by Mingmei Yip
Between shopping trips, I went to the gym to build up my muscle strength and stamina for what might be a physically demanding trip. I tried to eat well and sleep well. I did have sex a few times with Ivan, though he always wanted more. I told him this was my farewell gift to him—in my opinion, much more generous than anything I could afford to buy him.
Looking for real witches was not the only reason for my trip. Since my string-breaking I wanted to test whether I really possessed special powers. And, of course, advice from a tree is unusual enough that one needs to consider it seriously. But I also needed a break from Ivan. Over the four years of our relationship, I felt that my spirit was confined by his overly money-conscious one.
The trip would be an escape, during which I could perhaps figure out what I really wanted in life—and in love. Did I need to be spoiled rotten with material things? Or was it adventure and mystery that I really craved? For Ivan, travel was just another chance to flash his wealth. I won’t say I didn’t get enjoyment from this, but I feared it would soon seem hollow. I also feared he would tire of me—or any other woman—after a few years. I did not want to end up like poor Mrs. Song.
But for now I’d set it all aside and focus on my goal. I wasn’t sure if the trip would be a good move, but because of my dream I’d come to believe it was part of my destiny. I wondered if my journey would be like that of the three heroes in the famous Chinese novel Journey to the West. In the story a monk and his companions, a pig and a monkey, travel west from China to India in search of mystical truth in the form of Buddhist sutras.
On the way they cross treacherous seas and encounter endless adventures such as climbing the Flaming Mountain, passing the Water Curtain Cave, entering the Entangled Silk Grotto inhabited by spider seductresses, even plunging to the pit of hell. Most dangerous of all were the many demons along their journey, all of whom wanted a chunk of the high monk Xuan Zhuang’s flesh because they believed that eating it would give them immortality.
Braving all these dangers, the four made their way safely back to China with the sutras. I was not so arrogant as to compare myself to these intrepid travelers. I only hoped that, like them, I’d survive whatever adventures awaited me and bring back not soul-saving sutras but a humble book to gain tenure with. And, if I was lucky, a collection of stories to entertain my grandchildren during my old age.
Ivan promised to see me off at the airport, but at the last minute couldn’t make it; he had to participate in an international conference call with several rich clients. To compensate, he paid for a fancy limo for Brenda and me. But of course I’d rather have had his company—and his help with my luggage.
I slept fitfully during the long overseas flights, alternating worrying about what I was leaving behind and what awaited me. I wondered if I was being courageous or stupid. Brenda certainly thought the latter. For her, leaving behind a rich boyfriend was simply crazy.
Just before I’d boarded the plane, she’d said, “Sister, you’re hopeless, but I still care about you. So be careful not to fall into a volcano in any of those islands! Or end up cooked in a witch’s cauldron!”
We both laughed and hugged. She waved as I stepped onto the plane.
When the plane finally touched down on the Grand Canary Island’s runway, I felt a huge jolt both on my bottom and in my brain. At that moment I wished I were back in my familiar surroundings with my sister and maybe even with Ivan. According to Brenda, this would be the biggest mistake I’d ever made.
However, I was happily surprised that the Aeropuerto de Gando airport on Grand Canary Island was clean, spacious, and quite modern. After going through immigration and passing by people jabbering in Spanish and other exotic languages, I went up to the hotel booth and booked a rather expensive one—Santa Teresa—in the capital, Las Palmas.
The taxi drove along the highway with the sea on one side and hills on the other. Red-roofed and white-walled houses were scattered along the edge of the hills. There were many buildings with huge pipes jutting up, I assumed for converting seawater to fresh, as I’d read about in the guide books.
The weather was as pleasant as the books had promised: soothing breezes under a warming sun. Strangely I felt a subtle familiarity, as if I’d been here before. But I also felt anxious, wondering what sort of strange things went on in the wooded hills.
