Desert Flower

by Dirie, Waris

  “Don’t worry about it just stay in my room.” After years of experience, it came naturally to me to play the mother. In fact, my friends called me Mama, because I always wanted to mother everybody. “I’m not going to say anything, Naomi.”

  When we started to work in the morning, two girls would go first and get their hair and makeup done. Then, while they were on the set getting their pictures taken, the next two would get ready, and so on. The first morning that the hairstylist started working on me, I told him to chop it all off. Back then, I was pretty chunky for a model; I had all that nice juicy McDonald’s meat on me. So I wanted my hair short, to make me look more fashionable. The stylist kept cutting and cutting, until almost nothing was left my hair was about one inch long all over my head. Everyone said, “Ooohh, you look so different.” But I decided I really wanted to shock people, and I said to the hairstylist, “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to bleach my hair blond.” “Oh, God! Well, I’m not going to do it. You’d look wicked mad!”

  Naomi Campbell laughed and said, “Waris, you know what? One day you’re going to be famous. And don’t forget me then, okay?” Of course, the reverse came true, and she’s the famous one.

  We went on working like this for six days, and I couldn’t believe I was getting paid for it. As soon as I got off in the evening, and the group would ask me what I wanted to do, my answer was always the same: go shopping. They would let me take the car, and the limo driver would drop me wherever I wanted, then come back and pick me up. When the job was done, my picture wound up being selected for the cover, which was a surprising honor and got me even more publicity.

  We took the train back to London; as soon as we arrived, I jumped in the limo, and the driver asked where to drop me. I told him to take me to the agency. When I walked in the door, they said, “Guess what? There’s another casting for you, and it’s right around the corner. But hurry up you have to go right now.”

  I protested about this, because I was tired. “I’ll go tomorrow,” I said.

  “No, no. Tomorrow will be too late; it’s over then. They’re looking for Bond girls for the new James Bond movie, The Living Daylights, with Timothy Dalton. Leave your bag here and let’s go. We’ll walk you over and show you where it is.”

  One of the guys from the agency took me around the corner and pointed to the building: “You see that door there, where all the people are going? That’s the place.” I went in, and it was a repeat of the day I went to Terence Donovan’s studio, except worse. Inside was an army of girls, standing, leaning, sitting, gossiping, strutting, and striking poses.

  The assistant said, “We’re asking everybody to say a couple of words.” This news sounded ominous to me, but I kept telling myself I was a professional model now, right? I’d worked for Terence Donovan on the Pirelli calendar. This was nothing I couldn’t handle. When my turn came they ushered me into the studio and told me to stand on the mark.

  I said, “I just want to tell you guys that I don’t speak very good English.”

  They held up a cue card and said, “That’s okay, you just have to read this.” Oh, my God-now what? I have to tell them I can’t read? No, it’s too much, ith too humiliating. I can’t do it.

  Instead I said, “Excuse me. I have to go I’ll be right back.” And I just walked out of the building and went to the agency for my bag. God knows how long the casting people waited for me before someone realized I wasn’t coming back. At the agency I told them I hadn’t gotten in yet; I just wanted to pick up my bag first, because it looked like it was going to be a long wait. This was around one or two in the afternoon, but I went home, dropped off my bag, then went out searching for a hairdresser. I wandered into a shop close to the Y, and a gentleman asked what he could do for me.

  “Bleach my hair,” I said.

  The stylist raised his eyebrows. “Well, you know we can do it, but it’s going to take a long time. And we close at eight.” “Okay. Then we have till eight.”

  “Yeah, but we have other appointments ahead of you.” I begged him till he finally gave in. He applied the peroxide and I immediately regretted my begging. My hair was so short that the chemicals started burning my head, and I felt like big hunks of my scalp were peeling away. But gritting my teeth, I waited it out. When the hairdresser washed my hair, it turned orange. So he had to do it again because the peroxide needed to stay on longer to remove the color. The second time it came out yellow. The third time I finally became a blonde.

  I loved it, but as I walked back to the subway, little kids grabbed their mother’s hands and cried, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, what is that thing? Is that a man or a woman?” I thought, I7! be damned. Maybe I ma ale a mistake here? I’m scaring the children. But by the time I reached the Y, I decided I didn’t give a shit, because my hair wasn’t meant to impress the children. Being blond was something I wanted to try for me and I thought it looked bloody fabulous.

  When I got home, I had message after message waiting for me from the agency. Where are you? Everyone at the casting is still waiting for you. Are you coming back? They still want to see you. They’re still waiting… But the agency was closed, so I called Veronica at home. “Waris, where on earth did you go? They thought you went to the bathroom! Promise me you’ll go back tomorrow?” She made me agree I’d go back the next morning.

  Of course, what I had neglected to tell Veronica, the casting people noticed immediately: that yesterday I was an ordinary black woman, today I was a Somali with blond hair. The whole production stopped to stare at me. “Wow! That is amazing you just did that last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, my. Love it. Love it don’t change it again, all right?”

  I said, “Believe me, I’m not going through that torture again any time soon. By now my scalp is blond.”

  We picked up with the test where we’d left off the day before. “Are you worried about your English is that the problem?”

