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angryhausfrau-writes · 3 years ago

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I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 20 - In Which Jack is the Life of the Party and Charles is a Wallflower

Councilor Featherstone comes through with planning permission, his personal interest allowing Max's petition to jump to the front of a very, very long and very, very slowly moving list. Glacial is a good description of that list. Full of icy aristocracy impeding any sort of forward progress. Because they all make money when the price of real estate goes up and up and up via the dearth of available properties.

Should someone sell off a property – or, God forbid, build a new one, particularly one meant for the lower class rabble to actually live in – well, they'd lose out on potential astronomic profits. And losing out on potential profit is as good as being robbed.

Not to mention the cut they make if someone has enough name and capital to approach them about buying a potential property, hoping to bolster their own enormous bank accounts with a “risk free” investment. But there's no such thing as a free lunch, particularly to the sharks that swim in the ocean of Britain's current property market. Everyone gets a cut of the pie.

Finders fees, they're called. As if anyone is finding anything in the morass of red tape and stark type on expensive paper. Not if someone doesn't want it to be found.

Jack has actually been granted a sizable finders fee by Max. All part of the massive, technically-legal tax dodge that allows the wealthy elite to remain the wealthy elite. Max makes an obscene amount of money selling her property off to a developer – while retaining a seat on the board of trustees, of course, and majority interest in the company they've formed to oversee the spa. And then she pays Jack a handsome consulting fee for all of his assistance with the planning permission. Which is a business expense – and therefore, a tax write off. And then Jack uses the money to wine and dine the councilor. Which is also a business expense and so another tax write off. On and on and on. Each just a small step in the endless dance of Legitimate Business.

Incidentally, Max is also paying Jack rather handsomely to consult on the design and interior decorating for the spa.

There are, of course, actual interior designers and professional decorators and florists and lighting and sound specialists in Max's company's employ. But it just wouldn't be nepotism if she hadn't found a job for Jack to make a lot of money at whilst doing absolutely nothing of value. And it just wouldn't be a London planning project without nepotism.

Plus, it gives Jack's not quite fake career as a fashion designer a little boost. Soon every rich socialite in London – and elsewhere, hopefully – will be relaxing in a Jack Rackham original spa robe, lounging on Jack Rackham original cushions on a Jack Rackham original divan reminiscent of a swan's elegantly unfolding wing, but in palest peach to complement the spring pink scrubs worn by spa staff – another Jack Rackham original – and soothing seafoam walls.

And if all that weren't enough to keep him and Christine (mostly Christine, if he's being honest) busy, Jack's also got fashion week to contend with. Oh, his projects are all finished, and he hasn't even worked himself into that much of a tizzy over the whole ordeal. Not with as well prepared as he feels – and as buoyed as he is by the positive attention his press releases and Instagram posts have received. No, he's as prepared as he can be and there's little point in wearing himself ragged worrying over the what ifs and wheretofors.

No, what's wearing on Jack in the small hours of the night is something else entirely.

More than Jack's actual fashion show – where half the designers are showing essentially nude models with various decorous scraps of latex and/or lace as opposed to actual outfits, not that Jack's petty or anything – more than the actual fashion show, Jack is required to make an impression on all the “benefactors” of the event. The rich, vapid men and women who decide whose fashions are to die for – and who's dead in the water.

Jack's not a real fashion designer. Just someone posing as one for the cover it gives a (hopefully) international crime empire. But that only makes this gladhanding and wheeling and dealing all the more imperative.

It's not much of a cover if everyone questions how, exactly, Jack's made it into the international fashion world. Hell, even here at home he's required to make the sort of connections that get him into the posh parties and stately homes of the rich and famous so he can case the joint and report his findings back to Max.

All of which necessitates Jack throwing his own party. A night of debauchery so blatant, so tasteless it wraps right around to tastefulness again. A night where he can show the fashion world, business moguls, and investors that he has the money and connections that make him worth their money and connections. And he's been granted the dubious honor of hosting the night of the newcomers fashion show. His debut on the international stage. Followed swiftly by his debut as an international man of quasi-leisure.

Max is, of course, the one actually throwing the party. The one determining the guest list from the half-dozen file cabinets worth of dirt and gossip and just creepily intimate details about London's upper crust.

Max is the one to hire the DJ – the same poor sap she'd blackmailed into playing Jack's first fashion show slash after party. And she's got Eme lording over the caterers with an iron fist.

And Max is the one to insist that Jack put up her ridiculous painting in pride of place, over the main sitting room fireplace where it can be reflected a hundredfold in the mirrors she'd brought in to line the room – and in the disco ball the DJ brought for the occasion. A thousand tiny paintings cover the floor, the walls, the goddamn ceiling. And sure, it's a nice enough painting – although it makes something spark hot and hungry in Jack's breast when he looks at it too long.

Or maybe that's just because a shirtless, glistening, complaining Charles – who just spent the majority of the morning hauling furniture and sound equipment around and hanging mirrors - is the one who's been roped into hanging it. Standing there, arms straining as Max directs him to position it just so.

Jack lets his gaze trail down Charles's biceps, chest, abs and away. He's got too much to do to be caught lollygagging like this. And Anne's amused and too-knowing look from over her clipboard is rather ruining the mood.

Anne watches Jack flounce away through the crowd, the heaving throng of party guests parting around him like water.

Jack's fashion show had gone over well. All the rich fucks without an original fucking thought between the all of them had been impressed with the flash fucking jewels and dripping gold. Entranced by the swirl of velvet skirts and silken shirts baring just slightly too much cleavage Which Anne knows cuz she's the one telling all the makeup artists to put fucking glitter on all their tits, like Max told her to.

And all them rich fucker's'd been entranced by Jack, too. Drawn like moths to the dancing flame of his showmanship. Lured by the siren song of wealth and elegance he'd spun on the catwalk.

And here at the party too.

Though it ain't elegance they're after here. Decadence, just like the fucking fashion show. But this ain't some rich old fuck's sitting room. This is a bacchanal. They're the cult of Dionysus tonight and they've got loyal followers high on poppers and coke and half a dozen other designer party drugs, courtesy of some of Jack's now-infamous street contacts, dolled up nearly as much as the party guests. And the drugs are all set out in little gold-rimmed dishes on antique walnut sideboards. K itchy as all fuck. Like candy someone's Nan might set out. All free for the taking.

Well, the first taste is, anyway. You gotta pay for the next dozen.

And they're willing to pay, the rich fuckers. Money's no object to them. And they've sold their souls long ago. What's a little more blood squeezed outta stone? Why give a fuck about tomorrow when you can constantly live in the happy glimmering now? Consequences can't touch them – these golden fucking chosen people.

And Jack walks among them like a prince. Like a god, and all this worship is simply his due.

Even from her secluded, shadowed corner Anne can see how he draws them in. Snares them with pretty words and pretty clothes and the promise that if they just flock to him, follow him, they too can be as effortlessly beautiful and catty and elegant and perfect.

And then, when they're thoroughly caught in his silken web, he directs them towards Max.

She's standing on the second floor balcony overlooking the party, queen of all she surveys. And even though Jack's throwing this party, she's the real mastermind behind everything. Every sweating, glittering, drug soaked body heaving against each other on the dance floor is there because that's exactly where she wants them. And when she turns her gaze to one or another in particular, it's far, far too late for them to run. Cuz even if they wanted to. Even if they weren't snared so tight they couldn't get out of the trap not even if they chewed their own fucking leg off. Even if they escaped, Anne'd chase them down for her. Hunt them down for her, across oceans and continents until they'd been found and bound and delivered back to her feet. Where they fucking belong, the fucking scum.

Charles tucks himself further into the corner he's found on the second floor. It's not quiet – nowhere in the house is quiet, not even the fucking bathroom. And his spot overlooks the dancefloor, bass thrumming up though the floor to rumble against the bottoms of his boots. But at least it's private.

Jack's holding court in the middle of the crowd, shining and happy and basking in being noticed, being revered.

He's always been like that. Flash and brash and attention grabbing. So you don't see the knife Anne's slipping between your ribs from the shadow Jack casts.