Finally the taxi pulled to a stop in front of my hotel. I paid, got my luggage, registered at the counter, and then entered my room—all in one swift motion, like running-style calligraphy. Despite being fatigued from the long flights, I forced myself to unpack and take a shower. Feeling somewhat refreshed, I went down to the lobby and approached the concierge desk, behind which stood a bearded young man in a neat gray uniform.
I tried out my Spanish, a little rusty since college. “Señor, I’ve just arrived here; can you recommend anything worth seeing?”
Of course I did not ask him where I could find witches.
He eyed me curiously. “From China, señorita?”
“Chinatown, San Francisco.”
He studied me with curiosity. “You speak Spanish well for a foreigner.”
“Gracias.”
“How do you know Spanish?”
“Because as a child, it was my dream to marry Picasso, not knowing that he’s already married—and dead.”
He laughed, his teeth gleaming under the lobby’s bright lighting.
“Yes, he was the greatest artist of all. Señorita, if you’re going to stay longer, you should definitely see all seven islands. However, I recommend you go to Tenerife Island tomorrow if you can.”
“Why Tenerife and why tomorrow?”
“Don’t you know that Tenerife is called the Jewel of the Atlantic and is the most popular of the seven islands? It’s paradise there!”
“Of course I’ve read about it in guide books, but why tomorrow?”
“Believe me,” he said, and his eyes shot out some mysterious sparks, “go there tomorrow and you won’t be disappointed. I promise. It’s our famous carnival. Then you can come back here. If you take the express ferry, it’s only about an hour’s ride, an easy trip.”
He pulled out a small book. “My advice is to get the round-trip boat tickets now, since they’re almost sold out.”
“All right.” I was eager to catch the carnival. For me, the best way to learn about a place is to visit its markets and holiday events. You learn a lot about a place by seeing how the inhabitants enjoy themselves.
Along with my ticket he handed me a brochure on Tenerife Island. “Don’t forget to bring a big hat and sunscreen. It’s very hot during the day.”
Back in my room, suddenly overcome by jet lag and exhaustion, I collapsed on the bed. I awoke after dark and, after calling Ivan and Brenda to tell them I’d arrived safely, I decided not to go out, but rather to eat a good meal at the hotel’s restaurant and then have a full night’s sleep.
Awakening early the next morning, I went down to the small hotel café for breakfast. Whether it was jet lag, or the sea air, or something else, I was ravenous and ate everything in sight: fresh-squeezed orange juice, rolls, yogurt, muesli, a cereal with raw rolled oats, grains, fruits, seeds, and nuts mixed with milk, fresh-baked bread, fruit salad, pungent coffee, and a bowl of gofio, a local cereal made from barley. Since Laolao always said that a good breakfast is the best start to a good day, I felt happy and hopeful.
An hour later, I was among other tourists on the boat to Tenerife Island. There were about twenty people, casually dressed in T-shirts, jeans or shorts, and sneakers or flip-flops. Most wore wide-brimmed hats. Looking excited, they busied themselves snapping pictures of their family and friends against the background of the turquoise sea and the gray sand of the beach. Next to me were two young men with serious expressions, talking in English. One phrase caught my attention: “You know I had another of my premonitions—my sixth sense tells me that something bad is going to happen.”
The other one chuckled. “So you think this boat will sink,
or a volcano will erupt?”
“Ed, it’s no joke, something tragic is going to happen.” He pointed to the sky. “It may come from up there”—he pointed to the ground—“or down here.”
I had the feeling that the friend was used to his companion’s prognostications and did not take them too seriously.
He replied, somewhat jocularly, “Then maybe it won’t affect us. ’Cause we’re both going to Tenerife and back by boat.”
The guy with the sixth sense remained silent, looking very somber. Despite the bright sun, I felt a chill. I had come here expecting to find strange events, so I thought I should talk to them to find out more. But then I dismissed the premonition as idle talk and turned to look around at the other passengers.