  “Yeah.” I still couldn’t bring myself to admit that I couldn’t read.

  “Okay. Well, just stand there, look right, look left. Say your name, where you’re from, what agency you’re with, and that’s all.” That much I could handle.

  Afterward, since I was right around the corner from Crawford’s, I decided it would be fun to drop by the agency and show them my hair. They went berserk. “What the fuck have you done to your hair! ?”

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, my God, no, it’s not nice! We can’t book you now! You’ve got to consult with us before you do something like this to your appearance, Waris. The client has to know what they’re getting this isn’t just your hair anymore that you can do anything you want with.”

  The casting people did, however, like my hair, and I got the Bond Girl job. But from that day forward the folks at the agency had a nickname for me: Guinness. Because I was dark with a white head on the top.

  I was very excited about my new movie career, until one day I went by the agency and Veronica said, “Well, great news, Waris. The Living

  Daylights will be filmed in Morocco.” I froze.

  “You know, unfortunately, I have something to tell you, which I really would rather not have to tell you. Remember the day you hired me and asked me if I had a passport? Well, I do, but I don’t have a current visa, so if I leave England, I can’t get back in.”

  “Waris, you lied to me! You have to have a valid passport to be a model or we can’t use you; you have to travel all the time. God you’re not going to be able to do the job. We’ll have to cancel.”

  “No, no. Don’t do that I’ll think of something. I’ll figgure it out.” Veronica gave me a disbelieving look, but said it was up to me. For the next few days I sat in my room thinking and thinking but nothing came to mind. I consulted all my friends, but the only solution anyone could think of was that I might marry someone, and I certainly had nobody to marry. I felt terrible, not only that my career was being flushed down the toilet,
but that I’d lied to Veronica and let the agency down.

  One night in the midst of this dilemma, I went downstairs to the pool at the Y. My friend Marilyn, a black woman who was born in London, worked there as a lifeguard. When I first moved in, I would come to the pool and just sit there and stare at it because I love the water. Finally, one night Marilyn asked me why I never went in, and I told her I couldn’t swim. “Well, I can teach you,” she said.

  “Okay.” I went to the deep end of the pool, took a deep breath, and dived in. I figured since she was a lifeguard, she could save me. But guess what? Underneath the water, I swam like a fish all the way to the other end of the pool.

  I came up with the biggest grin on my face. “I did it! I can’t believe, I did it!”

  But she was angry. “Why did you tell me you ‘couldn’t swim ?” “I never swam in my life!” After that episode, we became good friends. She lived with her mother on the other side of the city, and sometimes, when she got off work late at night, she’d be too tired to make the long journey home. So she would stay in my room.

  Marilyn was a generous, lovely person, and as I swam in the pool that evening, trying to forget my passport troubles, the solution came to me. I came to the surface and pushed up my goggles. “Marilyn,” I panted, “I need your passport.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” I explained my problem. “You’re out of your fucking mind, Waris! Do you know what’s going to happen.” They’re going to catch you, deport you for life, and put me in jail. Now, what am I risking all that for? So you can be in some stupid James Bond movie? I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, come on, Marilyn. It’s fun, an adventure take the risk We’ll go to the post office and I’ll apply for a passport in your name; I’ll forge your signature, and put my picture on it. I don’t have much time, but I can get a temporary passport in just a couple of days. Please, Marilyn! It’s my big chance to be in the movies!”

  Finally, after hours of pleading and begging, the day before I was scheduled to fly to Morocco, she gave in. I had my photo taken, then we went to the post office; an hour later I had my British passport. But all the way home, she was worried sick. I kept saying, “Cheer up, Marilyn. Come on, it’ll be okay. You’ve just got to have faith.”

  “Faith my ass. I have faith that this one stupid incident can ruin my whole life.” That night we went to her mother’s house to spend the night. I suggested that we rent some videos and get some Chinese takeout and relax. But when we got to Marilyn’s, she said, “Waris. I can’t do it. It’s too dangerous. Give me back the passport.” I sorrowfully handed it to her, watching my movie career disappear into the realm of lost fantasies. “You stay here – I’m going to hide it,” she said. She took it upstairs to her room.

  I said, “Okay, girl. If it makes you feel like this, there’s no point in suffering. If you think something will go wrong, then we shouldn’t do it.” But that night, as soon as she went to sleep, I started scouring her room. She had hundreds of books in there, and I knew that’s where it had to be hidden. One by one, I opened them and shook them. The car was coming to her house in the morning to pick me up and take me to the airport, so I was moving fast. And suddenly the passport fell out at my feet. Grabbing it up quietly, I stuck it in my duffel, then went to bed. In the morning I woke up and sneaked downstairs before the driver came to ring the bell, so he wouldn’t wake anybody up. It was cold outside, but I stood on the sidewalk shivering until the car came at seven, then headed to Heathrow.

  Getting out of England was no problem. In Morocco, my movie career consisted of a couple of scenes where I was supposed to be what the script called ‘a beautiful girl lying around the pool.” Then I was in another scene where we were sitting inside this fantastic house in Casablanca having tea, yet for some reason all the women were naked. James Bond flew through the bloody roof, and we threw our hands up to our-faces and screamed, “Ahhh, oh, my God!” But I thought, Well, I’m not complaining. Since I didn’t get a speaking part, at least that means I don’t have to worry about the fact that I can’t read.

