Stories of the Sahara

by Sanmao

  I committed the original sin. How can I blame her for hating me?

  In the dead of night, I surreptitiously get out of bed and open my leather bag. I count my secret savings. More than 10,000 pesetas left.

  When you get up bright and early the next morning, you see Mother taking beef out of the freezer to defrost for lunch.

  I go over and put my arms around her waist, hugging her from behind. ‘Mother,’ I say to her. ‘Since we’ve been home, you’ve been working hard for too long. Why not let your son take you out for seafood today? Father, the Brothers, Little Sis, we’ll invite the whole family for dinner. How about it?’ You can’t be insincere when you say this. The imaginary enemy is such a meticulous person. Could you really fool her with your tone of voice and expression?

  So let me teach you a method. You don’t even need to put up any pretence of consideration for her. Don’t you have a vivid imagination? If you don’t use your natural-born talent now, then when? Close your eyes, resolve yourself, and imagine Mother is the Mama you haven’t seen in a very long time. Focus all your energy on imagining this, from outside to in. You’ll find that your heart will immediately soften; you’ll love her and speak with sincerity. As for the ‘real Mama’ who has always occupied your heart, you’ll have to temporarily shut her into another part of your heart and not let her out.

  With this little bit of magic, you’ll be able to conquer the imaginary enemy.

  Mother and Father aren’t terribly rich, but they do have some olive trees in Andalusia to the south. They aren’t poor people, just thrifty by nature. They rarely go out to eat. On the occasion that their son invites them to dine at a restaurant, they will happily agree to it.

  Little Sis, Little Bro and Second Bro all meet at the restaurant. We two couples, Mother holding on to José, Father propped up by daughter-in-law, make a beautiful portrait of family harmony and parentage.

  Mother is of noble bearing, Father a true gentleman. José’s handsomeness is a force of nature. Only the daughter-in-law looks ashen after cooking that banquet for thirty-six guests. Long has her visage been unable to return to the beauty of a rose.

  Everyone gobbles up lobster, prawns, shrimp, clams, salmon. This is no Snake Alley. This is the most famous seafood restaurant in all of Madrid!

  Your deep-rooted bad habits flare up again, along with your vanity. The new clothes you’d dreamed of in the desert, you think silently to yourself, are all on the table now. These people are eating your clothes, a button here, a zipper there. A piece of red cloth, a sleeve. Now they’re eating a belt.

  Don’t be heartbroken. Don’t get anxious. You’re Eve, the first person in the world. Are you worse at maths than an elementary school student? Think about it. Your mother-in-law was pregnant with your good man for nine months. She gave him flesh and blood, life itself. In the course of twenty-odd years, how much money has she spent on his studies, his literacy, juvenile court, illnesses, clothing, food, shopping, haircuts, the labours of raising a child? How many baskets of olives has Father sold?

  You take another look at José. Such a good young man, yours for the price of this table of seafood. Are you losing in this transaction, or are you in fact turning a profit?

  You resolve yourself again, thinking about how your own parents held you up. They raised you as the pearl of their palms, the apple of their eye. You turn it over and over in your mind. Aren’t other parents the same, putting blood, sweat and tears into raising their sweet babies?

  Hot tears nearly burst from your eyes with this revelation. You can’t take care of your own parents, but wouldn’t it be repayment all the same to put a few more prawns on the plates of José’s father and mother? (It is unfair, but don’t think any more of it. Otherwise, you’ll stop yourself again.)

  If only José could understand his wife’s intention. If only he could be enlightened. We could sacrifice our bodies for parents on both sides, and still it would not be enough! (In this world, men sacrifice themselves for women, and women for men. You’d have to light a lantern and scour the land to find dutiful children who would sacrifice themselves for their parents. Don’t bother looking. You won’t find them.)

  It’s time to go. Pack your suitcases. Little Sis watches nearby, reluctant to part. With a sense of siblinghood, imagine she’s your own flesh and blood little sister. Wouldn’t you want to give her some pretty clothes? Give them to her, a young girl in the first throes of love. Mother and Father have strict rules in the house. She has few decent clothes. She has to change boyfriends frequently, instead of changing clothes.

