This morning we take Onkuen &
Maylee to the Maitland Cemetery where Onkuen’s husband Ying
rests. For a man of his stature, I was surprise to find the
grounds in such shamble. It took us a while to locate him amongst
the unkempt rubble graves. Finally, we come across his
insignificantly marked cross and plaque. It was difficult
getting smooth arcing shots on the Steadicam with all the hidden
uneven potholes around. But I think I got some nice pensive
moments with the late afternoon sun silhouetting them in the
foreground.
Tonight we meet Peter Van Wyk, a young Afrikaan from Transvaal.
He has epilepsy but Onkuen hired him as a waiter regardless. I’m
not sure if this was a good deed or reversed exploitation. I can
see clearly that the black workers don’t get to eat at the
restaurant, but I’m not sure if it’s the same for Peter. Is
Onkuen still so conditioned by past apartheid? Peter thinks the
world of her and is gratified to be working there. So I didn’t
have the heart to tell him that she has been feeding him table
scraps from the restaurant clienteles. I’m not sure who has it
worse. The black workers who get sent home without supper or
Peter?
We decide to grab his POV after work. It’s after one a.m. by the
time Peter’s finished cleaning up and God, my Gaffer of Choice,
has retired for the night. Cheuk wants me to fill in the
eye-bags on a man who’s been slaving away in an apartheid
sweatshop. I try bouncing candlelight off a piece of white foam,
but Peter just ain’t gonna glow without lights at this hour.
Besides, the restaurant was really not conducive for the context
of this little chat.
The bars along the strip were all closing and they would have
been too noisy anyway. So we decide to bring Peter back to our
B&B around the corner. I set up Irving Penn’s little room in the
courtyard and voila! Moonlight is falling beautifully on Peter
from my Chimera... Crickets are chirping quietly in the
background under the tolerable levels... and there’s a mini bar
full of politically incorrect South African beer and wine. Even
politically incorrect beer is the least that we can offer a man
who’s been sweating slave labour all day long. It didn’t take
too many cold ones before Peter spilt his guts for my camera.
Controlled chaos at last!
Our last night after a dinner hosted by Onkuen at a local
Italian restaurant, I finally get to bring my camera into her
flea-infested house. Poor David is trying to keep up with my
roaming camera while battling with his allergies, nose dripping,
flea mites and lord knows what else. I’m trying to keep on top
of onkuen's neurotic rambling, while handholding the shot steady with
one hand and slapping my legs from fleabites with my other.
“Keep it tight on her hands... don’t reveal her face till I
signal,” Cheuk directs me. Space = Context. Repetition =
Identity. Closeness vs. Impossibility Of Love. Dynamism vs. Need
To Hold On. You have to be Asian to understand Cheuk’s
ambiguity. But there’s no time for deep thoughts tonight. When I
shout out to David, “Is sound ready?” I bet he can hardly wait
to excuse himself on “metaphysical” grounds and get the hell
outta there like “bats outta hell.”
