by You Jin
“This Lapp hotel was built fifteen years ago,” Kristin explained. “Our main motive was to let the disheartened Lapp people have a place to meet, as a means to lift their spirits. Here, we speak Lapp, we write Lapp, we talk about matters familiar to Lapp people, we eat the reindeer meat that is loved by Laplanders, and we sell homemade products from Lapp people. So as soon as Lapp people walk in, they will feel they have come home.”
From what I could observe, the Lapp people really did treat this as a sort of haven. In a long corridor, I could see them leaning on a bannister speaking Lapp, and there was a sense of camaraderie to it. Sitting in the broad rattan chairs, they played Lapp music with their handmade pipes. Here, the atmosphere was friendly and warm. The human interactions were harmonious and equal. No one looked down on anyone, and there was no enmity. It was calm and peaceful.
But to the Lapp people, the world outside this hotel was alien and harsh. They had changed to adapt to the times, having been forced to put aside their traditional lifestyles and their cultural roots. They tried to blend into the local society, but no matter how hard they tried, they found that they were always like drops of oil floating on the water’s surface. They could not blend in. The pain they felt being shut outside the door was not easily understood, or experienced, by others.
Over the following two days in Kiruna, in coffee shops, cafés, bus stops and parks, I saw many sloppy and dejected Lapp people. They raved or sang wild songs to the sky, crying in public, or begged for money. Having come to understand some of the bitterness they bore in their inner worlds, I felt more sympathy than disgust.
Ah, the Lapp people—how long must this nomadic tribe sing its lament before it finally ends?
The Music Lives in the Cave
THE MORNING SUN seemed to blaze particularly fiercely this day, making the cacti in the Sacromonte Mountains seem like bushes of green fire. Even the soft, silent breeze that blew was smoked to a scorching heat.
This was a bleak, barren mountain area. There were hundreds of caves scattered across it, which used to be homes of gypsies. I stood on the mountain, staring blankly at the caves that seemed to have been torn open by force, one by one. It was like reading pages of wondrously cryptic fairy tales.
The cave was dark and smelled damp. I cautiously felt my way into it, keeping one hand on the cave walls, and found it extremely rough. Only a few steps in, and my feet suddenly landed in a muddy puddle. A cold draught penetrated my back.
I cried out in surprise.
Then, Marcial called from the entrance to the cave, reminding me, “Hey, you need to be careful. There might be snakes in there!”
As soon as I heard the word “snakes”, my courage shrank to that of a mouse. I pulled my feet from the muck and slowly retreated.
Sitting next to the cave, I took off my shoes and, using tissues to wipe the mud off them, I listened to my gypsy friend Marcial slowly tell the history of his people in a melodious voice.
Two hundred years earlier, the vagrant gypsies had set out from India and come to the city of Granada in the mountains of south-central Spain. In the Sacromonte Mountains outside the city, they discovered the caves where many people who had been exiled for their pagan practises had once lived. These wandering, homeless gypsies got rid of all the dry bones in the caves and became squatters there. As they raised their families in the mountains, their numbers steadily increased and they continued to open up more caves. According to estimates, the caves that were finally opened numbered about four or five hundred, each one home to eight or ten gypsies.
“Unfortunately, twenty-five years ago, massive flooding collapsed many of these caves, and many of the gypsies lost their lives during the torrential rain.” Marcial, with furrowed brow, recalled, “After the storms, the gypsies decided to move halfway down the mountain, closer to the city, and opened new caves there. After that, when disaster struck, it would be easier to flee to the city at the foot of the mountain.”
“They still live there now?” I asked.
“Yes. In a while, when we go down the mountain, I’ll take you there for a look.” Marcial wiped droplets of sweat accumulated at the end of his nose and said, “My home is also there.”
Having wiped my shoes clean, I left them sunning at the mouth of the cave. The sun shone directly on the shoes, but the cave was still awash in darkness within, never seeing the light of day.