But even then. Even when it had been half misdirect and half distraction. Jack'd wanted this. Burned for it so bright and hungry you almost couldn't stand looking at him. But at the same time, you can't stand looking away.

Charles isn't like that.

Not that he lurks in the shadows, like Anne – or Max, even. He's a blunt instrument, and not ashamed of that fact. His strength lies in direct confrontation.

Oh, he can be crafty. Strategic. He can turn everyone's expectations of him against them. Jack's not the only one with a head on his shoulders, oh no. And Charles ran a crew just fine without his wiles.

But Charles doesn't want to live in the spotlight either. Hasn't chased renown, it had just kind of happened to him, whether he wanted it or not. More trouble than it was worth, half the time.

And now, something else – a new kind of notoriety – is happening to him. And it's all Jack's fault.

See, people aren't only fawning over Jack. No, there's those who saw the promotional material with Charles's face on it and decided he was some sort minor celebrity. Some kinda object for them to project all their filthiest desires onto.

He'd been poked and prodded and fondled. Offered modeling contracts. Offered sex. Offered money for sex. Like he'd welcome it – feel honored by it. Like he's some kinda doll, dressed up pretty just for them.

Not real.

Not a person.

Just a fucking pretty picture in a glossy program, there for them to get off to and then throw away.

He's been down that road before, though not with Johns as posh as these. The swells so used to getting what they want the moment they want it there's no real way to say no. Especially not when they – Anne and Max and Mary and Jack and him – have got so much riding on this.

Charles isn't going to be the one to ruin this. This bright shining con. This dream world Jack and Max have spun out of gossamer. So fragile – so easily ruined.

Charles isn't going to be the one to let the crew down.

So he'd flirted. Glib and meaningless and pretty. Dumb and flighty and careless. Caressed everyone who'd fondled him. Stood close and whispered low in their ears. Made them feel special, feel noticed. And then when they'd tired of him, cuz they always fucking do, so bored of life nothing can hold their interest for long, especially when he's not trying to keep it, Charles'd escaped to the second floor balcony overlooking the party and he'd put his back to the wall and watched Jack's glittering, fragile, beautiful dream unfold below him.

“Hiding up here all by yourself, Charles?”

Charles grunts in response, but not in a way that makes Jack feel like he's unwelcome. So Jack leans against the banister next to Charles and waits to see if he'll say anything more illuminating.

After a few minutes of silence – or silence from Charles, at least, the music's loud enough to be heard from a block away, never mind just upstairs – it becomes apparent that he won't be any more forthcoming. And if he's to speak, someone will need to coax it out of him.

Fortunately, Jack is nothing if not persistent.

“Got sick of the party, I'd imagine. It's a bit over the top, even for me.”

Charles snorts at that, so they're making progress.

“I know you'd be happier with something a little less glam pop.” Because that's never really been Chaz's scene. He's more of the rocker type, really. Not that Jack's complaining about his penchant for black leather on top of black silk. “But you have to admit, it's a good turnout. Especially for our first real industry bash. And Featherstone certainly seems to be having fun.”

Jack looks down at where the councilor and Idelle are grinding together on the dance floor (eughh) with the mirrored reflection of Max's painting shimmering on Featherstone's sweaty skin and reflecting in Idelle's eyes. Drawing him in almost as much as Idelle having exchanged her ornate velvet gown for a sexy little cocktail number - although she's wearing hardly any less jewelry than she had at the fashion show – and that too reflects a hundred thousand tiny sparkling versions of the painting. Of the taste and class and wealth the painting promises.

She's bathed in it.

She's a goddess. She's regal. Elegant. Glamorous. The kind of woman the kind of man the councilor is could have for more than a fun night in the sack. The kind of woman he could have for forever, if he'd wanted.

If he was lucky enough to catch and keep her attention.

Men and women in the crowd, only some of them planted by Max, ooh and ah over Idelle's elegance and poise. Remark, just loudly enough to be heard by the councilor about how much they wish she would deign to look at them like she looks at him. Ask to cut in, only to be cut down by Idelle, who has danced only with the councilor, attended only to the councilor, all evening.

Made him feel special. Feel desired. Feel like perhaps he could have this every night of his life, if he'd only put a ring on it. Something suitably flash, of course. Idelle deserves only the best.

But he's not thinking about any of that right now, not with the way he's got his gaze fixed firmly on her bosom, which is being shown off to great effect by an enormous diamond pendant that only she and Max know is actually cubic zirconium. Marriage is probably the furthest thought from his mind right now. But in the morning – in the morning, he'll remember this night. This wild bacchanal. The way the painting had whispered promises of finally belonging to the elegant, tasteful, obscenely rich world that Idelle navigates so effortlessly. How maybe she could guide him through troubled waters when he finds himself out of his depth. Idelle and only Idelle.

“Wish there weren't so many fucking people,” Charles grits out, shaking Jack out of his dreams of what ifs and might could bes. Back to the man standing beside him, one of the reason's they've had so much success in this venture. “All pawing at you. Like you owe them something.”

“Oh, darling. I've never minded a little manhandling, you know that.” Jack keeps deliberately glib, because Charles looks like he's liable to rip someone's throat out if Jack even hints at discomfort.

And it's true that he'd been somewhat leery of the attention at one point, after so long hiding in shadows out of necessity, even as he'd yearned to step into the spotlight.

It turns out that actually being in the spotlight isn't quite what Jack had imagined. That sometimes people shine it on you for reasons other than simple recognition.

That night at the strip club comes to mind.

That had felt like being used. Like being back in his childhood, father a subject of ridicule too drunk to understand that the whole village was laughing at him.

But Jack had understood. He'd understood the power of perception. The power other's had over you when they were the ones controlling the narrative. The ones making you an outsider.

But today, Jack's the one controlling how people see him. The one directing – and misdirecting – perceptions.

Because there's power there. Because people only see what they want to see. And you can get a hell of a lot done when people are too stupid to believe you capable of anything.

This being in the spotlight, being loved and adored by a fickle crowd, keeping the eyes of the world on him so that they stay off Max and Anne and Mary as they pick their marks. This is just another kind of power. Just another shield to hide behind while the dirty work gets done.

Jack elbows Charles in a way he hopes is reassuring. “And anyway, Anne's been keeping an eye out for trouble. You know she's been itching to stab someone for weeks now. I'm safe as houses.”

Charles grunts and turns away, back to the shadows he'd been hiding in when Jack came up here to talk to Max briefly, introducing a new mark – one who's in international real estate and interested in investing in Max's little property endeavors. And the glint of Charles's eyes in the gloom, the occasional sparkle of the silver charms in his hair and the earrings in his ears, the rings on his hands and necklaces draped against his bared chest, it had felt like a predator looking at him. Some big jungle cat watching him from the tall grass.

But Jack hadn't felt frightened. Because he's stupid and hopelessly in love. And he knows Charles, better than he knows himself, sometimes.

So he'd gone over to where Charles was standing. And he had stepped out of the shadow and into the glaring light of the party to stand at the balcony railing with Jack. To listen to Jack prattle on about inconsequential things with only fond mock annoyance, the way he'd always done. Even when Jack had been considerably more annoying – and Charles considerably more inclined to gut people who annoyed him.

But if he's hiding again, returning to the shadows, clearly that wasn't the right tack.

Jack comes at it from another angle. “Would it make you feel better if you came and danced with me? Just to remind everyone my big tough boyfriend is looking out for me?”

Because Charles trusts Anne. They all do – and with their very lives. But sometimes Charles is a protective, possessive sonofabitch. And if he's in a mood, Jack wants to make sure they deal with it in a way that doesn't end in homicide.

Charles turns back, eyes gleaming. “Stake a claim, you mean. In front of everyone.”

Prove Jack's his. And fuck. Maybe that is a step too far for their pretend relationship.

He's about to apologize. Walk everything back, make a joke, disassemble.

But then Charles says, “Yeah, all right. You're too much trouble for only one person to keep an eye on.”

Charles has Jack in his arms. And Jack'd said it was about Charles staking a claim. Making sure all the rich fucks kept their greedy hands off Jack. Make sure he was being looked after.

But it goes the other way, too.

