Stories of the Sahara

by Sanmao

‘The weather’s so nice. While you’re at work, I’m going to collect bullet casings and goat bones and come back a bit later.’

  ‘What’s the point in collecting those things?’ José started the car.

  ‘If you freeze the bullet casings on the roof overnight and bring them back down the next morning while it’s still dark out, you can stick them on your eyes to treat styes. Didn’t I treat yours last time?’

  ‘That was a coincidence. Some bogus method you invented yourself.’

  I shrugged and withheld comment. Actually, picking things up was just a ruse. The real pleasure was wandering in the fresh air of the open land. Too bad the days of nice weather were so few.

  I watched José get out of the car and walk on to the floating platform. Then I sighed and drove away from his work site.

  The desert in the morning looked like it had been washed clean, the sky a crystal blue without a thread of cloud. Soft dunes spread out as far as the eye could see. During moments like these, the sand always made me think of the body of a gigantic sleeping woman, almost seeming to rise and fall as if it were breathing lightly. Such quiet serenity and profound beauty inspired an emotion close to pain.

  I drove the car off the road, following in the tracks of others who’d gone to the shooting range before. After picking up some bullet casings, I lay down for a while and looked up at the semicircular dome of sky that enclosed us like a bowl. Then I walked along the sand for a long time looking for dried bones. I didn’t get any complete skeletons, but I did unexpectedly find a huge fossilised shell that looked like a pretty folding fan spread out.

  I spat on it, wiping it clean on my trousers before getting in the car and going home. Somehow the sun had already climbed high in the sky above.

  Windows down, warm wind blowing, it was so lovely out that I didn’t even want to listen to the news on the radio, as it would intrude upon the peace and calm of this day and this land. The road stretched out like a shimmering river, flowing in a straight line beneath the firmament.

  On the horizon, there was a small black dot, clear and unmoving against the sky. As I whooshed past this person, he suddenly raised his hand to get a ride.

  ‘Good morning!’ I slowed the car to a stop.

  It was a young Spanish soldier, impeccably dressed as though he were about to attend a flag ceremony, standing on the side of the road all by his lonesome.

  ‘Good morning to you, señora!’ He stood ramrod straight, obviously a bit surprised to see me in the car. His grass-green soldier’s uniform, wide leather belt, riding boots and boat-shaped cap would make any old bumpkin look heroic. The funny thing was that he still couldn’t hide the innocence on his face no matter how he dressed.

  ‘Where are you heading?’ I asked, raising my head up high.

  ‘Umm! To town.’

  ‘Come on in!’ This was my first time giving a ride to a young person, but I had no qualms about it after looking at him for just a moment.

  He got in the car and self-consciously took a seat next to me, two hands resting neatly on his knees. To my great surprise I saw that he was wearing the snow-white gloves exclusively used for grand ceremonies.

  ‘Going into town so early?’ I asked casually.

  ‘Yes, I wanted to see a movie,’ he answered earnestly.

  ‘The cinema doesn’t open until five, though!’ I tried my hardest to speak normally, but secretly I thought this kid was probably up to no good.

  ‘That’s why I left early in the morning.’ He fidgeted shyly.

  ‘You were planning to walk for a whole day just to catch a movie?’ This was truly unbelievable.

  ‘We’re on holiday today.’

  ‘Military transport wouldn’t take you?’

  ‘I didn’t sign up in time. There wasn’t space on the bus.’

  ‘So you’re walking?’ I looked at the endless road, a strange feeling passing through my heart out of nowhere.

  We both grew quiet for a long while, not knowing what to say.

  ‘You’re serving in the army?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Still feel good?’

  ‘Great. I’m a ranger who lives in the tents, always switching campsites. It’s just that there isn’t enough water.’

  I peered once more at the uniform that he kept so pristine. It must have been an important occasion to him, as he probably wouldn’t have worn these clothes otherwise. Once we got into town, the joy on his face spilled forth, unable to be contained. He was a young kid, after all. After he got out, he gave me a solemn military salute that nonetheless had a childish quality to it. I nodded and sped off.

