Desert Flower (24 page)

Crooks and con artists also abound in this business. Many young girls want desperately to be models, and they fall into these scams where a so called agency charges them a fortune to put a portfolio together. Having been a victim of this type of thief when I met up with Harold Wheeler, this outrages me. Modeling is about making money, not paying money. If a person wants to be a model, the only money she needs is bus fare to visit the agencies. She can look in the Yellow Pages, call up, and make an appointment for a visit. And if the agency starts talking about fees she should run! If a legitimate agency thinks someone has the right look, the look for the times, they’ll help her put together a book. And then, they’ll book her appointments and castings, and she’s working.

If some of the people in modeling are unpleasant, some of the conditions are not always the best either. I accepted one project that I knew involved a bull, but until I had flown from New York to Los Angeles, then taken a helicopter into the desert, I didn’t know exactly how much bull.

We were completely isolated in the California desert, just me, the crew, and a monstrous black

bull with long pointy horns. I went into the little trailer and had my hair and makeup done. When I finished, the photographer led me outside to this animal. “Say hello to Satan,” he said.

“Ohhh, hello, Satan.” I loved him. “He’s beautiful. Fantastic. But, is he safe?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. This is the owner.” The photographer pointed at a man holding Satan’s lead. “He knows what to do.” The photographer explained the project to me. The shot would appear on a liquor bottle label. I would be sitting on top of the bull. Naked. This news was a big shock indeed, because I’d had no idea about any of this before I arrived. But I didn’t want to make a big fuss in front of all these people, so I figured I might as well get it over with.

I felt sorry for the bull because it was miserably hot in the desert, and his nose was dripping. All his feet were manacled in position so he couldn’t move, and this huge beast stood there humbly. The photographer put his hands down to act as a step to boost me up on the bull’s back. “Lie down,” he commanded, waving his arm. “Stretch out across the bull put your upper body down across the bull and stretch your legs out.” The whole time I was trying to look beautiful and relaxed and playful and sexy, I was thinking: If this thing

bucks me off I’m dead. Suddenly I felt his furry back flex beneath my naked belly, and I saw the landscape of the Mojave fly by as I sailed through the air and hit the baked dirt with a thud.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I was playing tough now, trying not to act shook up. I didn’t want anybody to call Waris Dirie a coward-afraid of an old bull. “Yeah, let’s go. Help me back on top again.” The crew picked me up and dusted me off, and we started again. Evidently the bull was not enjoying the heat, because he bucked me off twice more. On the third landing I sprained my ankle, which began to swell and throb immediately. “Well, did you get the shot?” I called from the ground.

“Oh, it would be beautiful if we could get one more roll…”

Fortunately, that bull shot never appeared. For some reason they never used it, and I was glad. The thought of a bunch of old men sitting around drinking liquor and looking at my naked butt was very sad. After this project, I decided not to do any more nude shots, because I simply didn’t like it. The money was not worth the feeling of being vulnerable, standing there in front of people

feeling completely awkward and helpless, waiting for a break when I could run grab my towel.

Although the bull job was probably my worst, most of the time when I’m modeling, I love it; it’s the most fun career anybody could ask for. I could never get used to the idea, from the time Terence Donovan took me to Bath and stood me in front of a camera, that anybody would pay me simply for the way I looked. I never really thought that I’d be able to make a living from something that seemed so little like work. Instead the whole business just seemed like a silly game to me, but I’m glad I stuck it out. I’ve always felt grateful that I got the opportunity to succeed in this business, because not every girl can get that break. Sadly, so many young girls try so hard, and often it just doesn’t work out.

I remember when I was young, working as Uncle Mohammed’s maid, and dreaming of being a model. And that night I finally worked up the courage to ask Iman how to get started. Ten years later, I was working on a Revlon shoot in a New York studio when the makeup artist came in and said Iman was next door photographing her new line of cosmetics. I rushed out and went to see her. “Oh, I see now you’re doing your own product line. Why didn’t you use me, a Somali

woman, to pose in the ads for your makeup?” I asked.