Charles is out here in the middle of the dancefloor, covered in shiny that Jack'd bought – or stolen – just for him. Jack's arms around him, just like he's got his arms around Jack. Like they're one person, bound together, with no beginning or end.

There for everyone to see. To see that he and Jack are one.

That Jack has a claim on Charles. That all their pawing and fawning and come-ons don't mean shit. Just like all the heaving, sweaty bodies surrounding them don't mean shit. Not when him and Jack are like this. Together.

Everything – everyone – inconsequential compared to the feeling of Jack pressing against Charles's front, grinding against his dick, Charles's hands on his ass. Jack's his, if just for this moment. And he ain't gonna waste it.

Charles cups the back of Jack's head, fingers tangling in that stupid mullet he still insists on wearing. “Mine,” he growls into the breath of space between the two of them.

And Jack must be a great lip-reader. Or he's on the same wavelength as Charles, feels the same way as Charles does about all this. Because he grips Charles at the nape of his neck. Pulls his hair until his head tilts back and Jack's teeth are at his jugular.

And Charles feels the threat and the promise pressed so tenderly against his skin when Jack says “Yours.”

#black sails #charles vane/jack rackham #anne bonny/max #i travel troubled oceans #chapter 20

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hippoland · 6 years ago

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Why I invest outside the Silicon Valley

I grew up here in the Bay Area during the dot com boom. I went to college during the bust. And when I graduated, it was booming again. From that perspective, things have been mostly rosy in the Silicon Valley for startups! (except for 2008-2009, which is another story)

But, I think we're in trouble, Silicon Valley. I think we are *on our way down* as an early stage startup hub unless we start to fix some of our problems around here.

These days, although my VC fund Hustle Fund is based in the San Francisco Bay Area, I actively seek to invest in startups outside the Bay Area. (To be clear, we do invest in companies here opportunistically but we do not actively scout here.)

1) Silicon Valley / San Francisco is too expensive

With the high cost of living in the San Francisco Bay Area these days, a lot startup capital must now go towards founders’ rent. In fact, people here qualify for low income housing if they have a household income of $117k! This is absolutely insane. This takes capital away from investing in companies themselves.

At this cost-of-living level, the Bay Area is no longer affordable to many founders who are not already rich. As much as people love the $8 avocado toast and the sunny weather around here, these are all less attractive when you're crammed into a small room with 9 other people on bunk beds in a small apartment.

So, given the choice -- just purely based on economics -- of whether to start a company in the Bay Area vs say Austin, Austin makes a lot more sense. This is a no brainer.

2) Other startup hubs are on their way up

Now, other places like Austin have always been cheaper than the SF Bay Area. But, previously the cost-of-living delta was not as great as it is today. In addition, not only is the Bay Area becoming prohibitively expensive, other cities are becoming more attractive as startup ecosystem. This makes the decision to start a company in the Bay Area even less compelling when there are equally attractive options elsewhere.

In fact, my favorite place to scout for startups is in Toronto/Waterloo. Not only are the people there nice as all hell (and the dollar exchange rate works in my favor), but there is incredible talent in Toronto/Waterloo. This is because large tech companies have established serious offices there -- Google / Facebook et al. But additionally, startups in this ecosystem have now grown large -- Shopify is TO's poster child unicorn, and the experience that tech workers get at a growth startup is good fodder for the next generation of startups. (I know everyone in Ottawa is going to be mad at me for calling Shopify a TO startup, but to be fair, there are massive numbers of Shopify employees / former employees in TO.). Other cities that I like are LA (basically my backyard), Boston (oldie but goodie), and ATL. I need to spend more time in Denver/Boulder, Salt Lake City, and Austin. I also look at the "pan-midwest": Chicago, Cincy, Indy, et al.

This rise of "other startup hubs" will only continue to trend upwards as today’s startups become large and talent from those companies eventually find their way to new startups. This will make it harder for SF to compete for startup founder talent.

I would say, though, today, the SF Bay Area is still on top for growing a company at the late stages. It still has the most experienced talent for this stage, because there have been a lot of high-growth companies that have been successfully built here. And those people all learn from each other. In addition, a lot of the multi-stage tech VCs are also still here. It might be doable to raise an angel / micro-seed round locally outside the Bay Area, but for the late stages, there's still much more capital being invested in companies here. Lastly, M&A is also still big here -- the tech companies who are doing big acquisitions are in the Bay Area (though this is changing too).

3) So, where should you start a company today?

At this point in time in 2018, I think what makes the most sense is for a startup to start where he/she wants to be. Just personally, where do you want to live? And use free content from the internet to learn new skills and focus on growing your business. And if your company ends up getting to a certain growth stage, then it makes sense to open an office in the SF Bay Area. This is probably just after the series A in my opinion -- where you're doing perhaps $300k-$1m per month in revenue.

Many startups these days are using a distributed model successfully. This can work depending on the type of culture you want to set for your company. Do your employees like to socialize with each other? Or do they like to just focus on their work and socialize outside the office? Are your employees good at written communications? Documentation? Companies like Automattic, for example, have established a truly distributed work model, but this works, because that is part of the culture and important to the people who work there. In some sense, this is also tied to your business model. If you have a heavy sales model, for example, having a whole team of remote sales folks probably doesn’t make sense. You need camaraderie and in-person energy.

Or a hub and spoke model, where there are small offices in a few places so that people can still socialize with their co-workers but then are tied back to the mothership in San Francisco. Intercom and Talkdesk, which both have European founders have HQs in San Francisco but also significant offices in Ireland and Portugal. I think models like these are the wave of the future regardless of whether there’s an international tie or not.

4) But, VCs don't get it

Unfortunately, many VCs, ironically, are the greatest laggards of new trends. Many VCs will still only invest in their backyard, because they believe they have to meet people in person even though video conferencing solutions like Zoom are really good these days! And many VCs are also averse to new ways of working -- remote working etc, even though the costs at the early stages work out way better for companies like these. So this is a risk -- you might not be able to raise money from some VCs if you have an “unusual” work model.

5) What the future holds

I think that an increasing global trend is that a number of cities will (and already are) emerging as startup hubs. And, I think that the good news is that entrepreneurs can now start a company from almost anywhere. And in the long run (20+ years from now), even at the late stages, we will see new funds that will invest outside the Valley and new multi-stage funds popping up outside the Valley to invest in growth stages outside the Bay Area. And, if the SF Bay Area cannot get its act together on lowering or maintaining the current cost-of-living, my prediction is that the SF Bay Area will RIP as a startup ecosystem (except for rich entrepreneurs) altogether.

I hope that doesn't happen. But that trajectory is on its way. And that is why I invest outside the SF Bay Area.

Fundraising is a nebulous process that I aim to make more transparent. To learn more secrets and tips, subscribe to my newsletter.

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drtanstravels · 6 years ago

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In my last post we had been traveling around the Cappadocia region of Turkey, looking at old volcanic rock formations, exploring caves and underground cities, but missing out on the chance to go hot-air ballooning. Now we were going to wrap up our Turkish holiday by venturing around Izmir Province, an area surrounded by the Aegean Sea in the country’s west. Bear in mind that these events occured more than two months ago, thus I can’t really remember much from the trip anymore, however, from looking at our travel itinerary, going through the photos we took, and consulting Wikipedia as always, I should be able to put together a reasonably coherent account of this final leg of our adventure, but it won’t really be as much of a personal recollection. Again, there’s going to be a hell of a lot of pictures!

Thursday, September 27, 2018 We had flown in from Kayseri to the city of Izmir, the capital of Izmir Province, the previous night and it was quite late by the time we got to our hotel in the resort town of Kuşadası, just enough time to grab a bite to eat and a drink or two before we had to hit the hay in preparation for the following day, which was rather packed.

First on the agenda that morning was a trip to Ephesus, also commonly referred to as Ephesos or Efes, where we would be spending several hours walking in the footsteps of Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Marcus Cicero, and the Apostles Paul and John among others. Again, I’m not a religious person, but this could make for an interesting morning. Our guide was waiting for us at the hotel at 9:30 that morning and before long we were in Ephesus:

Ephesos was an ancient Greek city on the coast of Ionia, three kilometres southwest of present-day Selçuk in İzmir Province, Turkey. It was built in the 10th century BC on the site of the former Arzawan capital by Attic and Ionian Greek colonists. During the Classical Greek era it was one of the twelve cities of the Ionian League. The city flourished after it came under the control of the Roman Republic in 129 BC.