  I can never forget that pair of white gloves. This big child lived in a scarcely populated and depressing wasteland all year long. Yet to him, at that moment, there was no more magnificent an occasion than watching a movie in this dilapidated nowhere town.

  On the way back, a helpless ache came over me. This person had touched a part of my heart that wasn’t often touched. He must have been the same age as my younger brother who lived so far away, my brother who was also serving in the military. I practically got sucked up into a vacuum of time, stupefied for a moment. Then I shook my head and stepped on the gas, speeding towards home.

  Even though José often said I was meddling in too many things, he was really just giving me a hard time. Whenever he drove himself to and from work, he would also pick up passers-by on the road. If you ask me, when you’re driving in a remote place and see someone on the side of the road making a difficult journey like a snail beneath the hot sun, you simply can’t disregard them.

  ‘Today was such a headache,’ José moaned as he walked into the house. ‘These old men are really fearsome. I picked up three old Sahrawi men and had to deal with their body odour the whole way. I almost fainted. Once we got to their destination, they said something in Arabic. I didn’t even know they were talking to me, so I kept driving. You want to know what they did to me? The guy sitting behind me got so worked up, he took off his stiff shoe and started whacking me furiously on the head. He almost killed me.’

  ‘Ha! You gave them a lift and still got beaten up!’ I was beside myself with laughter.

  ‘Feel for yourself,’ José said, gnashing his teeth and rubbing his head. ‘There’s a big bump.’

  The happiest times were when we ran into foreigners in the desert. Even though the land we lived in was vast and open, our spirits were isolated and enclosed. When we came across people from out of town who spoke about the fast-paced world that was so distant from us, I always felt excited and inspired.

  ‘I gave a lift to a foreigner on the way to work today.’

  ‘Where was he from?’ My curiosity was piqued.

  ‘America.’

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘He didn’t say much of anything.’

  ‘You didn’t speak at all during that long ride?’

  ‘Firstly, we couldn’t really communicate. Also, when this lunatic got in the car, he kept banging rhythmically on the dashboard with a stick in his hand. I got annoyed and wanted to drive as fast as I could so he’d get out. Didn’t think he’d come with me to work.’

  ‘Where did you pick him up?’

  ‘He had a big backpack with the American flag sewn on it. I picked him up just where the freeway starts at the edge of town.’

  ‘Your ferocious security guard let him enter the work site? Even without a permit?’

  ‘They wouldn’t let him in at first, but he said he had to go and see the mine.’

  ‘You can’t just go in and look around as you please,’ I asserted.

  ‘They blocked him for a while. Eventually this guy raised his backpack and said, “I’m an American…” ’

  ‘And he just got in?’ I opened my eyes wide at José.

  ‘He just got in.’

  ‘Hmph!’ I looked at José with great surprise.

  Afterwards, José went to take a shower. Out of nowhere, beneath the sound of running water, he started si
nging in a strange voice in English. ‘I wannaaa beeee an A–me–ri–can, I wannaaa beeee an American…’

  I ran in, pushed aside the curtain, and started hitting him with a spatula. He sang with even greater vigour, changing the lyrics. ‘I wannaaa marryyyy an A–me–ri–can, oh, I wanna marryyyy…’

  From then on, whenever I drove past the checkpoint at his work site and saw that security guard, I would put my hand over the permit on my windscreen, stick my head out and, affecting a weird accent, shout to him in English, ‘I’m an American!’ Then I’d step on the gas and drive in. I didn’t blame this guy for being annoyed with me. I deserved it.

  At the beginning of the month, there would always be a long queue for the cashier window at the phosphate company. After every person’s turn, they’d squeeze their way out of the crowd with a wad of cash in hand and a smile on their face like strawberry ice-cream melting in the sun. We used to get cash out too, because the pleasure of touching real paper money was decidedly different from a bank statement. But then we became tired of queuing, so we had the company deposit the salary directly into the bank.

