Stories of the Sahara

by Sanmao

  Once José finished work, he came in with three of his Sahrawi colleagues.

  ‘This is the deadliest and most powerful curse,’ one of his colleagues explained to us. ‘How unfortunate that you picked it up.’

  ‘Is it a Muslim thing?’ I asked them.

  ‘We do not meddle with these things in Islam. It is witch­craft from Mauritania.’

  ‘Don’t all of you Sahrawi wear these pieces of copper?’ José said.

  ‘What we wear is something different,’ his colleague said angrily. ‘If it were the same, wouldn’t we all be dead by now?’

  ‘How do you tell the difference?’ I pressed.

  ‘Your tablet also came with a pit and a cloth sack, right? The copper also had a frame of white metal. Thankfully you threw away the other two things. Otherwise you would have died instantly.’

  ‘A coincidence,’ I asserted. ‘I don’t believe in these superstitions.’

  Hearing me say this, the three locals appeared incredibly frightened. ‘Don’t say that!’ they cried in unison.

  ‘In this age of science, how can you believe in such strange things?’ I continued.

  The three of them glared at me. ‘Did you ever have so many problems all at once, like what happened to you the day before yesterday?’

  I thought carefully. Indeed, I’d had such experiences before. I have allergies. My eyes would often get swollen. I’d throw up. I frequently got dizzy. My stomach hurt. After intense exercise, I’d always bleed a little down there. I always managed to cut myself while chopping vegetables—

  ‘Yes, nothing major. These little things happen to me quite often,’ I admitted.

  ‘The way this curse works is by exploiting your physical weaknesses,’ one of the Sahrawi explained to me. ‘It can transform little problems into a major evil power to take your life. You still think it’s a coincidence that a spill from the coffee pot extinguished the gas flame?’

  Silently, I raised my crushed left hand for all to see.

  For the past few days, I’ve had one thought in my mind that I can’t drive away, something that I’ve been pondering and pondering and pondering.

  ‘I’ve been thinking that maybe, just maybe, I have a subcon­scious impulse to end my own life. So that’s why I became so ill,’ I say softly.

  José seems shocked to hear these words come out of my mouth.

  ‘What I— What I’m trying to say is that no matter how hard I try to get used to living in the desert, I’ve already reached the limit of my tolerance for this lifestyle and environment.’

  ‘Sanmao, you—’

  ‘I’m not denying the passion I feel for the desert. But, at the end of the day, I’m human. I also have moments of weakness—’

  ‘I didn’t know you had made coffee. When I was boiling water later, I didn’t notice that the water had put out the flame. Are you telling me that I subconsciously want to kill the both of us, too?’

  ‘We should talk about this with someone who understands psychology. We know too little about our own spiritual worlds.’

  I don’t know why, but these topics make people depressed. Humans are most afraid of themselves. I sigh and try to forget about it all.

  The copper tablet was eventually collected from the floor by our bed by an imam, what the locals call a santón. He used a knife to cut out the metal between the two pieces. Inside the piece of copper, to our surprise, was an amulet with a drawing on it. Seeing it, I felt a wave of cold come over me, as though my whole body had been submerged in icy water.

  The nightmare has passed. I haven’t fully regained my health yet. Many friends have recommended that I get checked out. For me, though, I feel like there has already been an explanation for all of it. No need to bother a doctor.

  Today is the day Muslims break their fast. Outside my window is a cloudless blue sky. A cool breeze is blowing in. The summer is already over. A beautiful autumn in the desert is about to begin.

  A Ladder

  When it comes to driving, I can’t actually remember how I learned. For years I sat aside and watched attentively while others were behind the wheel. Later on, whenever there was an opportunity, I’d play around with the steering wheel myself. Eventually I picked it up quite naturally, just like that.

  I’m a pretty bold person. Every time I get in someone’s car, I politely ask, ‘Will you let me drive? I’ll be very careful.’ Most people, faced with this humble request, are happy to oblige. Whether it’s a big car or small, new or old, I always drive properly in order not to disappoint the goodwill of others. I’ve never had an accident.