The city was famed for the nearby Temple of Artemis (completed around 550 BC), one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Among many other monumental buildings are the Library of Celsus, and a theatre capable of holding 25,000 spectators.

Ephesos was one of the seven churches of Asia that are cited in the Book of Revelation. The Gospel of John may have been written here. The city was the site of several 5th-century Christian Councils.

The city was destroyed by the Goths in 263, and although rebuilt, the city’s importance as a commercial centre declined as the harbour was slowly silted up by the Küçükmenderes River. It was partially destroyed by an earthquake in 614 AD.

As like our time in Istanbul, we had a personal guide whose name neither of us can remember, however, he was an absolute wealth of knowledge on what we were seeing, to the point where there was simply too much information to take in. The first site we would be visiting in Ephesus would be the House of the Virgin Mary, both a Catholic and Muslim shrine:

The house was discovered in the 19th century by following the descriptions in the reported visions of Blessed Anne Catherine Emmerich (1774–1824), a Roman Catholic nun and visionary, which were published as a book by Clemens Brentano after her death. While the Catholic Church has never pronounced in favour or against the authenticity of the house, it nevertheless has maintained a steady flow of pilgrimage since its discovery. Anne Catherine Emmerich was Beatified by Pope John Paul II on October 3, 2004.

Catholic pilgrims visit the house based on the belief that Mary, the mother of Jesus, was taken to this stone house by Saint John and lived there for the remainder of her earthly life.

The shrine has merited several papal Apostolic Blessings and visits from several popes, the earliest pilgrimage coming from Pope Leo XIII in 1896, and the most recent in 2006 by Pope Benedict XVI.

I find it more than a little ironic that this post is 666 words long at the end of that Wikipedia extract. Anyway, the House of the Virgin Mary now serves as a chapel and the site has a “wishing wall” where pilgrims to the house tie pieces of fabric. Also nearby is a well that is believed to have magical healing and fertility properties. I don’t believe in this type of nonsense, but I could always do with some healing to many parts of my body, however, I wasn’t willing to risk it just in case the believers are correct, because then there’s that whole ‘fertility’ thing. I’ll take occasional illness and pain over being a parent any day. I also found it a little strange that there is a recreation of the birth of Christ in the manger at the house when this is not where he is believed to have been born, but where his mother spent her latter years. It’s kind of similar to putting your mother in a retirement home in the UK and installing a catwalk in the home after her death, complete with a statue of her as a 20-year old, posing out, because she was a fashion model in Italy in her earlier years. It doesn’t really make sense if that part of her life never occurred in that particular location, let alone country. Nevertheless, let’s take a look around, although photos weren’t permitted inside:

On the grounds

Anna out the front of Mary’s joint

The side of the house

The health and fertility well

The wishing wall

Kind of missed the point

After we finished looking around the House of the Virgin Mary we then went and walked around the streets and ruins, particularly those on the way to Harbour Street, the main hub of ancient Ephesus. Due to a combination of ancient and subsequent deforestation, overgrazing by herds of goats, erosion, and soil degradation, Harbour Street is now 3-4 km (1.8-2.5 miles) away from the coastline, the muddy remains of the ancient harbour still visible. Walking along the streets gives one a decent idea of the original beauty of the city:

Starting our walk toward the town

In typical Greek style, there are a ton of columns

A closeup

An excavation site near one of the ancient streets

Anna getting a bit ahead of me

Ruins near an aqueduct

Part of the Temple of Domitian

The carvings up close

More of the Temple of Domitian

This area of the temple is still being excavated

Carving of Nike, Goddess of Victory

Possibly a well

Another great statue

Anna in the remains of an ancient arch

The Heracles Gate

Looking down the street toward the Library of Celsus

Even cats like the sculptures

Another ruined temple

Temple of Hadrian

The engravings around the top of the Temple of Hadrian

If the ruins show the original splendour of the streets, then the remains of frescoes and terrace houses offer a look into how the wealthy lived during Roman times. Sure, we saw the mosaics and frescoes of houses and churches in Cappadocia in my previous post, but during the Roman period, Ephesus was the place to be. In 27 BC, the city became the capital of proconsular Asia, entering an era of prosperity and becoming both the seat of the governor and a major centre of commerce, second in both importance and size only to Rome so the truly wealthy wanted to live a life of luxury and style. These photos from an excavation site, some of which has been restored, some not, show how that was done:

We still had a couple more impressive sites to see in Ephesus, the first being the Library of Celsus:

The Library of Celsus is an ancient Roman building in Ephesus, Anatolia, now part of Selçuk, Turkey. It was built in honour of the Roman Senator Tiberius Julius Celsus Polemaeanus, completed between circa 114–117 A.D. by Celsus’ son, Gaius Julius Aquila (consul, 110 AD). The library was “one of the most impressive buildings in the Roman Empire” and built to store 12,000 scrolls and to serve as a mausoleum for Celsus, who is buried in a crypt beneath the library in a decorated marble sarcophagus. The Library of Celsus was the “third-largest library in the ancient world” behind both Alexandria and Pergamum.

The interior of the library was destroyed, supposedly by an earthquake in 262 A.D., (though other evidence points to a fire during a Gothic invasion in that same year) and the façade by another earthquake in the tenth or eleventh century A.D. It lay in ruins for centuries, until the façade was re-erected (anastylosis) by archaeologists between 1970 and 1978.

We weren’t going to get to see Celsus’ marble sarcophagus, but we weren’t left disappointed with what we did witness:

The facade from a distance

Looking through the arches to the right of the facade

Sophia, the personification of wisdom

Arete, the personification of virtue

Ennoia, the personification of intelligence

Episteme, the personification of knowledge

Looking at the ceiling

Ancient engravings

Had to get one shot of me, I guess

The final tourist attraction we’d be visiting in Ephesus was the Great Theatre. According to the details on a sign at the site, “The Great Theatre goes back to a preceding structure of the Hellenistic period (3rd-1st century BC). In the Roman period there was an extensive rebuilding under the Emperors Domitian (AD 81-96) and Trajan (AD 98-117) with at first a two-, later three-storeyed impressive façade. In addition to the theatre performances, assemblies also took place there; in the later imperial period, gladiatorial contests are also attested. Before the 7th century the Theatre was incorporated into the Byzantine city walls.”

I could post a ton of pictures that I took at the Great Theatre, but you really only need to see one, this panoramic shot I got of the stage from the top row of accessible seats:

After all of that walking around Ephesus in the morning it was finally time for lunch… Or so we thought, but first we would be stopping by a shop owned by a friend of a friend of our guide, as is often the case, this time a leather goods one. Anna and myself were ushered into a private room with a catwalk and soon we were treated to a leather fashion show before being taken into the store. It was kind of difficult to not laugh while the models were strutting because the whole situation was not only absurd and completely unexpected, but also because it wasn’t applicable to us; we live in Singapore, an equatorial country with no seasons besides the monsoon. The temperature on an average day in Singapore is usually between 31-33°C (89-91.5°F), a particularly cool night getting down to around 25°C (77°F), and the average annual humidity is 83.4%, sometimes reaching 100% when it is raining. Wearing leather pants in those conditions would chafe the entire lower half of your body raw after about two minutes, and during a thunderstorm it already feels like you’re trapped in a sauna while people urinate on you so I don’t think a leather raincoat is the solution. Anyway, I bought a much-needed new wallet from the store and then we had lunch before hitting up our next site for the day, the Temple of Artemis:

The Temple of Artemis or Artemision, also known less precisely as the Temple of Diana, was a Greek temple dedicated to an ancient, local form of the goddess Artemis. It was located in Ephesus (near the modern town of Selçuk in present-day Turkey). It was completely rebuilt three times, and in its final form was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. By 401 AD it had been ruined or destroyed. Only foundations and fragments of the last temple remain at the site.