Besides these two men, only one other person attracted my attention. She was a Caucasian woman, about twenty, but somehow seemed both familiar and unusual. She wore long sleeves that flapped in the breeze. Elbow against the rail, she gazed into the distance of the empty sea. Unlike the others, instead of tanned, her face appeared ghostly pale. A distinct feature was the mole between her brows. She carried no camera, not even a purse. But what really contrasted with the lively crowd was her lugubrious expression. Was she pondering the sadness of life and the inevitability of death? Would hers be the tragedy the English-speaking man had just predicted? Suddenly I felt a wave of fear that she had taken the boat ride so she could jump into the sea.
No one seemed to share my anxiety for her. Though her pretty face and mournful expression stood out among the boisterous and excited tourists, only I seemed to notice her. Not even the young man with his ominous prediction.
Finally the ship arrived at Tenerife. No sooner was the boat made fast to the dock than the passengers poured off and dispersed in all directions. I searched in vain for a sight of the pale-faced girl but could not find her in the dense crowd.
Locals and tourists alike were craning their necks and snapping pictures, as policemen frantically blew whistles to control the traffic. Along the shore came a procession of people in colorful masks and costumes, dancing to cheerful, boisterous music. From the windows of the buildings lining the street people leaned out, cheering. Revelers released large balloons, turning the sky into a sea of huge, colorful bubbles. On a TV bus, crews with intense expressions aimed their cameras at the parades.
The marchers moved slowly, but with animation. Along came brightly made-up clowns, gun-toting soldiers, pirates wearing wide-brimmed hats and long swords, kings in ermine robes, half-naked, curvaceous women singing and swaying, drums banging out loud tattoos, maybe to scare away evil spirits. Following them was a seemingly endless cast of characters: cowboys, bare-chested Indians, the Statue of Liberty, and to my delight, Chinese kung-fu fighters striking intimidating poses, and yelling, “Ooh! Aaah! Aiiiya!”
I held up my camera, my fingers rapidly pressing the shutter button, its click, click, click pleasing to my ears.
In front of the street stalls, customers lined up to buy ready-made costumes, colorful wigs, and painted masks, both comical and scary. The drinks and snacks looked colorful and tempting: sugared apples, stir-fried wheat noodles with scallion, grilled fish with pepper, chunks of meat emanating enticing aromas, rows of yellowish corn, looking like babies swaddled in green blankets. I bought a sugared apple, savoring its sweetness as I let myself be carried along with the flow.
A big fellow dressed as King Kong lumbered in front of me, pretending to snatch at my apple.
I made a scared expression as I screamed in Spanish, “Please don’t take away my forbidden apple!”
He laughed, struck a fist high in the air, and then disappeared into the crowd.
I was feeling relaxed and had all but forgotten my need to do fieldwork when I spotted a small group of women wearing black capes, tall conical hats, and carrying brooms—witches. I didn’t know if they were ordinary people dressed up as witches for the festival or if they were the real thing—if one can even tell a real witch by how she dresses. I’d come in search of real witches. Could I have found them so quickly?
There were four of them, their ages ranging from twenties to fifties. Faces painted, they were chanting strange, eerie songs. It seemed that nobody paid them any special attention. The onlookers probably thought they were ordinary women in costumes. I suspected otherwise; I wasn’t sure why.
The oldest one noticed me staring at her and to my utter surprise, squeezed through the crowd to approach, her small entourage following. I tried to back away, but before I could they were already right in front of me.
“Come join us,” the head witch said, quite abruptly.
“Join you?”
She flung her head back and laughed. “We’re witches. And you’re one of us.”
I felt my scalp tingle. “How can you tell?”
She smiled. “We know our kind. Even though you’re yellow and we’re white.”
“What do you want?” My voice turned angry.
“I’ve never met an Asian witch, so maybe we can teach each other—you know, juju, strong magic.”
With a swift movement of her crooked hand, she took out a piece of paper, scribbled on it, and then thrust it into my hand. I snatched it like a lost traveler grabbing a glass of water in the desert. A quick glance revealed the name “Cecily” and an address. Before I could ask another question, the entourage had already disappeared into the sea of tourists and performers.
