by You Jin
Making a choice like that was really difficult. Love is a strong pull, but how can one forsake one’s roots?
Quillis-Sacha did not say anything else, and I was silent too. The only sound was the wind and waves, as if they were also expressing the helpless plight Quillis-Sacha found himself in.
When the boat reached the bank at Equitos, a pretty young woman was waiting for us. Quillis-Sacha’s face lit up. “Anita!” he called.
He jumped out of the boat, embraced her, and started kissing her. Even wearing flat shoes, she was taller than Quillis-Sacha. Her hair hung in wild waves to her shoulders. She had the same eyes as Quillis-Sacha, round and lively. Her eyelids were painted a fashionable dark blue. Her nose was high and sharp, a typical mixed-race feature. She wore a tight leopard print dress, emphasising her ample breasts and slim waist. She was an exceptionally trendy and beautiful young woman and, standing beside the slightly rustic-looking Quillis-Sacha, she made a stark contrast. In that instant, I could almost tell for sure, that she did not belong to the jungle, whether it be now or in the future. Quillis-Sacha could not have his cake and eat it too. But I also knew that, clever man that he was, Quillis-Sacha would find a way to make it work and balance the two.
Quillis-Sacha wanted to take us to our hotel, but we told him not to. We really did not want to take up any of the couple’s romantic time together.
Quillis-Sacha put his arm around Anita’s waist and waved goodbye to us. The Amazon River stretched far into the distance behind them. Twilight rushed in like the waves, engulfing the whole little village in an instant.
Our trip to the Amazon rainforest was a rewarding, fascinating travel experience that has enriched my whole life. Now, it has become a lovely memory. When I am free, I quietly conjure up my memories of that trip and turn them over one by one. Many memories can be washed away, or fade, in the flow of time, but I believe—I know—that this one will remain forever, fresh and full of colour.
Africa
A Happy Meeting over a Pot of Tea
A True Berber, or Money-Back Guarantee
IT WAS ON a long-distance bus in Morocco that I met Hassan. Risheng and I were making our way south from the big northern city of Fes to Tinghir. We could not get seats together, so we sat separately on our journey.
I made use of the time before the bus moved to write some postcards quickly to my friends back home. Suddenly, a shadow fell across the postcard I was writing. I looked up to see a dark face. It was not old, but the broad forehead was strangely covered with numerous untidy wrinkles. The hair was short, untameable curls sticking out here and there. The moustache had not been well-trimmed, and it drooped playfully into the mouth. At that moment, the face and the two round eyes set in it crinkled into a smile.
Pointing at my postcard, Hassan asked in fluent English, “Are you drawing pictures or writing?”
When I looked at the uneven words sprawled drunkenly across the page, I could not help but laugh. I boasted shamelessly, “It’s Chinese. It’s got the beauty of pictures. Each word is a solid painting.”
His eyes lit up and he said, “It’s pretty! Very pretty. Our Berber language is not so delicate.”
“Oh?” I sat up and looked at him in surprise. I asked, “Are you really Berber?”
He laughed boldly and generously, revealing sparkling white teeth. “Yes, I am a genuine Berber, or I guarantee you’ll get your money back.”
The Berber people are indigenous Africans. At present, there are about ten million Berbers scattered across Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria, Libya, Turkey and the surrounding region.
A great number of these numerous indigenous people are illiterate manual labourers. The men are either farmers or shepherds. The women engage in domestic industries like making pottery or weaving.
Morocco was the original home of the Berber people. In the eighth century, after the Arabs arrived, Moroccan society changed dramatically. Islam spread rapidly, and became Morocco’s national religion. A new economic and social order was gradually established.
As to the proportion of Berbers to Arabs, there has never been any official announcement, so opinion varies widely. Some say it is a sixty-forty split, whilst others estimate closer to seventy-thirty. The most pertinent opinion is half-half.
When we talked about the many Berber people who struggled with poverty and yet are happy with their lot, Hassan heaved a sigh and said, “The biggest problem with Berbers is that they don’t give enough attention to education. The older generation is illiterate. The next generation, and even the one after that is still illiterate.” Saying this, he took something from his pocket and waved it in front of me. “Look, what is this?”
It was a copper antelope horn, very sharp and shiny.
“This is a symbol of the Berber spirit, representing the pursuit of freedom and the protection of nature. Most Berbers are not ambitious, not thinking of progress, but just content with having enough to fill their stomachs. Honestly, the impact education can have on improving the quality of life is so crucial.” Hassan made a kneading gesture and continued. “It’s like making bread. When the dough has risen, if you bake it however you want, it may turn out hard as stone and covered with cracks. It will fill the stomach, but if you choose better grain and pay attention to the proportion of yeast and dough and control the temperature of the oven, you can make beautiful soft, golden rolls. For now, most of the Berber people are happy with their dry, hard bread, but only because they have never tasted really good bread.”
It was an excellent analogy.