She looked at me defensively and mumbled, “Well, I can’t afford you.”

I said to her in Somali, “I would have done it for you for free.” Funny, she has never realized that I’m the same little girl, the maid, who used to bring her tea.

The odd fact is that I never went in search of modeling, it came to me; maybe that’s why I never took it too seriously. The thrill didn’t lie in being a ‘super model’ or a ‘star,” because I still can’t understand why models have become so famous. Each day, I watch the whole fashion scene become more and more frantic with magazines and TV shows about supermodels, and I wonder: What is it all about?

Simply because we’re models, some people treat us like goddesses and some people treat us like idiots. I’ve run into this last attitude plenty of times. It’s as if because I make my living with my face, I must be stupid. With a smug expression, people say, “You’re a model? Oh, too bad no brains at all. All you have to do is just stand there and look pretty for the camera.”

However, I’ve met all types of models, and yes, I’ve met some who were not very bright. But the majority are intelligent, sophisticated, well traveled, and as knowledgeable about most subjects as any other worldly person. They know how to handle themselves and their business, and act completely professional. For people like that insecure bitchy art director, it’s tough to handle the fact that some women can be beautiful and smart. So there’s a need to put us in our place by talking down to us, as if we’re just a flock of gawky dimpled dimwits.

I find the moral issues surrounding modeling and advertising incredibly complicated. I believe the most important priorities in the world are nature, personal goodness, family, and friendship. Yet I make my living by saying, “Buy this because it looks beautiful.” I’m selling stuff with a big smile. I could be cynical about it all and say, “Why am I doing this? I’m helping destroy the world.” But I believe almost anybody in any career could say that about their work at some point. The good that comes from what I do is that I’ve met beautiful people and seen beautiful places ad experienced different cultures that have made me want to do something to help the world instead of destroy it.

And instead of being another poverty stricken Somali, I’m in a position to do something about it.

Instead of wanting to be a star or celebrity, I’ve enjoyed modeling mostly because I felt like a citizen of the world, and was able to travel to some of the most phenomenal places on the planet. Many times when I was traveling for work, we’d go to some beautiful island and I would escape to the beach every chance I got and just run. It felt so wonderful to be free in nature, back in the sun again. Then I would sneak off into the trees and sit quietly and just listen to the birds singing. Ahhh. I would close my eyes, smell the sweetness of the flowers, feel the sun on my face, listen to the birds, and pretend I was back in Africa. I would try to recapture that feeling of peace and tranquillity I remember from Somalia, and pretend I was back home again.

\020BACK TO SOMALIA

In 1995, after a long stretch of photo shoots and fashion shows, I escaped to Trinidad to relax. It was Carnival time and everyone was in costume, dancing and rejoicing, reveling in the sheer joy of life. I was staying at the home of a family I knew; I’d been there a couple of days when a man came to their door. The matriarch of the family, an elderly woman we called Auntie Monica, went to answer the door. It was late afternoon, and the sun was hot outside, but the room where we sat was cool and shady. The man standing at the door was in silhouette against the bright light; I couldn’t see him, but I heard him say he was looking for

somebody named Waris. Then Auntie Monica called, “Waris, you have a phone call.”

“Phone call? Where is the phone?”

“You have to go with this man. He’ll take you there.”

I followed him back to his place. He was a neighbor of Auntie Monica’s who lived a few doors away and was the only person in the area with a telephone. We walked through his living room to the hall where he pointed to a receiver lying off the hook. “Hello?” It was my agency in London.

“Oh, hello, Waris. Sorry to trouble you, but we’ve been contacted by the BBC. They say it’s urgent you get in touch with them right away. They want to talk to you about making a documentary.”

“Documentary about what?”

“About being a super model, and where you came from and, you know, how does it feel living your new life.”

“That’s not a story. I mean, for goodness sake, can’t they find something better?”

“Well, anyway, you talk to them about it. What time should I tell them you’ll call?”

“Look, I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“But they really want to talk to you right away.”