  Those who let me drive their cars always forget to ask one critically important question. Since they don’t ask, I’m certainly in no rush to blab. So I surreptitiously drive on to wherever I please.

  When José bought a car, I fell in love with it; it was the white stallion of my dreams. I often drove into town to run errands. Sometimes I’d also pick up my Prince Charming when he finished work. Because I drive so well, nobody ever asked about my driving licence. Unwittingly I even fell into the trap of self-deception, stubbornly deluding myself into thinking that I already had one.

  On more than one occasion, José and his co-workers have discussed how obtaining a driving licence around here is more difficult than ascending to heaven. So-and-so’s wife still hadn’t passed the written test after fourteen attempts, they said. Meanwhile, there was a Sahrawi who had been taking the road test for two years. I calmly listened to these harrowing topics of conversation, my head lowered, not daring to let out a peep. Regardless, I still drove my car to and fro, day in, day out. As for ascending to heaven, I didn’t feel like attempting to climb the ladder at the traffic bureau for the moment.

  One day, I received a letter from my father. ‘You should really get your driving licence during your free time in the desert,’ he advised. ‘Stop procrastinating.’

  Whenever I get mail from home, José always asks, ‘What news from your parents?’

  My guard happened to be down that day. ‘Dad says I should stop being lazy about my licence,’ I blurted out.

  Hearing this, José chuckled complacently. ‘Alright, that is an order from Dad,’ he said to me. ‘I’m not the one forcing you. Let’s see if you can weasel out of it this time.’

  I thought about it for a moment. I had no qualms about self-deception, since it wasn’t affecting anybody other than myself. But I wasn’t willing to drive without a licence and deceive my father at the same time. He’d never asked about my driving, so it’s not that I had been lying to him.

  In Spain, you’re required to attend driving school before you can get a licence. You can only take the test once the school registers you for it. So, even though I already knew how to drive, I would still have to pay this tuition. Despite the fact that we live in Africa, far from the Spanish mainland, we still obey Spanish law here because this land is Spanish territory.

  The day after I agreed to attend a driving school, José borrowed a bunch of exercise booklets from his colleagues and gave them to me so I could read about traffic rules. I was really grumpy. ‘I don’t like to read,’ I told him.

  ‘You always have your nose buried in a book,’ he retorted. ‘What are you talking about?’ He pointed at my bookshelf. ‘Here you have astronomy, geography, demons and ghouls, spy romances, animals, philosophy, gardening, languages, cooking, manga, cinema, tailoring, even secret recipes in traditional Chinese medicine, magic tricks, hypnotism, dyeing clothes… All thrown together in one big mess. Are you telling me that you’re going to get stumped by some traffic rules?’

  I sighed and took the small stack of booklets from José.

  This was different. I don’t like to read things that other people assign me.

  A few days later, I drove to the driving school with a bit of money to register for class.

  The boss of this Sahara Driving School really seemed to take pride in his appearance. He had a few dozen blown-up colour photographs of himself in different outfi
ts hanging in the office. He flashed and flitted about as though he were a movie star attending a premiere.

  An unruly crowd of Sahrawi men were gathered at the counter. Business was booming. Learning how to drive is a very trendy thing in the desert. Huge cars are often parked right outside ragged and run-down tents. So many fathers sell their beautiful daughters in exchange for a car. For the Sahrawi, the only way to demonstrate one’s progress towards becoming civilised is to drive a car of one’s own. Body odour, on the other hand, is a totally insignificant matter.

  It was very difficult for me to wriggle my way to the counter through their heaps of fabric. Right after I said that I wanted to register, I noticed there were two Spanish traffic police just past the Sahrawi man to my right. In my fright, I squeezed my way back out and escaped into the background to gaze at the boss’s glamour shots again.

