Stories of the Sahara

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by Sanmao


  Let’s be real: the housewife’s top priority is the kitchen. I’ve always loathed chores, but cooking is something I take great pleasure in. Give me some spring onions and a few slices of meat and I can whip up a dish in a flash. I quite relish this form of artistry.

  My mother in Taiwan was devastated when she found out that I was moving to the barrens of Africa because of José’s work. José is the breadwinner in our household so I had to follow my meal ticket. No room for argument there.

  Our kitchen was dominated by Western food in those early days of marriage. But then assistance came to our household via airmail. I received vermicelli noodles, seaweed, shiitake mushrooms, instant noodles, dried pork and other valuable foodstuffs in bulk. I was so overjoyed I couldn’t keep my hands off it all. Add to that list a jug of soy sauce sent by a girlfriend in Europe, and the Chinese restaurant in our household was just about ready for business. A pity there was only one non-paying customer to be had. (Eventually we had friends queuing up out of the door to come and eat!)

  Actually, what my mother sent me really wasn’t enough to run a Chinese restaurant, but luckily José has never been to Taiwan. He saw that I had the cockiness of a master chef and began to have confidence in me.

  The first dish was chicken soup with vermicelli. Whenever he gets home from work, José always yells, ‘Hurry up with dinner, I’m starving!’ All those years of being loved by him counted for naught. He clamours for food without even giving me a second glance. At least I won’t have to worry about my looks going. Anyway, back to that chicken soup and vermicelli. He took a sip and asked, ‘Hey, what’s this? Thin Chinese noodles?’

  ‘Would your mother-in-law send thin noodles from such incredible distances? No way.’

  ‘Well, what is it, then? I want some more. It’s delicious.’

  I picked up a noodle with my chopsticks. ‘This? It’s called “rain”.’

  ‘Rain?’ He was dumbfounded.

  Like I said, I do as I please in marriage and say whatever comes to mind. ‘This is from the first rainfall of the spring. After mountain rain freezes over, the natives tie it up and sell it by the bundle to buy rice wine. It’s not easy to come by!’

  José still had a blank expression on his face. He scrutinised me, then the ‘rain’ in his bowl, and said, ‘You think I’m an idiot?’

  I brushed his question aside. ‘You still want some more?’

  ‘I still do, you charlatan,’ he answered. Afterwards he would often eat this ‘spring rain’ and to this day he still doesn’t know what it’s made from. Sometimes I feel sad that José can be so stupid.

  The second time we had ‘ants climbing a tree’, or vermicelli with ground meat. I fried the noodles in a saucepan, then sprinkled shredded meat and juice on top. José is always hungry when he comes home from work. He chomped right into the noodles. ‘What’s this? It looks like white yarn or plastic.’

  ‘It’s neither,’ I replied. ‘It’s nylon like the fishing line you use, processed white and soft by Chinese people.’

  He had another mouthful and gave me a small smile. Still chewing, he said, ‘So many weird things. If we really opened a restaurant, we could sell this one at a good price, sheesh.’ That day he ate his fill of upgraded nylon.

  The third time we had vermicelli was in a Northeastern style pancake, the noodles minced very fine along with spinach and meat. ‘You put shark fin in this pancake, right?’ he said. ‘I heard this thing is pretty expensive. No wonder you only put in a little.’ I laughed myself to the floor. ‘Tell your mum not to buy any more of this expensive shark fin for us. I want to write to her to say thanks.’

  I was deeply amused. ‘Go and write to her now. I’ll trans­late! Ha!’

  One day, just before José got home from work, I remembered that I still had some dried pork he didn’t know about. I pulled it out of hiding and cut it into little squares with scissors. Then I put the pieces in a jar and bundled it up in a blanket. It just so happened that he was a little congested that day and wanted to bring out an extra blanket for bed. I was sitting nearby reading Water Margin for the umpteenth time, having forgotten about my treasure for the moment. He lay in bed with the jar in his hands, peering at it left and right. I looked up and, oh, what a disaster! He had discovered King Solomon’s treasure. I snatched it from him. ‘This isn’t for you to eat!’ I yelled. ‘It’s medicine… Chinese medicine.’