“Hey, whatever. Just tell them I’ll talk to them when I get to London. I have to go back to New York when I leave here, then fly to London. I’ll call them when I get there.”

“All right, then. I’ll tell them.”

But the next day, while I was out carousing around town, the man came back to Auntie Monica’s again, saying there was another phone call for Waris. I completely ignored this news. Again, the next day, another phone call. This time I went back with the gentleman, because obviously they were going to wear him out running over to get me. Of course, it was my agency again. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Yes, Waris, it’s the BBC again. They say it’s very urgent they talk to you; they’re going to call you tomorrow at this same time.”

“Look, it’s my break time, okay? No way I’m talking to anybody. I’ve escaped from all that, so leave me alone and quit bothering this poor man.”

“They just want to ask you a couple of questions.”

I sighed. “For God’s sake. All right. Tell them to call me tomorrow at this number.” The next day I spoke with the director, Gerry Pomeroy, who makes films for the BBC. He asked me questions about my life.

I replied curtly, “First of all, I don’t want to talk about this now. I’m supposed to be here on holiday. You know? Can’t we talk another time?”

“I’m sorry, but we have to make a decision, and I need some information.” So I stood in a stranger’s hallway in Trinidad, telling the story of my life to a stranger in London. “Okay, great, Waris. We’ll get back to you.”

Two days later the man came to Auntie Monica’s again. “Phone call for Waris.” I shrugged at him, shook my head, and followed him down the street. It was Gerry from the BBC. “Yes, Waris, we really want to do a documentary of your life. It will be a half-hour episode for a show called The Day That Changed My Life.”

In the meantime, between the first phone call from my agency and the second call from the BBC, I’d been thinking about all this documentary business. “Well, listen, uh, Gerry I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll do this with you guys if you take me back to Somalia and help me find my mother.” He agreed, thinking my return to Africa would make a good conclusion to the story. Gerry told me to call him as soon as I got back to London; then we’d sit down and plan the whole project:

Returning with the BBC would be the first

opportunity I’d had to go home since I left Mogadishu, because of my myriad passport problems, tribal wars in Somalia, and my inability to locate my family. Even if I’d been able to fly to Mogadishu, it wasn’t exactly as if I could call my mother and tell her to meet me at the airport. From the moment the BBC promised to take me, I could think of nothing else. I had numerous meetings with Gerry and his assistant, Colm, to plan the project and elaborate on the story of my life.

We started filming in London right away. I returned to all my old haunts starting with Uncle Mohammed’s house the Somalian ambassador’s residence which the BBC got permission to enter. They filmed All Souls Church School, where I was discovered by Malcolm Fairchild. Later they interviewed him on camera, asking why he was so interested in photographing an unknown servant. The crew filmed me doing a photo shoot with Terence Donovan. They interviewed my good friend Sarah Doukas, the director of Storm, a London modeling agency.

The heat on the whole project was turned up considerably when the BBC decided to follow me on a gig hosting Soul Train, a TV program that features the best in black music. I had never done

a project like this before and was a complete nervous wreck. Added to that was the problem that when we got to L.A.” I had a terrible cold and could barely talk. And the whole time I was traveling from London to Los Angeles, blowing my nose, reading my script, getting ready for the show, riding in the limo, I was being filmed by my constant shadows: the BBC film crew. The insanity was multiplied when we went to the studio and the BBC documentary crew was filming the Soul Train crew filming me. And if there was ever an act that I didn’t want to have documented, this had to be the one. I’m sure I was the worst host in the history of Soul Train, but Don Cornelius and the production crew were so patient with me. We started at ten in the morning and worked till nine that night. I think it was their longest day ever. My old difficulty with reading still plagued me, as it had in my James Bond film debut. Although my skill was much improved, I still struggled reading aloud. And trying to read from cue cards in front of two film crews, dozens of dancers, and a handful of internationally famous singers, while lights blazed in my eyes, was more of a challenge than I was up for. They were Screaming, “Take twenty-six Cut!” “Take Seventy-six… Cut!” The music would start