  From the reflection in the framed glass, I saw one of the police officers quickly making his way over to me. I played it cool and didn’t even budge, focusing on counting the number of buttons on the boss’s shirt. This policeman stood nearby and peered at me for quite some time. Finally, he opened his mouth. ‘Señorita,’ he said. ‘I believe I recognise you!’

  I had no choice but to turn around. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said to him. ‘I really don’t know who you are.’

  ‘I heard you say you want to register for this class,’ he continued. ‘Strange! I’ve seen you driving around town more than once. You really don’t have a licence?’

  Fearing the circumstances were unfavourable, I immedi­ately switched to English. ‘So sorry, I don’t understand Spanish. What did you say?’

  He was dumbfounded to hear that I didn’t speak his language.

  ‘Licencia! ’ he cried. ‘Licencia! ’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ I gave him an embarrassed and help­less look.

  The police officer ran over to his colleague. He was point­ing at me and saying, ‘I saw her drive to the post office this morning with my own eyes. It’s definitely her, no mistake about it. So it looks like she’s only now learning how to drive. How much should we fine her?’

  ‘She’s not in a car now,’ the other one said. ‘How come you didn’t catch her before?’

  ‘I see her driving all day, all the time. I always thought she had a licence. Why would I stop her to check?’

  While discussing the matter, they forgot all about me. I turned around and quickly squeezed back in amid the folds of fabric of the Sahrawi men.

  I finished the paperwork quickly and paid the course fee. The girl at the information desk gave me the test date: I would be taking it in two weeks. With this all settled, I gathered the booklets on traffic rules and regulations that the school had given me and walked out the front door, totally at ease.

  I opened the car door, got in and started the engine. I was just about to drive off when I looked in the rear-view mirror. Turned out those two police officers had been hiding around the corner, waiting to catch me. I immediately jumped out of the car in fright, then strode away quickly. I waited until José finished work to ask him to rescue our white stallion.

  I was put into a driving class that started at half past noon. The driving school had its facilities in the desolate area just outside town, where they’d laid down some roads amid the sandpiles. My instructor and I sat in the stuffy car going in circles like little white mice.

  The desert at noon was hotter than fifty degrees centigrade. Sweat soaked through my clothes, dripping into my eyes. Sand chafed my face so badly, it looked like I’d been slapped. The class was only fifteen minutes long, but intense thirst and scorching heat gnawed at me relentlessly like mad dogs. The instructor couldn’t take the heat. Without even asking me, he took off his top and sat shirtless by my side.

  After three days of this, I couldn’t take the crazy heat any longer. I asked the instructor if I could change my time. ‘You are pretty damn lucky,’ he said. ‘Another lady has a class at eleven at night. She can’t learn a thing, it’s so dark and cold. And you still want to change the damn time.’ He banged on the scalding hot roof of the car as he said this, putting a small dent in it.

  The instructor really wasn’t a bad guy. But the prospect of baking in this oven, next to a guy who didn’t want to wear clothes, for fifteen more classes wasn’t massively appealing. Plus, he was the type that cursed every time he opened his mouth. It wasn’t much fun.

  I sighed. ‘How about this?’ I said to him. ‘I’ll sign off on all the hours you’re supposed to be teaching me. I won’t come any more and I’ll take responsibility for the test.’

  This seemed to be exactly what he wanted to hear. ‘Fine!’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a damn break. We are done. See you at the test.’

  Before we parted ways, he treated me to a bottle of cold soda water to celebrate the completion of my driving classes.

  José was really mad when he found out that my tuition fees had gone to the instructor for nothing and that I refused to go back. He forced me to take night classes. He said this class on traffic rules was expensive enough and I should get our money’s worth.

  So I went to take my first night class.

  The class for Sahrawi people next door was a truly strange phenomenon. Everyone was reading aloud, memorising traffic rules line by line like they were speaking in tongues. I had never seen so many intensely focused Sahrawi people before.

  As for our class, which was conducted in Spanish, there were very few people and most were not interested in paying attention. My teacher was a very cultured middle-aged man, tall and lean with a small beard. He definitely didn’t curse. This literary teacher was worlds apart from my previous militaristic instructor.