The earliest version of the temple (a temenos) antedated the Ionic immigration by many years, and dates to the Bronze Age. Callimachus, in his Hymn to Artemis, attributed it to the Amazons. In the 7th century BC, it was destroyed by a flood. Its reconstruction, in more grandiose form, began around 550 BC, under the Cretan architect Chersiphron and his son Metagenes. The project was funded by Croesus of Lydia, and took 10 years to complete. This version of the temple was destroyed in 356 BC by Herostratus in an act of arson. The next, greatest and last form of the temple, funded by the Ephesians themselves, is described in Antipater of Sidon’s list of the world’s Seven Wonders:

‘I have set eyes on the wall of lofty Babylon on which is a road for chariots, and the statue of Zeus by the Alpheus, and the hanging gardens, and the colossus of the Sun, and the huge labour of the high pyramids, and the vast tomb of Mausolus; but when I saw the house of Artemis that mounted to the clouds, those other marvels lost their brilliancy, and I said, “Lo, apart from Olympus, the Sun never looked on aught so grand.”‘

Well, the Temple of Artemis may not be quite so brilliant today as it was 2,500 years ago, but it was still worth a look. Here’s how the site where the temple once stood, including the tomb of John the Apostle, the roped off square with the four pillars, appears today (plus a shot of our spontaneous, private, leather fashion parade):

The tomb of John the Apostle

Our day of visiting ruins may have come to an end, but we weren’t done with exploring, not by a long shot. We were going to be spending the night in Kuşadası again and this time we had plenty of time to look around. Also, I had to seek out an item; since I was in Turkey, I had decided that I wanted to buy a fez, but I wanted a proper one, not some Turkish souvenir fez that says ‘I ♥ Turkey’ or something similar that I had really only seen thus far. If you are unsure what a fez is, it is one of those short, cylindrical, peakless, felt hats that are usually red with a tassel hanging down the side as sometimes worn by Grandpa Simpson and always worn by Tommy Cooper, incidentally one of the only comedians to ever die on live television (I’m not kidding, only click that link if you’re prepared to see a clip of a man having a heart attack in front of an audience who continued to laugh, thinking it was part of the show). We wandered around Kuşadası for a few hours, absolutely gobsmacked by the insane array of counterfeit goods openly available, as well as the terrible, terrible haircuts you could get in this beautiful seaside town. I found my fez, we found a bar for a few beers, and then when it was time we found a place for dinner and another bar to settle down in for the night. A look around Kuşadası:

A shop selling genuine fake watches

Why would you do this to your child?

Walking toward Kaleiçi Mosque

Another example of awful hair desing

Some of the blue houses in an area that spans all of the colours of the rainbow

We had to try many times to get a photo of me in my new fez without cracking up laughing

A statue of what looks like Bill Murray and a pal emptying out a fishing net in front of our bar

Friday, September 28, 2018 Our final day in Turkey was upon us so we had to make it count, however, it wouldn’t be quite as packed as our previous days in Turkey because we had to catch a flight back to Istanbul at 7:30pm. There was going to be a lot of driving involved in the day’s activities so we hit the road and eventually stopped in at a kind of roadside diner-type thing that also sold some weird souvenirs, including the aforementioned ‘I ♥ Turkey’ fez, and feasted on what essentially amounted to Turkish truck-stop food before eventually landing at Laodicea on the Lycus:

Laodicea on the Lycus was an ancient city built on the river Lycus (Çürüksu). It was located in the Hellenistic regions of Caria and Lydia, which later became the Roman Province of Phrygia Pacatiana. It is now situated near the modern city of Denizli. In 2013 the archaeological site was inscribed in the Tentative list of World Heritage Sites in Turkey.

It contained one of the Seven churches of Asia mentioned in the Book of Revelation.

Well, if this joint contains a church from the only remotely interesting book of the Bible, yes, the one about the end of the world, then this could be pretty cool. But what is still there now? More ruins, of course!:

The existing remains attest to its former greatness. The ruins near Denizli (Denisli) are well preserved and as of 2012 are being substantially renovated. Its many buildings include a stadium, baths, temples, a gymnasium, theatres, and a bouleuterion (Senate House). On the eastern side, the line of the ancient wall may be distinctly traced, with the remains of the Ephesus gate; there are streets traversing the town, flanked by colonnades and numerous pedestals. North of the town, towards the Lycus, are many sarcophagi, with their covers lying near them, partly imbedded in the ground, and all having been long since rifled.

Particularly interesting are the remains of an aqueduct starting several kilometres away at the Baspinar spring in Denizli, and possibly having another more distant source. Unusually, to cross the valley to the south of Laodicea, instead of the usual open channel carried above the level of the city on lofty arches as was the usual practice of the Romans, an inverted siphon was employed consisting of a double pressurised pipeline, descending into the valley and back up to the city. The low arches supporting the siphon commence near the summit of a low hill to the south where the header tank was located, and thence continue to the first terminal distribution tank (castellum aquae) at the edge of the hill of the city, whose remains are visible to the east of the stadium and South Baths complex. The water was heavily charged with calcareous matter, as several of the arches are covered with a thick incrustation where leaks occurred at later times. The siphon consisted of large carved stone pipes; some of these also are much incrusted, and some completely choked up. The terminal tank has many clay pipes of various diameters for water distribution on the north, east and south sides which, because of the choking by sinter, were replaced in time. To the west of the terminal is a small fountain next to the vaulted gate. The aqueduct appears to have been destroyed by an earthquake, as the remaining arches lean bodily on one side, without being much broken. A second distribution terminal and sedimentation tank is visible 400 metres (1,300 ft) north of the first, to which it was connected via another siphon of travertine blocks, and this one is bigger and supplied most of the city.

The stadium, which is in a good state of preservation, is near the southern extremity of the city. The seats are arranged along two sides of a narrow valley, which appears to have been taken advantage of for this purpose, and to have been closed up at both ends. Towards the west are considerable remains of a subterranean passage, by which chariots and horses were admitted into the arena, with a long inscription over the entrance. The city ruins bear the stamp of Roman extravagance and luxury, rather than of the stern and massive solidity of the Greeks. Strabo attributes the celebrity of the place to the fertility of the soil and the wealth of some of its inhabitants: amongst whom Hiero, having adorned the city with many beautiful buildings, bequeathed to it more than 2000 talents at his death.

So, what are we waiting for? Let’s take a look around this apocalyptic pile of stones and rubble, as well as some of the stranger souvenirs from our truck-stop. As we had to take in so much information when getting shown around, I can’t remember what any of it is now, but the above information might be able to help you piece it together:

No idea what’s going on here

What better way to prove you’ve been to Turkey than a plate written in Chinese?

The Smurfs must be from Baltimore

Walking into Laodicea

Most of these outdoor shots are from what is referred to as Temple ‘A’

This piece is under a glass floor

The Church of Laodikeia

Inside the remains of the church

Pooping here would be my worst nightmare

How they used to go about their “business”

Our final stop on our epic trek around Turkey was going to be another UNESCO World Heritage site, Pamukkale, in order to unwind and take in some natural beauty before we leave the country:

Pamukkale, meaning “cotton castle” in Turkish, is a natural site in Denizli in southwestern Turkey. The area is famous for a carbonate mineral left by the flowing water. It is located in Turkey’s Inner Aegean region, in the River Menderes valley, which has a temperate climate for most of the year.

The ancient Greco-Roman city of Hierapolis was built on top of the white “castle” which is in total about 2,700 metres (8,860 ft) long, 600 m (1,970 ft) wide and 160 m (525 ft) high. It can be seen from the hills on the opposite side of the valley in the town of Denizli, 20 km away.

Known as Pamukkale (Cotton Castle) or ancient Hierapolis (Holy City), this area has been drawing the weary to its thermal springs since the time of Classical antiquity. The Turkish name refers to the surface of the shimmering, snow-white limestone, shaped over millennia by calcium-rich springs. Dripping slowly down the vast mountainside, mineral-rich waters foam and collect in terraces, spilling over cascades of stalactites into milky pools below. Legend has it that the formations are solidified cotton (the area’s principal crop) that giants left out to dry.

Tourism is and has been a major industry in the area for thousands of years, due to the attraction of the thermal pools. As recently as the mid-20th century, hotels were built over the ruins of Hierapolis, causing considerable damage. An approach road was built from the valley over the terraces, and motor bikes were allowed to go up and down the slopes. When the area was declared a World Heritage Site, the hotels were demolished and the road removed and replaced with artificial pools.

