The normally sleepy tourist town of St. Lucia has been transformed. We drive in, cautiously avoiding the scores of intoxicated, denim clad, beer bellied, grey haired, helmet-clutching Afrikaaners. A sign strung across the street proclaims the annual Harley Davidson gathering. We brake for a string of low slung bikes, each emitting unnecessarily throaty roars.
On the way back from the beach we stop for a drink in a hotel bar. The bar itself is serving as a prop for a number of bikers. I order my coke precipitating howls of disapproval – I am not sure whether it is my uncompromisingly posh accent, or the coke. I smile sheepishly – “I’m driving” I say foolishly. They look at me blankly – too late I realise my words would be something of a non-sequitur to this gang. My mate orders a beer and stays under the radar.
Standing next to me is a 50 something lady with long grey hair. Her denim jacket is covered with fabric badges from around the world. “Where are you from?” she asks. I tell her. “Oh! I am from Blackpool. Well I was. I have lived here since I was 16 years old. Married an Afrikaaner and never went home.” She gestures to the leather clad man next to her. He smiles and raises his glass to us. “What are you doing here?”
“We work at the hospital in Hlabisa.”
“Wow! That must be pretty far out. You must see terrible things here with that HIV. Those poor people with their HIV.”
“What do you do?”
“Oh, I am a reporter. I work for a local radio station down the coast.”
“Is that interesting?”
“Oh – yes. I sort of stumbled into it. Never done anything like it before.”
“Do you get to see a lot of the area?”
“Oh yes. I have just been paired up with this gorgeous little black man. He is so cute. You should see him with his frizzy hair. He looks just like a gollywog!”
In the act of swallowing a mouthful of coke, I choke, spluttering it everywhere. She looks at me startled.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” I gasp. I catch my mates glance. He shrugs.
“Anyway – so he took me to the township the other day for a rally. I wouldn’t dare go there on my own! And we had just finished the meeting and taking a few photos and we were heading back to the car when he said, ‘I’ll just be a minute’ and I thought he wanted to take a photo and so I stopped walking. And before I knew it he turned away and was peeing! Just by me! I didn’t know where to look. But it is their culture.”
I cannot think of much to say in the response to this. Perhaps “I know countless Frenchman who would do the same?” or “Why did you stop to watch?” Instead we comment loudly on the time and make our excuses.
On the way back from the beach we stop for a drink in a hotel bar. The bar itself is serving as a prop for a number of bikers. I order my coke precipitating howls of disapproval – I am not sure whether it is my uncompromisingly posh accent, or the coke. I smile sheepishly – “I’m driving” I say foolishly. They look at me blankly – too late I realise my words would be something of a non-sequitur to this gang. My mate orders a beer and stays under the radar.
Standing next to me is a 50 something lady with long grey hair. Her denim jacket is covered with fabric badges from around the world. “Where are you from?” she asks. I tell her. “Oh! I am from Blackpool. Well I was. I have lived here since I was 16 years old. Married an Afrikaaner and never went home.” She gestures to the leather clad man next to her. He smiles and raises his glass to us. “What are you doing here?”
“We work at the hospital in Hlabisa.”
“Wow! That must be pretty far out. You must see terrible things here with that HIV. Those poor people with their HIV.”
“What do you do?”
“Oh, I am a reporter. I work for a local radio station down the coast.”
“Is that interesting?”
“Oh – yes. I sort of stumbled into it. Never done anything like it before.”
“Do you get to see a lot of the area?”
“Oh yes. I have just been paired up with this gorgeous little black man. He is so cute. You should see him with his frizzy hair. He looks just like a gollywog!”
In the act of swallowing a mouthful of coke, I choke, spluttering it everywhere. She looks at me startled.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” I gasp. I catch my mates glance. He shrugs.
“Anyway – so he took me to the township the other day for a rally. I wouldn’t dare go there on my own! And we had just finished the meeting and taking a few photos and we were heading back to the car when he said, ‘I’ll just be a minute’ and I thought he wanted to take a photo and so I stopped walking. And before I knew it he turned away and was peeing! Just by me! I didn’t know where to look. But it is their culture.”
I cannot think of much to say in the response to this. Perhaps “I know countless Frenchman who would do the same?” or “Why did you stop to watch?” Instead we comment loudly on the time and make our excuses.
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