  However, all the labourers wanted cash. They refused to deal with the bank.

  Towards the beginning of the month, there were always gorgeously dressed women flying in from the nearby Canary Islands. With great fanfare, they would get down to business. During these times, you could hear the sound of coins jingling all over town like that song from the movie Hotel: ‘Money, money, money, money…’ How nice it all sounded!

  One evening I went to pick up José after a night shift. When I arrived, I saw him coming out of the company cafeteria.

  ‘Sanmao, I have to do a shift at the last minute. I won’t finish until tomorrow morning. You should go home.’

  ‘How come you didn’t say anything earlier? I already drove all this way.’ Hugging myself through a thick sweater, I handed over the coat I had brought for José.

  ‘There’s a boat that got stuck. We have to work through the night to get it free. Tomorrow there are three ships coming in to load ore.’

  ‘Alright, then, I’ll be off!’ I reversed the car, turned my headlights onto full beam and started on the way home. The desert was so big, driving a hundred kilometres a day felt as simple as taking a short walk.

  It was a clear evening. The moon shone down on sand dunes that looked like the sea. It always made me think of those dreamlike and mysterious paintings by the Surrealists. Such scenes truly exist in the desert at night!

  My car headlights illuminated the empty road ahead. Occasionally another car would appear driving towards me. Some cars also overtook me. I stepped on the accelerator and opened the windows, hurtling into the nocturne.

  Once I was nearing twenty kilometres from town, I sud­denly saw someone waving in my car headlights. Instinctively I stepped on the brakes and pulled over, shining my lights on this person. Out of the blue, in such an unexpected place, I saw that it was a beautiful and well-dressed woman with red hair standing on the side of the road. It was even more startling than seeing a ghost. I sat there in silence, afraid to move, examining her cautiously.

  This woman used a hand to shield her face from the bright headlights. She clopped over to the car in her high heels. When she came near and saw me, she hesitated. It looked like she wouldn’t be getting in.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked, tilting my head.

  ‘Umm… nothing! You can go on!’

  ‘Didn’t you wave because you needed a ride?’ I ventured.

  ‘No, no, I got it wrong. Thank you! Please go on! Thanks!’

  I immediately drove off in a fright. This female demon was choosing a human to possess. I had better run for it before she had any regrets! As I fled down this road, I started noticing that there were similar women with curly hair, green eyes and red lips standing in the sand at regular intervals, looking to hitchhike. I didn’t dare pull over and drove faster into the night.

  After speeding along for some time, I saw another woman in a purple dress and yellow shoes, smiling sweetly and standing in the middle of the narrow road. Even if she wasn’t human, there was no way I could run her over. I had to slow down and stop very far away, shining my headlights on her. I honked the horn and asked her to get out of the way. What a bunch of mysterious women!

  All smiles, she ran to the car in her loud heels. ‘Ah!’ She made a noise when she saw me.

  ‘I’m not who you want. I’m a woman.’ I smiled, looking at her powdery face that was already middle-aged. It dawned on me then what was happening on this road by night. It was the beginning of the month!

  ‘Ah, sorry!’ A polite smile broke out on her face.

  I gestured at her to please move aside and slowly started up the engine. She looked around for a moment, then ran back and slapped a hand on my car. I stuck my head out.

  ‘Alright, I’m pretty much done. Let’s call it a day! Can you take me into town?’

  ‘Hop in!’ I said helplessly.

  ‘Actually, I recognise you,’ she said brightly. ‘You were mail­ing a letter at the post office the other day, wearing a Sahrawi man’s white gown.’

  ‘Yep, that was me.’

  ‘Did you know we fly in here every month?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t know you did business outside of town.’

  ‘We have no choice – nobody in town wants to rent rooms to us, and there isn’t enough space at the Didi Hotel.’

  ‘Business is booming?’ I shook my head and laughed.

  ‘Well, only at the beginning of the month. After the tenth, there’s no more money, so we head back!’ Her voice was honest and clear, without a trace of sadness.