Marcial’s sharp eyes looked right into the cave as he said, “Though there’s no water or electricity in the caves, in winter they are warm, and in summer they are cool. They are very comfortable.”
Even without electricity, a fire would keep the caves well lit. Still, without water, how did they cook, and how did they wash clothes?
“There’s a brook at the base of the mountain.” A gentle smile appeared on Marcial’s face. “I remember when I was small, my mother would often let me ride the mule whilst she carried our dirty laundry in one hand and guided the mule with the other. She would go to the river to wash our clothes and draw water, then she would use the mule to carry the water we needed for our family and slowly make her way home. Ah, I still remember the feeling of riding the mule and swaying all the way home along that mountain path!”
He was right. It really was a distant time. But now in the twentieth century, surely those cave-dwelling gypsies no longer enjoyed the pleasures of riding the mule to draw water? (Or perhaps it is more accurate to say, can they still tolerate the inconvenience of living without running water?)
“Oh no, of course not!” Marcial laughed. “We have water and electricity in the caves now. For the most part, even though we gypsies are quite poor, we still enjoy all the basic necessities.”
A gust of wind carrying sand and dust blew towards us, bringing with it a scorching heat. As I was wiping off my sweat, I noticed that, inconceivable as it seemed, the wind was crying. Its mourning sounded like a bamboo flute, full of a hidden bitterness, as if the gypsies were pouring out a lament of their wanderings.
Marcial stood, shielded his eyes with his hand, and squinted to see something in the distance for a while. Then he said, “It is hippies from somewhere else playing the flute. They come here for tours, but their travel fees aren’t enough to cover the cost of a hotel, so they stay in some of the abandoned caves.”
I looked in the direction he pointed, and there saw two small black shadows falling in front of one of the caves in the distance. The song they played was a wandering song, but the gypsies’ wanderings were actually real, mournful and necessary. The hippies’ wanderings, in contrast, had a flavour of wasteful extravagance to it.
“Let’s go!” Marcial said.
I felt my shoes where they lay in front of the cave and found that they were still damp, so, picking them up, I followed Marcial on bare feet, cautiously walking down the slope.
I had just met Marcial that morning. I had decided to come to Granada this time mostly because of the short but interesting introductory text in a travel brochure:
Granada, a small town in south-central Spain, is called Garnathah in Spanish, meaning “cave”. There are many gypsies living in the caves in the Sacromonte Mountains outside the town. They earn their living dancing the flamenco for tourists. The mountain is rife with bandits. Travellers should take care of their personal belongings. Many gypsies who live here are expert pickpockets.
So enticing! With bandits and pickpockets, my resolve to visit the place was rock solid.
And that was how I came to Granada. Making my way to Mount Sacromonte and standing in the village at its base, I looked up and saw the entrances to countless caves scattered across it. But no matter how I searched, I could not find the path up the mountain. I walked into a ramshackle little shop and ordered a cup of coffee. I took out a dictionary and pieced together enough Spanish to ask the old lady selling coffee where the path up the mountain was. Then, before I had even managed to get my request across, a young man with dark complexion standing beside the counter said in English, “Madam, please
come with me. I know the way. I am a gypsy who lives up the mountain.”
The woman nodded reassuringly at me. I was very happy. After travelling far and wide looking for something, it had dropped into my lap.
Marcial lived at the foot of the mountain in a cave that had been modified into a house. Each morning, he went down to the little shop in the village, looking for tourists he could lead up the mountain to watch the flamenco.
Now this twenty-nine-year-old gypsy was walking briskly in front of me.
“For the most part, gypsies are very poor, so—” Marcial looked back and glanced at my camera, then warned, “You’ll want to watch out for your bag.”
I set down the shoes I was carrying, put them on, and then slid my camera into my bag.
“Also, a lot of poor children will surround you, asking for money. You need not pay any attention to them.”