  This isn’t just sibling love. This is leaving the door open for the future. Maybe one day, Sanmao’s star will perish in the western sky, leaving behind future nieces and nephews, and pretty Little Sister will have to take in orphans so José can look for happiness again. Arrangements are needed in advance; one can’t simply clutch Buddha’s feet in a moment of need.

  The moment of departure has finally come. Your heart rate speeds up to 150 again. Father is cheerful. He goes out to take his walk as usual, rain or shine, without bothering to bid farewell.

  Mother’s facial expression is frigid as a snowy mountain. As for me, this criminal character who entered the Quero family home with a guilty heart, I leave the Quero family home with a guilty heart. I feel conflicted, self-conscious, remorseful. I can’t lift my head up. I bend down to put on socks, almost like I’m kneeling before the imaginary enemy. Little Sis has braved the rain to call a taxi. (Everyone with a car has gone to work. No one to drive us.) When Little Sis comes back up, yelling, ‘Come, the car is here’, my nerves are so worked up that I just want to burst right out that door so I can avoid the enemy’s emotional agitation or a sudden explosive confrontation.

  Hearing that the car is here, this mother-in-law can’t take it any more. She desperately hurls herself at me like an arrow. I stand there unmoving, preparing myself to receive a torrent of slaps. (I’ll give you my left cheek to slap, then my right cheek to slap. I make up my mind not to retaliate. Would a hero fight back?)

  Closing my eyes, gritting my teeth, I wait for the enemy to attack. Who knew the enemy would instead hug me tight to her bosom, sobbing and trembling. ‘My child!’ she says. ‘You must come back home soon! Life in the desert is too hard. Your home is here. Mamá misunderstood you before. She loves you now.’ (Reader, look close. The enemy has finally called herself ‘Mamá’ rather than ‘Mother’.)

  I’ve made the imaginary enemy cry. I’m the one who has been on the defensive from beginning to end. I never attacked her. Why is she crying then?

  Little Sis and José pry Mother’s arms from around me. ‘Mamá, don’t make a fuss,’ they call. ‘The car downstairs can’t wait any longer. Let go.’

  Only then do I manage to struggle my way out of Mother’s bosom.

  Amid this autumnal atmosphere, a warm spring rain unexpectedly falls, slowly wetting my face.

  Now let’s go back to see what else the aforementioned Mister Bai has to say (he’s still not done). Sanmao has gone to her mother-in-law’s house, and now he speaks for the mother-in-law:

  Afar, fragrance occupies ancient roads;

  A fine jade-green stretches to a ruined city.

  Once more I see off a nobleman;

  The lush grasses full of the emotion of departure.6

  I finally killed my imaginary enemy.

  My dear mother-in-law Venus was gradually born in the call of a clarion.

  Stealing Souls

  I own a camera that’s really not too shabby. Of course what I call ‘not shabby’ is in comparison to the little toy-like boxes that most other people have. I didn’t often use this camera when I lived in Madrid because it attracted a lot of attention whenever I had it strapped to me. In the desert, I’m not exactly the type of person that commands attention. Moreover, in this sparsely populated land, you rarely see people to begin with. Standing amid the sand, using a hand to block the sunlight, you might feel overjoyed just to see a black speck of
a person on the horizon.

  When I first got to the desert, my greatest ambition was to use my camera to record the lives and customs of the nomads in this desolate region. Thinking back, I felt passionate about this other culture because of the extreme differences between us; in this distance I found a kind of spiritual beauty and emotion.

  The time I spent plunging deep into the great desert was mostly before I got married. When I first arrived in this vast and mysterious land, I used all the communication skills possible to get to know every side of it. Most valuable to me was seeing how people could derive the same joys from life, the same loves and hates as people anywhere else, even while living in this desert where not a single blade of grass can grow.