Was this a joke, one of the festival’s pranks? A real witch handing me her name and address? Feeling dizzy, I lost interest in watching the parade and went to sit at a nearby street café. I ordered black coffee to clear my head. Was the dark color of my drink an omen? Sipping the bitter liquid and watching the parade go by in a blur, I heard the sound of English next to me. I turned and saw the same two young men from the boat. This time they noticed me.
The older one smiled. “Tourist?”
I nodded, returning a smile. “And you?”
“Yes, we’re from the U.S.” He hesitated, then continued. “If you need company, you’re most welcome to join us. We’ll be here for a while. By the way, I’m Kyle and this is my younger brother, Ed.”
I shook my head, smiling. “Kyle, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, go ahead.”
“We were on the same boat from Grand Canary. I overhead you talking to Ed about a tragedy coming—either in the sky or on the ground. Were you serious?”
Kyle looked a bit uneasy. “My mom always said I have a sixth sense.”
“Why did she think that?”
“Sometimes I seem to see things happen before they actually do.”
“Hmm . . . but do those things really happen?”
He smiled. “Fortunately never the way I envisioned them.”
“What do you mean?”
He took a sip of his drink. “Sometimes they did occur, but much later. Actually it’s a burden. Because I always worry that a tragedy is about to happen. Wherever I go, I see signs. . . .”
“Are you frightened by these signs?”
“I’m used to them.” He shrugged.
I was wondering if I should tell them about my breaking of the guitar string but decided to keep it to myself. No reason to make them think that I was crazy.
So I changed the subject. “What are you two doing here?”
“Scuba diving. What about you?”
“I’m here to find witches.”
The two men laughed. “You mean like those costumed ones in the parade?”
When I didn’t respond, they exchanged glances.
Ed took a small paper package from his knapsack and opened it. “They pushed us to buy this.”
He pulled out a vial of colorful liquid floating with herbs. Or animal parts?
“Pretend witches selling us pretend medicine!” He made a face. “But at least the stuff is interesting, isn’t it?”
I was pretty sure this was real witches’ medicine. I’d learned something about ancient Chinese medicine
from Laolao—not only herbs like ginseng and goji berry, but also gecko tail, snake bladder, bear bile, deer antler, rhinoceros horn, tiger penis....
Now Kyle spoke. “Take this if you want. It’s of no use to us.”
After a moment’s hesitation I accepted the vial.
“Anyway, they said they sell this in the Witches’ Market.”
“Witches’ Market?” My ears perked up. “Do you know where that is?”
Kyle took out his map and pointed with his finger. “I believe it’s somewhere here in the south of the island.”
“Did they tell you anything more about the Witches’ Market?”
He thought for a while. “We heard that it’s open on the first Saturday every month—and that it’s not on any map.”
I was anxious to control my excitement so I stood up, and said, “Well, I have to go. Thank you for the information. Maybe I’ll see you again.”
“Sure. See you around. We’re at the Santa Catalina Hotel.”
“Okay. I’m staying at the Santa Teresa on Grand Canary.”
We waved good-bye to one another. I decided that I’d had enough carnival for the day and so took the next ferry back to my hotel.
5
Maiden Fortress and Heartbreak Castle
The next morning I went back to the hotel café. This time I ordered the traditional Spanish breakfast. The plate arrived piled high with cooked ham, chorizo sausage, cheese, and jamon Serrano. Although it was more than I could eat, I had wanted to try the plátano (“banana”) flambé served with orange segments and sprinkled with demerara sugar. After that, wishing I could eat more but feeling stuffed, I had another cup of the strong Spanish coffee.
One more week remained before the next Witches’ Market, so I decided to visit Cecily. I was nervous about this—she might be an evil person—but I’d come to meet witches so I felt I had no choice.
After I signed the bill for breakfast, I went to the reception desk and handed Cecily’s note to the same bearded young man who’d helped me before.