I was quietly feeling grateful he had thought things through so thoroughly. Then he unexpectedly added, “You can set aside the donations you would give to the kids to make a bigger fee for me.”
Fee? Oh, I had thought he was just someone familiar with these parts waiting to show me the way. I hadn’t realised he was a tour guide looking for business. What’s more, when he had mentioned the fee, his tone had been serious, without the least element of jest.
Such a thinly veiled request made me feel a little uncomfortable. Marcial, seeming to understand clearly how I felt, decided he might as well tell me frankly, “We gypsies will never voluntarily do things for others.”
When he said this, the uncomfortable lump in the pit of my stomach disappeared. In this pragmatic world, one should not steal or injure others, but on the practical side, one expects to be compensated for one’s work. What shame was there in that?
Ascending the mountain had been tiring, but descending was easy. Before we had walked for very long, I saw a few low houses. The whole residential area around the cave seemed to be immersed in music. Here and there were clapping hands and stomping feet, the sounds of dancing and singing mingling with the sounds of a guitar.
“We gypsies have music in our blood,” Marcial told me proudly. “Old or young, we all love to dance, and we dance well. Whether man or woman, we all love to sing, and we sing well.”
“It’s the middle of the day and they’re singing and dancing. Do you mean they don’t have to work?”
“Singing and dancing is their profession. As long as there are tourists, they will have someone to perform for.”
My old habit of wanting to get to the bottom of things surfaced. I pursued the question: “How much can you bring in each month by singing and dancing?”
Marcial didn’t even have to think. “About seven or eight thousand peseta.”
This sort of salary, in a country like Spain where the cost of living was not considered low, was well below the poverty line. So, although I could understand why the women might make a living from singing and dancing, I asked why the men would not go out and seek higher-paying employment.
“To us gypsies, singing and dancing is our life. Also, most of us aren’t educated. We have no special skills, so if we don’t sing and dance, we can only cobble together a crude trade.”
“So how did you come by your education?”
“My education?” Marcial laughed softly. “I never set foot in a school in all my life!”
“But your English is so good. Don’t tell me you taught yourself,” I said, even more astonished.
Brushing back the hair on his forehead, Marcial said, “I was fifteen when I started leading tours. For more than ten years, I’ve listened and spoken constantly, and gradually I was able to understand things I had not known before, and what I had not been able to say, I could eventually say fluently. In learning a language, the most important thing is using it in life. There’s no need to go to school.”
He paused, then went on. “Aside from English, I can also speak French, Portuguese and a bit of Japanese.”
Marcial was extremely bright. I felt sure that, given the chance, he could soar high. But, saying this, how could he—Marcial, this gypsy who lived in the remote mountains—ever have the opportunity to soar? I believed that only fate could answer that question.
As we chatted, we reached a row of houses. These houses had been chiselled out of rocks in the hill. The mouths of the caves were covered with wooden doors, painted white. It was all very neat and orderly.
A thin girl squatted at one door, washing clothes in a washbasin full of murky water. I took out my camera and snapped a photo. Immediately, the child tossed the clothing aside and ran over, thrusting out her wet hand and saying, “Money! Give me money!”
Marcial laughed. “See, I told you. We gypsies won’t do anything for free.”
Then, other children came and surrounded me. Small, pudgy hands were thrust in front of me.
I handed out coins.
Marcial sighed and said, “A gypsy’s life is hard, so from the time they are small, our children develop the habit of asking for hand-outs.”
Travelling through villages and cities all over Spain, I came across many dark-haired, olive-skinned gypsy beggars, old and young, and all able-bodied. They did not work, but as soon as they saw someone, they stuck out a hand to ask for money, completely unabashed.
Now I realised that they saw extending a hand to ask for money as a basic part of life. In their eyes, human dignity was completely worthless.
Marcial stopped in front of a house and knocked on the door. “This is my aunt’s house.”