  ‘My nose is all stuffed up, so this Chinese medicine will be perfect.’ He had already put a handful into his mouth. I was furious. I couldn’t very well demand that he spit it out, so I kept silent. ‘It’s pretty sweet. What is it?’

  ‘Lozenges,’ I snapped. ‘To soothe a cough.’

  ‘Lozenges made from meat? You think I’m an idiot?’

  The next day, I discovered that he had taken more than half the jar’s contents to share with his co-workers. From that day onwards, his co-workers, even the Muslim ones, would always pretend to cough when they saw me, hoping to extort some pork jerky. (I didn’t give any to our Muslim friends; that would be immoral.)

  At any rate, married life is all about eating. The rest of the time is spent making money in order to eat. There really isn’t much more to it. One day I made rice balls, or sushi, you could say, with rice and pork floss wrapped in seaweed. This time José refused to eat it. ‘What? You’re actually giving me carbon paper to eat?’

  ‘You really won’t eat it?’ I asked him gently.

  ‘No, no way.’

  Excellent. I was more than happy to eat a pile myself.

  ‘Open your mouth and let me see!’ he demanded.

  ‘See, there’s no colour stain. I used the opposite side of the roll of carbon paper. It won’t dye your mouth.’ I was used to bluffing every day, so I could easily come up with this kind of nonsense.

  ‘You’re full of hot air, you trickster. I hate you. Tell me the truth, what is it?’

  ‘You have no clue about China,’ I replied, eating another roll. ‘I’m so disappointed in my husband.’

  He grew annoyed and snatched up a roll with his chopsticks. Adopting the expression of a tragic hero embarking upon a path of no return, he chewed and chewed and swallowed. ‘Yep, it’s seaweed.’

  I jumped up and exclaimed, ‘Yes, you got it! You’re so smart!’ I was about to jump again when I received a knock on the head from him.

  When we had eaten most of the Chinese goods, I grew reluc­tant to serve from my Chinese restaurant. Western dishes came back to the table. José was really surprised but happy to see me making steak when he came home from work. ‘Make mine medium rare. And are you frying potatoes too?’

  After we had steak three days in a row, he seemed to have lost his appetite. He would stop eating after just one bite.

  ‘Are you too tired from work? Do you want to take a quick nap and eat later?’ Even this old lady could still play tender.

  ‘I’m not ill. I just think we’re not eating well.’

  Upon hearing this, I leapt up with a roar. ‘Not eating well? Not eating well? Do you know how much this steak costs per kilo?’

  ‘It’s not that, mi mujer. I want to have some of that “rain”. The food your mum sent us tastes better.’

  ‘Alright then, our Chinese restaurant will operate twice a week. How about it? How often do you want it to rain?’

  One day, José came home and said to me, ‘Wow, so the big boss called me in today.’

  ‘A raise?’ My eyes lit up.

  ‘No—’

  ‘No?’ I grabbed him, sinking my nails into his flesh. ‘Did you get fired? Oh, we’re doomed! Oh my God, we—’

  ‘Let go of me, you psycho. Let me finish. The big boss said that everyone at the company has been over to eat at our house except for him and his wife. He’s waiting for you to invite him over for Chinese—’

  ‘The big boss wants me to cook for him? I won’t do it! Don’t invite him. I’ll happily do it for any of your colleagues, but it’s unethical to invite your superior. I’
m a person of integrity, you know, I. . .’ I wanted to go on about the moral character of the Chinese people, but I couldn’t explain it clearly. Then I saw the expression on José’s face and realised I would have to choke down my morality.

  The next day, he asked me, ‘Hey, do we have any bamboo shoots?’

  ‘Plenty of chopsticks in the house, all made out of bamboo.’

  He gave me a dirty look. ‘The big boss wants bamboo shoots with shiitake mushrooms.’

  Amazing, this boss must truly be well travelled. Can’t underestimate these foreigners. ‘Alright, invite the two of them over for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll come up with some bamboo shoots, no problem.’ José looked over at me with great affection. It was the first time since we got married that he had gazed at me so amorously. What flattery. Too bad my hair was a tangled mess and I looked like death that day.