  Taking pictures was a completely necessary part of my life in the desert. My financial circumstances at the time meant I couldn’t really afford much on my travels through the great sands, let alone rent a car. Nor did I have the capacity to spend too much money on the relative luxury of photography, even though to me it was such an important and worthy investment.

  My photographic equipment was limited to a camera, a tripod, a telephoto lens, a wide-angle lens and a couple of filters. I bought a few rolls of film with a high ISO. The rest were the most basic black and white or colour film. I didn’t bother with a flash since I knew I wouldn’t use it much.

  Before I came to the desert, I would occasionally get one or two good shots out of every few hundred photos or so. I did buy and read through some photography manuals back in Madrid just as I was preparing to move. What I learned on paper, I felt, was knowledge that had not yet been tested. With this openness and earnestness, I came to northern Africa.

  The first time I was driven into the actual desert, I clutched my camera in hand, marvelling at every single thing and wanting to photograph it all. Mirages that looked like dreams or illusions, like ghosts. Continuous dunes, smooth and tender as the female form. Wild sandstorms pouring down like rain. The burned and dry land. Cactuses with arms outstretched, calling to the heavens. Riverbeds that had dried up millions of years ago. Black mountain ranges. The vast sky, a blue so deep as to appear frozen. A wilderness covered in rocks… These images set my mind awhirl and ablaze with their riches.

  On these incessantly bumpy journeys, my deep awe for the land often made me completely forget about my own toils.

  How I hated my limited means at the time. If only I’d sensibly set out to learn photography much earlier, I could have melded each vision to which I bore witness together with the emotions I felt. I could have created a record of them, an invaluable memento of my life’s journey!

  Although I didn’t have much money for photography and the flaying desert wind would surely damage my camera, I did my best under those circumstances and still shot a bunch of what could be considered documentary exercises.

  As for the natives of this desert, I felt a kind of ineffable love for everything about them, whether it was their gait, the way they ate, the colours and styles of their clothes, their gestures, language, marriages or religious faith. What’s more, I enjoyed examining them up close because it satisfied the endless curiosity I had.

  It would be impossible to depend on the power of one person alone to capture the world’s largest desert on film, particularly at the standard I was hoping to achieve. I thought it through after I had made several trips. I would have to start by focusing on just a few things, rather than overestimating and overworking myself on a comprehensive and enormous project.

  ‘Let’s take photos of people!’ I said to José. ‘I like people.’

  José didn’t come with me when I travelled with the convoys distributing water in the desert. Through a friend’s introduction, I hit the road with a trustworthy Sahrawi fellow named Bashir and his assistant. This journey would start at the Atlantic coast and go all the way up to the Algerian border, then back down again. We would drive well over 2,000 kilometres in one go. At every nomadic campsite, Bashir’s water trucks always arrived on time with a few dozen oil drums full of water for sale.

  Physically speaking, it was truly a struggle, just plain misery, to ride in this open-top run-down vehicle with no glass to block the wind, the sun beating unceasingly down on us. But since José had allowed me go, I had to repay his confidences by keeping it together while travelling, always returning home safely to town within a few days. The first time I went into the desert, I didn’t take anything with me except for a backpack and a tent. I had no means of bringing the things that the nomads wanted. Accordingly, I found it hard to win anyone’s friendship.

  The next time I went, I knew the importance of being a witch doctor. I brought a medicine chest with me. It also became clear to me that there were women who loved to doll themselves up and children who loved to eat, even at the ends of the earth. So I bought many glass-bead necklaces, cheap rings, even a big pile of shiny keys, durable fishing line, white sugar, powdered milk and candy.

  Entering the desert with these things in hand, I felt a sense of deep shame about trading material goods for friendship. But I realised that I was only wishing that they would come to trust me and allow me to get to know them. What I wanted in exchange was their friendship and goodwill, and for them to see that I cared about them. It was one step closer to asking them to accept this girl from another land, who might as well be an alien.

  Although we think of the tents of nomadic peoples as being clustered, they’re actually spread out over quite a distance. Only small numbers of camels and goats gather in herds, munching on the sad little leaves of withered trees for sustenance.

