reasonable approach.