Overshadowed by natural wonder, Pamukkale’s well-preserved Roman ruins and museum have been remarkably underestimated and unadvertised; tourist brochures over the past 20 years have mainly featured photos of people bathing in the calcium pools. Aside from a small footpath running up the mountain face, the terraces are all currently off-limits, having suffered erosion and water pollution at the feet of tourists.

After our hectic travel schedule over the previous few weeks that had left us beyond a little stressed and jet-lagged, not to mention the crazy amount of walking and hiking we had done on little sleep while in Turkey, it was hard to imagine a better location to wind this trip up than a hot spring. We weren’t going in for a dip, it was just an extremely beautiful, naturally calm environment to hang out in and unwind, walk around and take in the serenity, and then sit back and have a cup of coffee while playing with the particularly clean and friendly puppies that are in the area, which is exactly what we did. Naturally, it all started with some ruins, this time of Hierapolis, and then it was time for the relaxing to begin:

Some ruins of Hierapolis

A bit of a mineral buildup

More ruins

I’m calling B.S. on pretty much all of this

Some of the pools are crystal clear

The colours of water in different basins are breathtaking

Looking around Pamukkale

The calcite-laden waters

The view back the other way

And now looking down

From another angle

A section of palm trees

Most would probably assume this is a photograph of people trekking through snow

That sign probably isn’t necessary

Anna playing with some local puppies

This one decided to eat her dress

My turn now

The sight-seeing part of our trip was now officially over. We would be transferred to Denizli airport and take a 7:30pm flight to Istanbul, arriving at around 8:30. Our flight out of Istanbul was leaving at about 3:00am so we had a room booked in the airport hotel to shower and relax in before taking our early flight back to Singapore.

Turkey was incredible, far different to anything we had expected and it is amazing to think that if we had come only a decade earlier, many of the sites we explored wouldn’t have even been excavated or rebuilt yet. I also doubt we would’ve enjoyed our time in Turkey as much as we did on this trip if we had to do everything in a large tour group. I’m not trying to sound like an entitled prick, I’m just simply not a people-person. The last time we were part of a tour group was when we were in Ecuador and the Galápagos Islands earlier this year and Anna and her friends knew almost immediately that there would be at least one person on each leg of the trip that would get on my nerves in a big way and they weren’t wrong. Large groups of people always irritate me, whether it be personal traits, habits, or just waiting around all day for them to get in the perfect pose for photos such as these that I snapped over the course of our Turkish trip, pictures that need to be taken, checked, and taken again to make sure they’re just right:

Don’t get me wrong, I take a lot of photos when we travel, but it’s more about capturing the moment, not holding up large groups of people because Anna’s hair wasn’t straight. It turns out that it doesn’t just bug me, the tour guides hate it too! In fact, one of our guides said that if they were able to create a photoshop patch that automatically removes Chinese tour groups from the background of your photos, that particular guide would be able to retire a rich and happy man. It wasn’t because of the fact they were Chinese, it was simply due to their habit of holding everyone up or getting in their way by taking pictures. Anna thought this was hilarious until I pointed out that it would also remove her from our pictures as well. That’s why I definitely consider ourselves lucky to now be able to do things privately at our own pace, without delaying anyone else or waiting for them either, and that is what made this trip truly brilliant.

Apologies again for making this more of a History lesson than a personal account, I’d just like to close with a big thank you to our tour guides and we may have to come back again to do the hot-air ballooning, hopefully on enough sleep. I’d also like to add that, in keeping with a recent trend beginning back in May that has plagued pretty much all of our recent international trips, with disasters or tragedies occurring while we were in, or immediately after we left Hawaii, Japan, Thailand, Hong Kong and China, Turkey didn’t escape unscathed. On this occasion, there was a hurricane warning in Turkey the day we were to depart and Saudi journalist Jamal Khashoggi was murdered in the Saudi consulate in Istanbul by his own government just two days after we left.

Let’s hope nothing bad happens in South Korea as a result of us visiting Seoul next week.

The final leg of our tour of Turkey, exploring Izmir Province In my last post we had been traveling around the Cappadocia region of Turkey, looking at old volcanic rock formations, exploring caves and underground cities, but missing out on the chance to go hot-air ballooning.

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vdbstore-blog · 7 years ago

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Sanele Junior Xaba: ‘I take pride in my albinism’ | Fashion

Sanele Junior Xaba makes photographers and stylists get a little carried away. This year alone the South African model has posed naked save for a swarm of butterflies on the cover of Polish design magazine Label and worn feathered angel wings and a loincloth for Dutch art photographer Gemmy Woud-Binnendijk in a depiction of the myth of Cupid and Psyche. Viewed more than 25m times on YouTube alone, the jawdropping pièce de résistance in Sanele’s portfolio is the ad for sportswear brand Adidas Originals in which shirtless Sanele stands in for the wind god Zephyr in a dystopian reworking of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus. Here, he writhes on a set strewn with broken computers to a cover of Sinatra’s My Way as Venus takes a selfie inside a giant satellite dish.

It’s all gorgeous, captivating work, and Sanele isn’t complaining one bit, but I wonder whether he might sometimes like to be asked just to stand next to an attractive young woman at a bus stop, or mope handsomely on a staircase. You know, standard male model gigs like those performed by his contemporaries at Boss Models in Cape Town. Jobs where you turn up and pull on a beanie and some jeans, rather than don a ceremonial wreath and pour a carton of milk down your front.

“People have said things to me like: ‘Oh, but you don’t look like the Heineken- drinking guy,’” he says. Today he’s dressed in his favourite black fedora (“I love a hat”), black skinny jeans and black Dr Martens. “But I do drink Heineken,” he continues, “so maybe they need to get out there and look at who’s actually drinking that stuff.”

‘I was an undercover black’: Xaba wears T-shirt, £230, and herringbone trousers, £450, both Stella McCartney (harrods.com). Photograph: Daniel Benson for the Observer

I can’t fault his logic. But if we’re honest, the reason image-makers seem to go a bit high concept at the prospect of Sanele is because, apart from all the standard-issue stuff – runway-ready 6ft stature, muscular torso, exquisite face furniture – he has what several photographers I speak to refer to obliquely as “a very special aesthetic”. In other words, Sanele has albinism, a genetic condition that results in the absence of pigment in his eyes, hair and skin. This does not make him “albino” or “an albino”, a term that’s unhelpful because, as Sanele puts it: “It implies that we’re a species, or a race apart.” In fact, people of all races can be affected by albinism. Still, the condition seems to be most prevalent in Sub-Saharan Africa, where the UN Human Rights Council is implementing a five-year regional action plan to counter the astonishing discrimination and persecution that continues to exist.

I realise that it sounds a bit Zoolander, but I want to play my part to promote diversity in the fashion the industry

In his professional life, Sanele has encountered tokenism from image-makers of all stripes. “I’ve had situations where casting directors have said: ‘No thanks, we’ve worked with Shaun Ross already” – Shaun Ross being an American model with albinism, who has appeared in music videos for Lana Del Rey and Beyoncé. Does that make him angry, I ask? “Well, it makes me want to say, ‘How many white models have you used this week?’ They’re not all considered to be the same person.” Still, he’s known for being patient and polite: “I realise it sounds a bit Zoolander, but I want to play my part to promote diversity in the industry. The commercial end of fashion is crucial as it dictates what’s cool, and the idea of cool is changing drastically. It feels more inclusive, but it can still do a whole lot better.”

Sanele was due to spend this summer at the most commercial of all the fashion capitals, New York. Several agencies there had expressed interest in representing him and ordinarily – because of his proven track record in modelling – a visa would have been granted in a jiffy. Instead, Sanele’s application was declined twice in the midst of Donald Trump’s chaotic visa shake-up. “The authorities weren’t sure about my intended reasons for coming to the States,” Sanele says, neutrally. I make an unfavourable reference to the example of Slovenian-born First Lady Melania Trump, who was apparently paid for 10 modelling jobs before she received legal authorisation to work in the United States, but Sanele will not be drawn. “It’s fine, it’s OK,” he says. “I’m the kind of person who believes everything happens for a reason.”