  As soon as the water truck parked in front of a tent, I’d jump out of the car and head in. These inhabitants of the interior, so lovable and so easy to startle, would always disperse quickly in fright when I, a total stranger, approached. Bashir would shout whenever he saw people inevitably fleeing at the sight of me. He’d round them up like sheep and make them stand before me. The men might come over, but the women and children were more difficult to coax. I never let Bashir force them to come closer. I probably couldn’t have borne it if he had done that.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. Come here, don’t be afraid of me.’ I knew these people probably didn’t understand Spanish at all, but I also figured my tone would comfort them. Even if they didn’t understand, they might not panic any more so long as I spoke calmly.

  ‘Here, I have beads for you!’ I put a pretty beaded necklace around the neck of a little girl, pulling her over to pat her head.

  After I’d given away most of my things, I started playing doctor.

  I treated diseases of the skin with anti-inflammatory cream, headaches with aspirin. For eye infections, eyedrops. If someone was too skinny, they got extra-strength vitamins. More importantly, I gave them large quantities of vitamin C.

  Whenever I got to a new place, I would never just take out my camera and start photographing like crazy without getting to know the people a bit. I believe that is a highly disrespectful act.

  Once I gave two aspirin to an old lady who complained of a headache, along with a key to hang beneath her headscarf as jewellery. Less than five seconds after swallowing the medicine I’d given her, she nodded to indicate that her head no longer hurt. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me into her tent.

  As an expression of gratitude, she called out hoarsely and invited in a few girls who had their faces entirely veiled. I figured they were her daughters and daughters-in-law. These women had intense body odour and were all wrapped in the same black cloth. I gestured at them to remove their veils. Two of them shyly did so, revealing their light brown skin.

  These two beautiful faces had large eyes, blank expressions and full, sensual lips. I was wholly bewitched. I couldn’t help but lift my camera. I assumed these women had never seen a camera before, let alone a Chinese person. Maybe these two strange things also bewitched them. They stared at me, unmoving, allowing me to take their photo.

  Just then the man of the family came home and
saw what I was doing. He gave a sudden shout and rushed over. He flailed and yelled, almost kicking over the old woman. Then he proceeded to curse at the girls, who were all huddled together now. Hearing his angry words, these young women were near tears, frightened into a small bundle.

  ‘You,’ he said in broken Spanish. ‘You have taken their souls. They will be dead soon.’

  ‘I what?’ Hearing this was a major shock for me. Talk about an unjust accusation.

  ‘You, you woman, know how to cure sickness and steal souls,’ he boomed. ‘You catch them all in here.’ He pointed at my camera and looked like he was about to strike me.

  Seeing that the situation was not in my favour, I slipped out with my camera and ran to the car, calling out for Bashir, my protector.

  Bashir was in the middle of delivering water. When he saw what was happening, he immediately blocked the man who was chasing me. Regardless, a crowd began to form excitedly around us.

  I knew that under these circumstances, we could threaten to not deliver water or use the desert corps or other deeper superstitions to deter them and secure the safe passage of my camera and me. But on the other hand, since they believed these women had already lost their souls, couldn’t this crowd do anything to help recover them from me somehow?

  If I’d sneaked a few photos and driven off at that point, the psychological damage I could have inflicted on those women would have been immense. Now they were moaning as though they were close to death.

  ‘Bashir, let’s not argue any more. Please tell them that their souls really are in this box. Now I’m going to take them out and return their souls to them. Tell them not to be afraid.’

  ‘Señorita, they’re stirring up trouble! They are too ignorant. Don’t bother.’ Bashir’s attitude was very condescending. I felt disgusted. ‘Go on!’ He waved his sleeve in the air. ‘Get out of here!’ The people reluctantly began to disperse.

  Seeing that we’d started up the car and were about to leave, the women whose souls I’d taken immediately knelt down, their faces pale as death. I patted Bashir on the shoulder and asked him to hold on. ‘I will release your souls now,’ I said to the women. ‘Don’t you worry.’