Marcial’s aunt’s complexion was darker than that of most gypsies I saw. Her nose was like a barren hill, cracked, weathered and streaky. The streaks extended from the bridge of her nose to other parts of her face. Her whole face looked like a dried up riverbed. Though she was over seventy, she still wore brightly coloured clothes and a striking red flower in her hair.
As soon as she saw us, she stood up with a flourish, turned three hundred and sixty degrees, one hand on her waist and one hand raised over her head, a rhythmic shout coming from her mouth.
“My aunt is the leader of a famous flamenco troupe,” Marcial said. “Tonight at nine-thirty, there will be a two-hour performance. Are you interested?”
“Yes, very.”
“You can buy a ticket from my aunt. One thousand and two hundred peseta each.”
“Okay.”
Whilst his aunt went into the room to get the ticket, I paid careful attention to the house. The cave was long and deep and without windows, giving it a stifling feeling. Every inch of space on the stone walls was used. Yellowy copper ware was hanging from the top region of the stone walls. Photos, souvenirs, images of the Virgin Mary, and brocade pieces covered the four walls. It seemed his aunt lived pretty well. There was even a television and a radio.
After buying the ticket, I looked at my watch. It was already midday. I was hungry, so I asked Marcial to take me somewhere for lunch.
“There’s a small café nearby. Their sausage rolls are not bad,” he suggested.
The shop was tiny. On one side was a counter with inexpensive wine, and the other had a glass display case containing sausages, cheese and bread. The bread was hard as stone. As for the sausage, it was cold and mushy with nothing but congealed, oily, fatty meat. I could barely swallow it, but Marcial ate with relish.
After forcing myself to fill my stomach, I said I wanted to go down the mountain.
As soon as Marcial heard this, he said, “Oh, what about my pay?”
“How much do you want?”
He looked at my face and, as if carefully measuring his words, he said, “One thousand peseta.” (About sixteen Singapore dollars.)
I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. In the mountainous region, this might have been a large amount, but seen from an urbanite’s standards, this price was actually very low. I immediately took the money out and gave it to him.
He raised his eyebrows and smiled, apparently feeling I was easy to deal with. After he took
the money, he said, “Give me another hundred.”
I stared at him, saying nothing. He scratched his head and laughed mockingly.
“Okay, enough then! Goodbye! Remember to get there early to see the dance tonight.”
That evening after dinner, I followed the narrow road up the mountain. Although it was already after eight, the whole land was flooded with light. In the summer, the days in Spain were long and the nights short, as if the sun would never go home. The antique glass lights on both sides of the road glowed yellow, as if competing with the sun’s failing light.
In the distance, I heard the sound of music. The notes danced all around. The gypsy women, old and young, were dressed in especially bright clothing. When they saw the tourists coming up the mountain, they immediately clapped their hands in rhythm and shouted in perfect, sweet voices, “Flamenco!”
A buzz of excitement filled the whole mountain range.
Marcial was bustling about, bringing small groups of tourists up the mountain to watch.
At nine, Marcial’s aunt arrived. Her cheeks were painted red and she wore a big round skirt with complicated floral prints. She took out a key and opened the wooden door of a cave. As soon as the light was turned on, my eyes also lit up.
It was a long, narrow cave, bathed in gold light. All sorts of copper cookware, such as plates and bowls, ladles of various lengths, and pots of different sizes, hung close together on the top of the stone walls. Under the bright lights, they exuded a golden aura. Here a sparkle, there a gleam—it gave one the vague feeling of being in a jewelled house in a fairy tale.
Along both walls of the house were rows of wooden chairs, which the tourists settled into. The members of the flamenco troupe entered one by one. There were twelve in all, six men and six women. Three of the women were over sixty years old.
Marcial and another guitarist were softly strumming the guitar. The gentle music flowed like water, slowly rolling off the strings. Marcial’s expression grew dreamy. His eyes started to take on a hazy, faraway look. He forgot reality, forgot about earning a living, turning his music notes into wine, intoxicating his whole person.