Instead of New York, Sanele decided to go to the Netherlands, where he has family, including a great aunt who moved to Dordrecht during apartheid. Nowadays she’s what Sanele calls “a hardcore Dutchie” and she was proud to see him walk in Amsterdam Fashion Week, one of several engagements arranged at short notice by Elite Model Management Amsterdam, the agency that supported Sanele’s straightforward visa application.

Xaba wears Taplo jumper, £655, Dries Van Noten (selfridges.com); jeans, £225, Dries Van Noten (libertylondon.com); boots, £230, grenson.com. Photograph: Daniel Benson for the Observer

While appearing on a popular late-night TV talk show, Sanele met Nicky Libert, a Dutch local and fellow Elite charge who worked on a building site but shot to Instafame after being snapped by a British tourist. The two unconventional clotheshorses hit it off and a bromance began. “He’s Tweedledee and I’m Tweedledum,” says Sanele. Libert invited Sanele to come and live with his family in Almere, just outside Amsterdam, and has been introducing him to Dutch culture, one Turkish and Surinamese takeaway at a time.

I used spray tans and very dark foundation. It looked really bad, especially because I had braces and terrible acne

“There’s so much variety and diversity,” says Sanele. “It’s rich with culture from all over the world – and I thought that South Africa had a lot going on!”

Sanele was born in a township outside Durban in 1994, the year South Africa transitioned from apartheid into democracy – making him a first-edition “born free”. When he was little, strangers would assume he was a white child in the care of a black nanny. In fact, his Zulu mother, Sithembisile, is a medical technologist who took Sanele’s albinism in her stride, but left the township after an incident in which another child shouted “umhlope” (Zulu for “white man”) and threw a rock at his head. There was considerable bleeding and he still has the peanut-sized scar on his forehead. “That was when my mum decided to move to the city,” says Sanele. His father, he says, was never in the picture – “a rolling stone” with an undisclosed number of kids.

Unusually, given that racial integration was in its infancy, Sithembisile enrolled Sanele at the fee-paying, majority-white Open Air School in Durban (motto: “I can and I will”) where he was, he jokes, “an undercover black”. Although he was acutely aware of the stares that his alabaster skin and naturally ginger hair attracted when he was out in public, he says his mother’s insistence that “I shouldn’t look on my albinism as any sort of disadvantage” bolstered his self-esteem. But with puberty, it collapsed entirely. “When you hit 13 or so, you become self-conscious and you start to want to impress people,” he says. Other pupils began to taunt him about his appearance. “I could give you a whole list of names: Casper the Friendly Ghost, white pudding, milk of magnesia, Tipp-Ex, snow globe…” Sanele’s actual name means “enough” in Zulu. He is an only child.

Xaba wears striped top, £75, Raf Simons x Fred Perry (fredperry.com). Photograph: Daniel Benson for the Observer

“I went through a stage of depression during which I did lots of desperate online research on how to get melanin,” says Sanele. Predictably, his attempts to boost the pigment-creating substance came to naught, so he resorted to the cosmetics counter. “I was experimenting with spray tans and very dark foundation,” he recalls, “and it kinda looked really bad, especially because I had braces and terrible acne.” He was already taking Roaccutane, the controversial retinoid drug, to try to get his spots under control. “For four months I had this circumference of heat around my face and it was bright red, like a tomato.”

Now I’ve realised I can use my looks to raise awareness, I’ve started to take a lot more pride in my own albinism

To make matters worse, it was around this time that Sanele’s father – a perfect stranger – came back on the scene, only to tell Sanele that he was dying. “He apologised to me for everything before he passed,” recalls Sanele, before starting to giggle reflexively. When I listen to the recording later, the peals sound like nervousness bordering on panic. “I’m sure it seemed like I was heartless at the time, but I just couldn’t get emotional about it because I didn’t really know who had died and I was just too confused,” he says.

Back at school, he resolved to toughen up and confront the bullies. “I knew of another kid – not someone with albinism – who had hanged himself at the age of 10 and I just thought: ‘That’s not going to happen to me. I’m not going to let my entire student career go like this.’ I decided to beat the hell out of the next person who called me names.”

The strategy worked (“People learned not to mess with Sanele or he’s going to beat you up. That’s not the kind of person I am, but I had to grow a pair,” he says). In due course, so did the acne treatment. Sanele refers to what came next as his “blow-up season”. Buoyed by the confidence of clear skin, a promotion in the playground pecking order and his newfound athletic prowess as a championship swimmer with the body to boot, he began to socialise with a vengeance.

Xaba wears sweatshirt, £235, Yeezy, and shirt, £480, Vetements, both selfridges.com; cords, £255, Etudes (libertylondon.com). Photograph: Daniel Benson for the Observer

It was at the age of 15, while attending the Durban July horse racing, that he was approached by a model scout. “I took the card and then I thought: ‘Nah, I’m not going to do that shit,’” he recalls. The scout persisted, tracking Sanele down via Facebook and persuading him that there was money to be made. “As a teenager, scoring a buck is a big thing,” Sanele smiles. So he walked in Durban fashion week and appeared in campaigns for local designers before transferring to a more prestigious model agency in Johannesburg. “They got me catalogue work for Adidas, I did GQ magazine, and that’s when I realised that this industry could use a whole lot more diversity.”

Increasingly, he now sees his Instagram account as a means of owning the conversation, and photos are frequently accompanied by lengthy and heartfelt “believe in yourself” captions.

“At the end of the day, I know there’s an expiry date to what I do and my dream is to make my presence last a bit longer, to leave a footprint in the industry.” Among his 21,000-plus followers are teens struggling to come to terms with their own albinism. “I get messages from people saying: ‘Oh you are so brave for what you’re doing, I’m ashamed to even go outside,” he says.

Things are much worse, he notes, in the parts of Africa that GQ doesn’t typically reach. In some regions of Tanzania, for example, people with albinism live in fear of mutilation and murder because potions made from their body parts can command large sums on the black market. “There’s a whole industry run by so-called spiritual leaders,” says Sanele.

In some regions, people with albinism live in fear of mutilation and murder as potions are made from their body parts

Since he has been in Holland, he has connected with Inside The Same, a charity that campaigns for the rights of individuals with albinism. With them, he’s planning a visit to an orphanage in Tanzania for children who’ve been abandoned as the result of stigma and ignorance. In some communities, children with albinism are believed to be reincarnated ghosts of slave masters, as opposed to what they are: innocents with a genetic idiosyncrasy.

“The charity provides the kids with sunscreen and medical treatment because a lot of them have skin cancer,” says Sanele. “Now that I’ve realised I can use my looks to raise awareness and to challenge the perceptions and stereotypes about the condition, I’ve started to take a lot more pride in my own albinism.”

As I pack up my things and we say our goodbyes, Sanele tells me he would hate for his nascent activism to somehow overshadow the meticulous work done by others: “I’m glad to assist and I really want to learn,” he says. He’s flying back to Cape Town tomorrow for a wedding – a cousin from his dad’s side of the family – so I ask what he’s most missed about South Africa during his summer away. His response is a little more starry than before: “I miss the nightclubs where they give me a private table because I’m a model, and I can take my friends and drink champagne all night without having to open my wallet. It’s fun, now and again, to celebrate your youth.” Good on him, I think. But so much for Heineken.

Grooming by Jade Leggat-Smith using MAC and Elemis; production by Christopher Smith; model Sanele junior Xaba at Boss models

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angryhausfrau-writes · 4 years ago

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I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 14 - Meditations

With one fashion show already under his belt, Jack approaches his second with much more equanimity. Ok, he's maybe still a frazzled mess, and both Anne and Charles have both kidnapped him on several occasions just to get him to take a break. But he's really handling this show much better than the last. He is.

He's gotten most of his designs mocked up in muslin, knowing now that his strong suit is doing and not planning, even if it's only in this one thing. Charles and Anne have both made fun of him for getting too wrapped up in his head, for coming up with grand plans and schemes and tricky plots when a boot to the face would be nearly as effective and vastly quicker. But that's the thing. Jack doesn't want nearly good enough. He wants perfection. He wants to be the best – and that requires careful planning.