Currently studying English at Pas University, Hassan was fortunate to have a grandfather with foresight to oversee his studies sternly. Voice filled with emotion, he recalled his childhood, saying, “I lost my father when I was small; I don’t even recall his face now. From the time I was four, my grandfather started teaching me to read, and he sent me to school when I was seven. I remember one time I skipped school, and my grandfather beat me mercilessly with his long, rough walking stick, so hard he broke the skin. From that time on, I never dared to play truant again. Later, I discovered a whole new world in books, and I was deeply enthralled. I did not need my grandfather’s firm hand anymore, and I was self-motivated to study hard. When I finished primary school, I went to secondary school under the government recommendation, and did not have to pay any school fees. My hometown, Gurrama, did not have a secondary school, so my grandfather sent me to another village, Rich, dozens of miles away from our house, to live and study. After I went to university, my grandfather passed away. He lived to be ninety-four, and I always called him Dad.”
After finishing secondary school, Hassan did not go straight to university. Instead, he and his friend pooled their resources together and opened a small grocery store selling all sorts of food and daily essentials. In addition to this, he went to the busy town market every Friday, rain or shine, to sell dates, the favourite delicacy of Moroccans. Struggling day and night in this way, he managed to earn three thousand five hundred Moroccan dollars (about five hundred Singapore dollars) a month. After working so hard for more than a year, he took the more than forty thousand dollars he had earned and went back to Gurrama and bought a house for his mother, who had been widowed for so many years. In this way, he finally felt at ease to pursue his studies at the university.
It was currently summer break for the university, and he had come home to visit his mother. Hoping to surprise her, he had not told her he was coming. Saying this, he suddenly said, “Gurrama is not on any tour itinerary, but if you want to see a Berber village and experience Berber life, you are welcome to come and stay at my home for a few days.”
This invitation was very enticing, but was it safe? Seeing my hesitation, he quickly added, “You are an honoured guest from afar, and my friend. If you come, you need not pay for accommodation. We Berbers are very down-to-earth people. We say what we mean.”
Hearing this, I was touched. Risheng and I made quick changes to our itinerary, and when the bus stopped in Rich,
we alighted with Hassan.
A Stirring Scene
I was captivated at the sight of Rich. It really was gorgeous. Row after row of flat-roofed stone houses, each with bright blue windows, and walls painted a gaudy red. The juxtaposition of mismatched colours had a strange charm. What was even odder was that the houses were surrounded by ridge after ridge of muddy brown hills, making it look from a distance as if the homes had been built right into the mountainside. It was windy on this day, and the breeze alternated between fast and slow, and so the clouds on the mountain alternated between gathering and dispersing. It was twilight, and the setting sun was like a ripened orange, very slowly falling into the embrace of the rolling mountains. It was a breathtakingly beautiful scene.
When we were walking to take the taxi, Hassan kept lifting his hand, warmly greeting the people passing by. With a happy expression, he said, “For the seven years I was in secondary school, I lived in Rich, so this is my second home.”
When we passed a busy market, an idea hit me. I said to Hassan, “I’d like to buy some things. When we get to your place tonight, I can cook dinner for you. Does that sound okay?”
Pleased, he nodded vigorously. I bought rice, eggplant, onions, beans and tomatoes, and then went to the meat section, wanting to buy chicken. But I was disappointed to find that they only sold lamb. Hassan said, “Mutton is good. Buy a lamb chop, along with mutton tallow, and a bit of liver. Tonight, I will prepare a traditional Berber grilled feast for you. My mother will also bake some fresh bread.”
After we’d finished buying everything, we found a taxi. Rich was about sixty-six miles from Gurrama. We only saw barren hills along the way, with hardly any people. As the taxi continued to race on and on along the straight, dirt road, quite alone, I suddenly had a ridiculous feeling that I wasn’t sure where I was. After more than an hour, Hassan pointed at the road ahead of us.
“We’re almost there.”
Ahead, we could vaguely see the profile of the mountain range. At the foot of the mountains were dots of bright lights, like fallen sparkling rubble treacherously filling the whole valley.
The taxi entered the village, twisting and turning and finally stopping in front of a flat-roofed house. It was dark all around us, and quiet. We unloaded our luggage and Hassan knocked heavily on the door and loudly called a greeting to his mother. But no matter how hard he knocked, how loudly he shouted, or how long we waited, there was no reply anywhere. The cold moonlight fell in large shafts, imprinting our enlarged shadows indistinctly on the rough dirt ground. It was a little spooky. Just as I shivered, we heard someone calling Hassan’s name.
It was a boy of about ten. As he said something in Berber, he took out a bunch of keys and handed it to Hassan.
Hassan took the keys and turned to us to say, “What a coincidence. My mother went to my sister’s house yesterday. My sister lives in a village about a hundred miles from here. My mum will stay there for about a week. She left the keys with our neighbour.”
An Innate Friendliness
We opened the door and went in. The house was huge but simply decorated. There was a low table and several small wooden stools in the living area. There was a black old-style stove, and a grimy gas stove in the kitchen. The bedroom, though, was quite clean, with a brightly-coloured rug on the floor. There were several exposed light bulbs hanging straight down from the ceiling, exuding some dim light.