  ‘How much do you charge per person?’

  ‘Four thousand. If we’re staying overnight at the Didi, eight thousand.’

  Eight thousand pesetas is probably around US$120. It was difficult to imagine how those labourers could bear to part with the money they’d toiled so hard for. I hadn’t expected that the women would be so expensive.

  ‘Men are stupid!’ She leaned against the car seat and laughed loudly, self-satisfied as though she were a successful businesswoman.

  I didn’t respond and drove faster towards town, the lights already visible in the distance.

  ‘My lover also works for the phosphate company!’

  ‘Oh!’ I made a perfunctory noise.

  ‘You must know him. He works the night shift in the electrical department.’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘He was the one who told me to come. He said business would be good around here. I used to work just in the Canary Islands. I made much less money back then.’

  ‘Your lover told you to come here because business is good?’ I didn’t believe my ears and had to repeat the sentence.

  ‘I’ve already made enough for three houses!’ She raised her hands with great pleasure, examining her fluorescent purple nail polish.

  I felt like roaring with laughter at this person’s mindless chatter. She said men were stupid and she’d earned three houses’ worth of money. But she still stood pitifully in the sand looking for clients, thinking herself to be very clever.

  For the woman sitting beside me, prostitution wasn’t about making a living or a question of morality. She’d simply become numb to it all.

  ‘Actually, female housekeepers around here can make around twenty thousand a month,’ I said disapprovingly.

  ‘Twenty thousand? Sweeping, making beds, doing laundry. You’d work yourself half to death for only twenty thousand. Who wants to do that?’ Her voice was contemptuous.

  ‘I feel like you’re the one who’s working hard,’ I said slowly.

  She started guffawing with glee.

  Meeting this type of precious character was better than seeing a prostitute in tears, I suppose.

  When we reached town, she thanked me sincerely and wriggled out of the car. She had only taken a few steps before a labourer gave her a strong slap on the bottom, hooting and holleri
ng. She laughed and yelled some nonsense, chasing after him to hit him back. The quiet nightscape quickly became lively and thick with gaudy colour.

  The whole way home and even while reading later, I kept on thinking about that cheerful prostitute.

  Day after day, I drive along the one tarmac road in this wilderness as usual. At first glance, it looks totally deserted, devoid of life, without joy or sorrow. In reality, it’s just like any other street or tiny alley or mountain stream in this world, carrying the stories of its passers-by who come and go, crossing the slow river of time.

  The people and moments I encounter on this road are normal as anything that anyone walking on the street might see. There’s really no greater meaning to it, nor is it worth recording. But Buddha says: ‘It takes a hundred years of self-cultivation to be in the same boat, and a thousand years if you want to share the same pillow.’ All those hands that I’ve shaken, all those brilliant smiles exchanged, all those boring conversations, how could I just let a wind blow through my skirt and scatter these people into nothingness and indifference?

  Every little stone in the sand, I still know how to cherish. Every sunrise and sunset, I’m reluctant to forget. Not to mention these real, living faces, how could I just erase them from my memory?

  Actually, even trying to explain it is too much.

  The Mute Slave

  The first time I was invited to dine at the house of this affluent Sahrawi man in town, I didn’t actually know the host. According to Ali, whose elder sister was married to the guy’s cousin, this rich man didn’t invite just anyone to his home. It was because we, along with three other Spanish couples, were friends with Ali that we got to feast on kebabs of camel hump and liver.

  After we arrived at the wealthy man’s large and labyrinthine white estate, I didn’t just sit still on the beautiful Arabian rug like the other guests, waiting to eat delicacies that might make some want to throw up. The rich guy came out to exchange a few pleasantries, then retreated into his own room. He was an older Sahrawi who looked very shrewd, smoking his hookah, speaking French and Spanish elegantly and fluently. He had an air of great ease and no small amount of arrogance. As for entertaining our group of dinner guests, he left this task to Ali.