But there's a saying that perfection is the enemy of good enough. And Jack certainly values the balance Anne as his partner and Charles as his second in command (and isn't that a change of circumstances that Jack is still getting used to) bring to their little team. Because Max too is a planner and if it were just the two of them, they might get bogged down in the minute details and miss valuable windows of opportunity. Or literal windows, like the one Anne climbed through into the posh bedroom of one of the city planning commission bigwigs to gather conclusive proof of his tawdry extramarital affair. And if Anne helped herself to some of his top shelf booze and cigars, well Jack likes a drink and a smoke of an evening as well as the next man. Except for Charles, who'd complained that the whiskey went down too smooth, but Charles would drink paint thinner if left to his own devices, so Jack is firmly NOT taking his opinion into account.

Although he thinks at least half of Charles's stubborn refusal to be domesticated is a front. Because honestly, who would rather live life at the ragged edge of survival when they could be safe and comfortable and happy? Who goes out to beat the shit out of other people nearly every day – and have the shit beaten out of them in turn – when there are a million other much more pleasurable ways to spend one's time? Idiots, that's who.

It all just smacks of the kind of hypermasculine male alpha bullshit that Jack has never had particular interest in. Obviously.

But despite their differences, the three of them – well, five if you count Mary and Max, the latter of which Jack has learnt never to disregard – they all make a pretty great team. Jack might think rather highly of himself – too highly, if Anne's to be believed – but he would never be able to pull off the con they're attempting without Max. Without her connections, yes, but it's more than that. She has a clarity of vision he hasn't known since Flint ran a crew, and it's a vision far less likely to cause them to wind up dead or incarcerated.

And Mary has been invaluable helping out with the social media angle of their little venture. So much of what they are doing rests on public perception – and a positive public perception at that. Both Flint and Vane had run crews on the power that fear gave them. But that has never been Jack's angle. Sure, he's ruthless – violent - when he needs to be, but it isn't his go-to method of garnering respect. But even for him, this is a great deal farther along the path of respectability than he's ever trod before. And Mary has helped guide them all down it with a keen eye to social mores and outside perceptions that Jack can't help but admire. Even if he dislikes his work being interrupted for an hour while Mary stages the perfect “candid” photo for his Instagram.

Speaking of his work, it also helps having Christine as an assistant this go round at creating a fashion show, since Fashion Week is somewhat more important than his debut show. Jack has a lot of eyes on his design studio, and those eyes want to see sketches and drawn out designs – proof that he can hack it in the cutthroat world of high fashion. Which, Jack ran a street gang for two years, he's got this covered. But he is garnering a fair bit of interest from the British critics for this new show, as well as some international interest and it serves their agenda to keep those guardians of haute coture appeased., since Max is banking on further exposure for the next stages of her plan.

Sewing the seeds of an international criminal empire is not the only goal, however. Jack is also supposed to be using this show to help Idelle become even more entrenched with Councilor Featherstone. Max has gotten a fair bit of insider information off the esteemed councilor through Idelle's rather pointed pillow talk. Nothing actionable at this stage, but they're still laying the groundwork, both through her efforts and with Jack's own weekly tennis dates with the man. Not to mention the occasional double dates he and Charles have been dragged on, usually to the poshest and most upscale of restaurants – where Charles still doesn't deign to button his shirt more than half way. And expecting him to wear a suite jacket is a complete lost cause.

Not that Jack particularly minds. And he doesn't think Idelle does either.

Frankly, the councilor's not much to look at. Sort of quiet and mousy. Even after all these months and months of trying to draw him out of his shell, Jack doesn't feel like he's been all that successful. The man's more withdrawn than a turtle faced with whatever the fuck eats turtles.

Some kind of bird maybe? Or a lizard? Jack's not a biologist, all right? Or any kind of scientist.

What he is is a conman masquerading as a rich idiot fashion designer. Who's been tasked with making a prostitute look upper crust enough for the nouveau rich government official they're conning to start thinking marriage, not just fun fling.

Because one of the side effects of Jack “befriending” the councilor is that he starts complaining about his life problems. Which is exactly what Jack wants to happen. He can't very well give Councilor Featherstone his heart's desire – fix all the little botherations currently vexing him – if he doesn't know what those botherations are. But God is it dull. His largest problem is an overbearing mother who constantly wonders why he hasn't settled down yet.

And so Featherstone has been agonizing lately over whether or not Idelle is the capital-O one. The real deal. The love of his life. The one he wants to spend forever with – or as much of forever as middle-aged rich fuckers care to believe in.

And for the sake of the con if nothing else, it's Jack's job to make Idelle into the councilor's one true love. His soulmate. His reason de etre.

And that means taking a corner girl and turning her into an upper-middle class enough woman that she can be a wife and not just a hot trophy girlfriend, to be used and then discarded when a newer, shinier model wanders into the councilor's view.

Jack's getting flashbacks of watching My Fair Lady – terrible musical and with a completely different ending to the book. Although the sugar sweet Hollywood ending, with enough romantic nonsense to start rotting teeth, is exactly what they're after.

And Jack is nothing if not adaptable, as evidenced by his turning the whole Flint debacle into something positive. So this go round, all the clothes are rich brocades and just dripping in jewels, like the whole fucking royal treasury is out on the catwalk. And the clothes are not exactly modest, not with the amount of cleavage Jack's showing. Idelle's got great tits and it would be a shame not to feature them prominently. But there's no skin tight latex or side slits up to the waist or plunging necklines that end at the groin.

No. It's respectable.

He's respectable. Which isn't a word Jack often uses to describe himself, much less Anne or Charles. But here they are.

Anne is having a great fucking time. Like sure, she knew being rich had to be better than starving on the street. And the kind of money they've got is enough to let them weather storms of a magnitude she can't even fully comprehend.

But just the day to day stuff, it's ridiculous how much that shit's changed.

Anne's got people to clean her bathrooms. Hell, Anne's got a bathroom – and all to herself, she don't gotta share with anyone if she don't want. She can close and lock the door and lay in the gigantic bathtub, full of some perfumy smelling shit she swiped offa Jack and just exist for hours.

No one can get in and bother her. No one can judge her for using up all the hot water. Or for being unproductive.

Or for being girly.

Cuz Anne's not really one for frills and lace. Ain't never been one for dresses or high heels or makeup. But there's something to be said for having the freedom to do all the kinda girly shit she'd thought was stupid and weak and no way to get respect – and to find out that some of it's kinda fun.

Like the bubble baths. Or the tea parties she and Max and Mary started having, as a way for Anne to see Max at least weekly, but they've sorta turned into their own thing.

None of them are posh, and neither Anne or Mary want to put on the flowery sundresses that the event seems to call for. But Max'll put on a just fucking gorgeous dress with her hair piled up on her head with jewels in it like she's a queen or maybe a goddess like from Greek myths or some shit. And Anne'll put on a poet shirt and highwaisted pants and boots, cuz Byron might have been a syphilitic jackass but he had good fashion sense at least. And Mary'll put on a real sharp suit. And they'll sit out in their fancy garden and drink sparkling fruit juices with booze in them or tea nearly white with cream but still so much better than the dishwater they'd used to drink and eat finger sandwiches and fancy little cakes and just take the piss out of all the fucking rich pricks they've had to put up with all week. And sometimes, Charles will even join them, which is extra funny cuz he never even bothers to change out of his usual wardrobe of ripped jeans and leather and just so much testosterone you could choke. But he'll stick his pinky out when he drinks tea and gossip with the best of them, cuz he knows Anne'd give him endless shit if he didn't.

It's a whole hell of a lot of fun, is what Anne is saying, all that silliness and camaraderie and, and civility. She's glad she gets to live a life where she can do all those things. Where she don't gotta be the fiercest and the toughest and the ballsiest fucker in the room just to prove she belongs there.

Though she's also glad she gets to live a life where she can climb through a rich fuck's window to commit espionage and petty theft. Cuz life'd be pretty fucking boring if it was all just bubble baths and tea parties.

#black sails #max/anne #charles vane/jack rackham #i travel troubled oceans #chapter 14

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