  Once I got settled, the instructor politely came over and asked me to teach him about Chinese culture. I ended up giving him a lesson, even writing out and explaining many of our Chinese characters for him.

  When I entered the classroom the next day, this literary teacher immediately opened a workbook. It was full of the Chinese characters for ‘person’ and ‘sky’.

  ‘How did I do?’ he asked shyly. ‘Do they look right?’

  ‘You write better than me,’ I said.

  Quite pleased by this remark, he continued to grill me, asking about Confucius, asking about Lao Tzu. Luckily, this was my strong suit. I gave him very thorough answers, then asked if he knew of Zhuangzi. Wasn’t Zhuangzi a butterfly? he asked.

  The hour flew by. I wanted to hear him talk about traffic lights. ‘Why, are you colour-blind?’ he asked slyly.

  By the time this intellectual released me from his 5,000-year history lesson, the day had grown pitch-black and ice cold. I made dinner in a rush once I got home to my poor starving José.

  ‘Sanmao, do you know what the different lights mean on the backs of trucks?’

  ‘Almost there,’ I said. ‘The teacher is very good.’

  When José went to work during the day, I washed and ironed clothes, made the bed, swept the floors, dusted, cooked, knitted and generally kept busy all around. I didn’t dare slack off when it came to the book of traffic rules, either, reciting them to myself constantly. It was like when I went to Sunday school as a kid. I firmly committed every single traffic rule to memory as though they were verses from the Bible.

  Around that time, all my neighbours knew I was going to take the test. I shut my door tight so nobody could get in. The neighbouring women were writhing with jealousy. ‘When are you going to finish taking the test?’ they shouted every day. ‘It is so inconvenient for us when you do not open the door!’

  I held my ground and ignored them. It was time to get serious.

  The day of my test was fast approaching. I certainly wasn’t afraid to drive, but I had reservations about the written test. I’d been learning traffic rules while thinking about eggs and vegetables and wool, Confucius and Zhuangzi; I was a bit muddled, to say the least.

  On Friday night, José picked up the book of traffic rules. ‘Your written exam is three days
from now,’ he said. ‘If you don’t pass, then forget about the road test. I’m going to quiz you right now.’

  José has always thought that I’m a genius and an idiot at the same time. He asked me a jumble of questions from all over the place, his tone insistent, his voice thunderous. I couldn’t take in a single word he said.

  ‘Slow down! I have no idea what you’re even saying.’

  He bombarded me with questions again, but I still couldn’t respond.

  Throwing the book aside in anger, he shot me a dirty look. ‘You’ve gone to so many classes, but you still haven’t learned anything. Stupid!’

  I got pretty mad, too. I went to the kitchen and took a large swig of cooking wine to pull myself together. Once I had cleared my head, I threw the traffic rules back at José. I slowly recited the whole thing back to him, word for word. There were almost a hundred pages in the booklet, but I’d memorised them all.

  José was dumbfounded.

  ‘How do you like them apples?’ I crowed, feeling pleased with myself. ‘Thanks to my elementary school teacher, I can memorise anything.’

  José still wasn’t convinced. ‘What if you get too nervous on Monday and can’t understand Spanish again?’ he asked. ‘Wouldn’t that be terrible?’ This remark made me toss and turn all night. I got absolutely no sleep.

  I really do have this problem with drawing a blank when­ever I get nervous. It always comes back to me later, but in the heat of the moment my mind gets stuck in a rut.

  You might say:

  I could wait until this feeling

  Becomes a hunted memory,

  Only I am at that moment,

  already wavering.1

  I was insomniac until daybreak.

  José was in a deep slumber, having toiled for an entire week. I didn’t have it in my heart to wake him up. I got dressed, slipped out of the door and started up the car. I drove to the driving test centre far from town. Driving there without a licence was really asking for trouble, but if I walked there I’d arrive all dishevelled. Then I certainly wouldn’t make a good impression and accomplish what I had set out to do.