  The following night, I prepared three dishes ahead of time and kept them warm at a simmer. I set up the dinner table with a red cloth diagonally overlaying a white cloth and a candle holder on top. It was a lovely arrangement. Everyone enjoyed themselves thoroughly at the meal. Not only were the dishes perfect in presentation, aroma and taste, I had also cleaned myself up nicely and went so far as to put on a long skirt. When the boss and his wife were getting ready to leave, they told me, ‘If we ever have an opening in public relations, we hope you can fill in and be a part of the company.’ My eyes gleamed with joy. All this thanks to bamboo shoots with shiitake mushrooms.

  It was already late after we sent them off. I immediately took off the long skirt in favour of a pair of ripped jeans. Tying my hair up with some bands, I began furiously washing bowls and plates. I felt so much more at ease, both physically and spiritually, back in my Cinderella get-up. José was very satisfied. ‘Hey, the bamboo shoots and mushrooms were really tasty,’ he said from behind me. ‘Where’d you get the bamboo?’

  ‘What bamboo?’ I asked, while doing the dishes.

  ‘The bamboo shoots from tonight’s dinner!’

  I broke out into laughter. ‘Oh, you mean the cucumber stir-fried with mushroom?’

  ‘What? You… You can fool me all you want, but you dare pull that on the boss—’

  ‘I didn’t fool him. It was the most delicious meal of bamboo shoots with shiitake mushrooms he’s had in his life. He said so himself.’

  José scooped me up in his arms, getting soapy water all over his head and beard. ‘You’re the greatest!’ he said. ‘You’re like that monkey, the one with seventy-two transformations. What was his name? What…?’

  I patted his head. ‘The Great Sage, Equal of Heaven, Sun Wukong! Don’t go forgetting his name this time.’

  The Marriage Chronicles

  1.

  One morning last winter, José and I were sitting in a park in Madrid. It was incredibly cold that day. I was completely bundled up in an overcoat, covering everything below my eyes except for a hand that was tossing bread crumbs to the sparrows. José wore an old heavy jacket and was reading a book on sailing.

  ‘Sanmao, any big plans for next year?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing special. After Easter, I’d like to go to Africa.’

  ‘Morocco? Haven’t you been there before?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been to Algeria. Next year I want to go to the Sahara Desert.’

  José had one great virtue. No matter what Sanmao did, even if others considered it crazy, he would see it simply as par for the course. This was yet another reason I was very happy to be with him.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked him.

  ‘This summer I’m going sailing. It was tough having to study and then do military service. I’m moving on to a new chapter.’ He raised his hands and clasped them behind his neck.

  ‘And the boat?’ I knew that he’d wanted a small boat for quite a while.

  ‘Jesús’s father is lending us a yacht. Next year we’re going to the Aegean Sea to go diving.’

  I believed José. He always did everything he said he would.

  ‘How long are you planning to stay in the Sahara? What will you do there?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking at least six months, maybe a year. I want to get to know the desert.’ I’d harboured this fantasy ever since I studied geography in childhood.

  ‘Let’s go sailing. The six of us, including you. Can you make it back by August?’

  I pulled the overcoat down from my nose and looked at him excitedly. ‘I don’t know the first thing about boats. What kind of work would you have me do?’

  ‘You can be the cook and the photographer. Besides that, you can handle my finances. Are you up for it?’

  ‘Of course I want to, but I’m afraid I won’t be back from the desert by August. What should we do? I want to do both.’ How I wished I could have my cake and eat it, too.

  José seemed a little upset. ‘I’ve known you for so long,’ he cried. ‘And you’re always running around! It took me forever to finish my military service, and now you want to go it alone again. When are we going to be together?’

  José rarely had any complaints about me. I gave him a strange look, tossing bread crumbs into the distance. The sparrows had all been scared away by his thunderous voice.

  ‘You’re really set on going to the desert?’ he asked me again.

  I nodded emphatically. I was completely clear on what I wanted to do.

  ‘Fine.’ He spat this word out and then continued to read. José was usually very talkative, which I found annoying. But he would refuse to open his mouth whenever there was a real issue.