Hassan smiled and said, “My house is separated into two sections, front and back. My mother and I share the front section. The livestock lives in the back part. I’ll take you to see it first thing in the morning.”
Before he had finished speaking, a neighbour came and knocked on the door, bringing us a bowl of cream-coloured paste and a big, round loaf of bread. Hassan accepted the food and turned to say to us, “Those who live in our village will never go hungry. The Berber people are naturally friendly and hospitable. If you have just enough bread to fill your stomach and your neighbour has nothing to eat, you just split yours into two portions and the two of you share. If there is any household that is lacking food, they can just go and knock on anyone’s door and there will surely be something to eat.”
At this moment, I felt my stomach rumbling, so I urged Hassan to start preparing dinner. He took a sharp cleaver and cut the fatty leg of lamb in half, deboned it and chopped the meat into small pieces. He seasoned them with salt, olive oil, ginger, mint, pepper and a bloody-coloured local spice, then skewered them, making kebabs. After that, he chopped up the mutton liver, and wrapped the little balls of meat into strips with the mutton tallow, then set them aside. He took out a small burner, placed a bit of charcoal in the stove, and started a fire. The whole house filled with smoke.
I escaped to the kitchen to prepare and cook the rice. After that, I stir-fried the sliced eggplant in olive oil, fried the egg with onions, sautéed the beans, and finally made some boiled egg and tomato soup. I carried the cooked food to the sitting room and placed it on the table.
Hassan invited his neighbour, a police officer, over to share the food with us, and everyone dug in, eating with gusto.
When we had finished, the neighbour asked his wife to come over and help us clean up. A group of seven children came in with her. So many! The oldest was thirteen, and their mother carried the smallest on her back. And as for her, she was only twenty-eight!
Hassan, reading the surprise in my eyes, said, “This is a typical Berber family. They are traditional and conservative. They marry early and have many children. The older generation is not educated, and the next generation is also uneducated. The children are like wild grass, growing up crudely, and living crudely.”
The children surrounded the short table, greedily eating the food that was left over. I turned away sadly, pretending not to watch.
Earlier, Hassan had only used half of the mutton leg to make the kebabs. Now, he took the other half and put it in a bamboo basket, which he hung from a bamboo pole outside the house.
“The meat won’t spoil within the first forty-eight hours. It is very windy here, so we can dry whatever is not eaten within two days and use it to make salted meat.”
Night in Gurrama was like a primal jungle, quiet and very dark. The villagers slept very early, and even those who did not sleep early turned off their lights to conserve energy.
We sat on big stones outside the house, looking up at the pitch black sky. Because it was dark all around, the stars seemed especially bright and sparkly.
Hassan asked me to look in a particular direction carefully. I stared and stared at the sky. I could only see stars, stars and more stars. I could see nothing else. He patiently pointed out three stars in a line, telling me that they were a horse galloping. Then he pointed out another square-looking constellation and explained that it was a chariot. This chariot was pulled by a spirited, gallant horse, running straight towards the north.
“People who travel to the Sahara Desert, whether on tour or business, can travel only during the cooler nights. The desert is so dark at night that you can’t see your hand in front of your face. The stars are a reliable compass. I’ve been to the Sahara many times, and have always relied on that chariot to lead me.”
I was very tired that night. Even though the carpet emanated the thick smell of oil, it did not bother me at all. I slept right through until morning.
Bees for Honey, Cows for Milk
I woke up to a cacophony of animal sounds—chickens clucking, donkeys braying, horses neighing, cows mooing, sheep bleating—and also a gurgling stream, the sounds of women washing clothes, and children playing in the water.
When I got up, I found that Hassan was already in the kitchen boiling water for tea and busily preparing breakfast. The short table and stools were moved into the kitchen, and one of the stools even had a round cushion made with carpet material. Making myself right at home, I sat on the cushion. It was very soft, and very comfortable. Hassan came over carrying a tray that held a small plate of olive oil, a small bowl of honey,
and a bowl of butter. After laying it all out on the table, he looked at me and an expression of embarrassment suddenly came over his face. He stood speechless for a long time then, wringing his hands, said, “We have everything now except the bread.” He pointed at my cushion and said, “You’re sitting on it.”
I quickly jumped up, startled. Wrapped inside that little carpet was a round loaf of Arabian bread, but now it was squashed flat.
Acting as if nothing had happened, Hassan opened up the cushion and took out the bread. Breaking off a large piece, he dipped it in olive oil and ate with relish. As he ate, his face brightened and he said, “Mm, this olive oil is very pure. Years ago, I bought a small plot of land near here, where we planted seventy-three olive trees. Each year in December, when the olive trees mature, I hire people to harvest the olives and send them to the mill, where they use donkeys to pull the millstone and press the oil. Last year’s harvest was good, with eight hundred litres of olive oil pressed. I keep enough oil for our own use throughout the year, and then sell the excess to the village grocery stores for twenty-five Moroccan dollars a litre. I take the inedible seeds and sell them at a heavily discounted price to the ceramics factory, where they can use them as fuel for the kiln. We really use up every last part of the olive, making it highly profitable.”