  The rest of the time we just lounged around the house, sat by the pool, ate and ate, and did nothing at all. I stayed in the sun the whole time, so thrilled to see it again after living in foggy London. Not knowing how to mingle with the movie people, I stayed mostly by myself; they were all very handsome and intimidating, spoke perfect English, and seemed to know each other-gossiping about this job and that job. I was just thrilled to be back in Africa again; in the evening, I’d go sit outside with the mamas cooking colorful food for their families. I couldn’t speak the language, but we’d smile, and I’d say one word of Arabic, they’d say one word of English, and we’d laugh.

  One day the film crew came around and said, “Anybody want to go to the camel races? Come on, we’re getting a group together.” After standing around watching the races for a while, I asked one of the Arab jockeys if I could ride, too. In a mangled combination of Arabic ad English we communicated; he informed me that, oh no, women weren’t allowed to ride the camels.

  “I bet I can beat you,” I said. “Come on, I’ll show you you’re afraid for me to ride because I’m going to win!” This infuriated him that this little girl would challenge him arid that’s when he decided to let me race. The word spread through the movie crew that Wari was going to enter the next race; everybody gathered around and a few people tried to talk me out of it. I informed them to get their money ut and bet on Waris, because I was going to teach these Moroccan guys a lesson. There were about ten Arab men seated on their camels at the starting line, and me. When the race began, we took off and flew. It was a terrifying ride, because I was not familiar with this camel and didn’t really know how to make him ‘kick.” Camels not only hurtle forward at a fast clip, but bounce up and down and side to side, so I was hanging on for my life. I knew if I fell, I would be trampled to death.

  When the race was finished, I had come in second place. The James Bond people were astonished, and I could tell I’d gained a new, if weird

  respect, especially as they collected their winning bets. “How did you know how to do that?” one girl asked me:

  “Easy. When you’re born on top of a camel, you know how to ride one,” I laughed.

  However, the camel race demanded no courage compared to what was awaiting me when I returned to Heathrow. As we exited the plane, we lined up for customs; as the line inched forward, everyone got their passports out. The officials would yell out, “NEXT!” and each time it was the most excruciating torture to hear that word, because it meant I was one step closer to being arrested.

  The British officials are always harsh enough letting you into England; but if you’re African and black, they’re doubly tough. You know they’ll be scanning your passport with razor eyes. I felt so sick I wanted to faint and began to fantasize about lying down on the floor and dying so I wouldn’t have to go through this agony anymore. God, I prayed, please help me. If I live through this, I promise I’ll never do anything this stupid again.

  I was almost there, if my knees didn’t give out. Then suddenly an obnoxious male model named Geoffrey grabbed my passport from my hand. He was a smart-aleck bastard anyway, who delighted in making other people miserable, and this time he couldn’t have found a more vulnerable target. “Oh, please, please’ I tried to grab it back from him, but he was much taller than I was and held it up where I couldn’t reach it.

  Everyone throughout the trip had called me Waris; they all knew my name was Waris Dirie. Geoffrey opened the passport and shrieked, “Oh, my God. Listen to this listen to this, everybody. Guess what her name is? MARILYN MONROE.” “Please give that to me’ I was shaking by now. He ran around in circles, doubled over laughing, then began showing the whole gang my passport. “Her name is Marilyn Monroe! Check this shit out! What the fuck? What’s the story here, girl? No wonder you bleached your hair!”

  I had no idea there was another Marilyn Monroe. To me, she was simply my fr
iend, the lifeguard at the Y. Luckily, I didn’t even know about the added concern that I was walking around with a passport bearing my photo and the name of a famous movie star. At that moment, my biggest worry was that my passport said I was Marilyn Monroe, born in London, yet I barely spoke a word of English. I’m dead… It’s over… I’m dead… It’s over..” were the words ringing through my brain as my whole body poured a river of sweat.

  All the James Bond people joined in the game: “Hey, so what’s your real name? Now, really where are you from? Did you know that people born in the middle of London don’t speak English?” They were just ribbing the piss out of me. This Geoffrey jerk finally handed back my passport. I went back to the end of the line, letting all of them go through ahead of me, hoping they’d be gone by the time it was my turn.

  “NEXT!”

  As the rest of the film crew went through customs, no one went on about their business, running off to hop in the car as they normally would have after a long trip. No. They waited, huddled around in a group just beyond the customs booth, to see how I was going to get out of this one.

  Pull yourself together, Waris, girl. You can do it. I walked up and handed the customs clerk my passport with a dazzling smile. “Hello!” I called out, then held my breath. I knew better than to say one more word, because then he’d find out my English was a joke.

  “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  “Umm.” I nodded and smiled. He handed me my passport and I sailed by. The James Bond crew stood there looking at me in astonishment. I wanted to collapse, exhale, and fall down on the floor, but I flew past them too, knowing I wasn’t safe until I got out of the airport. Just keep moving, Waris. Get out of Heathrow alive.