  Who knew that by early February, José would have quietly landed a job (looking specifically in the Sahara Desert), packed his suitcases and ended up in Africa before me.

  I wrote him a letter to say:

  You really don’t have to endure this harsh desert living for me. Besides, even after I come, I’ll probably spend most of my time travelling around. We wouldn’t be able to see each other regularly…

  José replied:

  I’ve thought it through. To keep you by my side, I’ll have to marry you. Otherwise I’ll never be able to rid myself of this suffering. Can we get married this summer?

  Even though the letter was quite plain, I found myself reading it over and over again. Eventually I put the letter in my trouser pocket and went out on the streets for a long walk. I had made up my mind by the time I got home.

  In mid-April, I gathered up my belongings, checked out of my Madrid apartment and arrived in the desert of the Spanish Sahara. At the time, José was living in company housing and I was in the small town of El Aaiún. There was a distance of almost a hundred kilometres between us but he came to see me every day.

  ‘Great, now we’re all set to marry.’ He was radiant in his happiness.

  ‘Not right away. Give me another three months to look around. We can get married when I return.’ At the time I was looking for a Sahrawi guide to take me across the great expanse of desert to westernmost Africa.

  ‘That’s fine, but we need to go to the courthouse to find out about the paperwork. And also deal with getting you naturalised.’ We had already agreed that I would have dual citizenship after marriage.

  So together we went to the local courthouse to figure out how we could get married. The secretary was an old Spanish gentleman with a head of white hair. ‘You want to get married?’ he said. ‘Ay, we haven’t dealt with that yet. You know the Sahrawi here get married following their own customs. Let me peek through these legal manuals…

  ‘Civil marriage, hmm,’ he continued while browsing. ‘Here it is. For this, we’ll need a birth certificate, a single status certificate, proof of residence, an official court notice… The señorita’s documents will need to come from the Republic of China government, which then have to go through the Chinese embassy in Portugal for translation and verification. After that, the documents get notarised by the Spanish consulate in Portugal, followed by the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs, then forwarded here for review. Upon completio
n of the review, we post the notice for fifteen days before sending the bulletin to the courthouse of your previous domicile in Madrid…’

  I’ve always harboured an intense distaste for filling out forms and dealing with bureaucracy. I was irritated just hearing what the secretary read out to us. I said to José quietly, ‘See how much paperwork there is? So annoying. Do we really want to do this?’

  ‘Yes. Keep quiet for now!’ He was really quite antsy. He asked the guy, ‘Could you tell us how long it’ll be before we can get married?’

  ‘Ah, ask yourselves that question! Once you get all your documents in order, then we can make the announcement. It takes one month for the announcement to go out in two places. Besides that, we have to mail things back and forth. I think three months should be about right.’ The secretary slowly began gathering up the manuals.

  José got all worked up listening to this. Wiping sweat from his brow, he ventured hesitantly, ‘Can’t you help us get this done faster? I think the sooner we’re married, the better. We can’t wait…’

  In the midst of returning a book to its shelf, the secretary man shot a furtive glance at my waistline. I’m pretty intuitive about these things. I knew he had misunderstood what José meant, so I cut in, ‘Señor Secretary, speed doesn’t matter to me. He’s the one with the problem.’ I realised right after saying it that this might confuse things further, so I shut my mouth.

  Grabbing hold of me with one hand, José said to the secretary, ‘Thank you, thank you. We’ll be on our way to take care of this. Goodbye for now.’ After these words, he dragged me briskly down the three flights of stairs in the courthouse. I couldn’t keep myself from cackling as we flew out the door and finally came to a stop outside the building.

  ‘What’s this “he’s the one with the problem” business?’ he cried angrily. ‘As if I were pregnant.’ I was laughing so hard I couldn’t even answer him.

  2.

  Three months passed quickly. During this time, José was toiling away to earn money. He set about building furniture, all while moving his things to my house day by day. I, on the other hand, was running around the tents of the native nomads with my backpack and camera. I encountered various strange and colourful customs, took down notes, collected and arranged slides and became friends with many Sahrawi. I even began to learn some Arabic. Those were happy and rewarding days.

 

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