In Time, Out of Place

by You Jin

  Seeing I was not used to eating olive oil, Hassan passed the plate of butter to me. He said, “Try the butter. I made it myself.”

  “Butter?” I said, surprised. “How do you make it?”

  “It’s very simple. I rear cows. Every morning and afternoon, I milk them. I put the milk to one side and don’t disturb it at all. Eight hours later, the top layer has solidified into butter.”

  The butter had a somewhat rancid flavour. I could not get used to it, so turned to the honey instead. As I dipped my bread, I said half-jokingly, “Did you also rear the bees that produced this honey?”

  I did not anticipate that he would nod and say, “I’ve kept bees on the terrace of our roof for a few years now. But honestly, it’s not difficult to keep bees. I built two honeycombs and bought three kilos of live bees to put in it. Throughout the spring and summer, I collect the honey they make.”

  “They don’t sting you when you collect it?” I asked foolishly.

  “Of course they sting me.” He laughed. “I have to wrap up my whole body, head to toe. I look like an alien. There are two openings in the honeycomb, so I smoke one opening and when the bees get irritated and escape from the other opening, I can gather the honey leisurely. Honestly, bee-keeping requires little work and costs almost nothing to set up, whilst the returns are really good. Last year, I collected forty litres of honey. But my mother can’t stand having the bees flying about the house, so I had to give up my honeycomb.”

  When we’d eaten breakfast, Hassan said enthusiastically, “Come on, I’ll bring you to see my beloved life companion.”

  Hassan opened a wooden door to the storeroom. Outside, there was a spacious open-air courtyard. There were so many houseflies that it gave me goosebumps. Connected to the courtyard was a big room piled full of hay and smelling heavily of manure. Inside, a cow and a donkey stood obediently.

  “We keep the cow for milk, and the donkey for transportation,” Hassan explained. “When my mother goes to the market to buy things, or when she goes to visit someone, she rides the donkey.”

  Walking out to the courtyard through the wooden door on the left side, we came to a chicken coop, where they raised a dozen chickens and about ten doves.

  Hassan parted the layers of hay, touched here, touched there, and soon turned up several shiny eggs, looking so fresh they made you want to swallow them up on the spot.

  I found that everything that Hassan reared had a very practical purpose. I looked at those little doves, but could not put a finger on what they might be used for.

  “They’re for eating,” Hassan said plainly. “Doves are a symbol of peace. When you look at them, you feel peaceful. When you eat them, you also take in a sense of peace.”

  Hassan’s strange logic was quite nauseating.

  Bubbling Brook, the Mountain Its Source

  Not far outside the front door was a small, clear brook. The women squatted on the banks, beating their clothes with a wooden rod as they talked. The children leapt about in the water, playing and splashing, their laughter falling into the river like droplets, and creating circle after circle of ripples.

  Pointing at the brook, Hassan asked, “There’s something special about this brook. Have you noticed?”

  Ordinary streams flowed slowly, but this stream flowed rapidly, creating a great bubbling noise, continuously ringing in my ears.

  “The source of this stream is up in the mountains, and it flows without stopping. The water is pure and sweet. It is Gurrama’s precious stream. All of our water for laundry, cooking and bathing relies on this stream.”

  As if to prove his point, the neighbour whom we met the previous night came to the brook with a huge bucket, drawing water. The light in the house on the previous evening had been too dim to get a really good look at her; now, observing her in the bright sunlight, I found that her forehead and chin both had blue patterns tattooed onto them.

  Hassan told me that tattooing on the face was one of the Berbers’ most ancient and beautiful traditions. They believed the tattoos could ward off evil, serving as a kind of permanent amulet. In addition, they thought the tattoos on their faces enhanced their beauty and charm. What was interesting was that the patterns they chose were laden with meaning. For instance, a diamond-shaped pattern would protect one from hunger, a sun pattern would bring health, a cross represented safe travels, and a V-shape stood for smooth dealings in life. The double Y-shaped patterns on the face of Hassan’s neighbour stood for her desire for happiness in marriage, and her beautiful wish to grow old with her husband.

  Most Berber girls started tattooing their faces between the ages of eight and eleven. The method of tattooing was simple. They used ash at the bottom of the pot, crushed bean leaves or blue dye and smeared them on their skin. Then they used sewing needles or shaving blades or thorns to prick and cut the skin, letting the colour permanently seep in. After the pricking was done, the colour would never fade.

  The woman took my hand warmly and spoke at length in the Berber language. Hassan laughed and translated for me. “She says she wants to help tattoo your skin for free. She can do it now.”

  I quickly waved my hand in rejection. The innately sincere Berber people always wanted to share everything they had unselfishly, giving no heed to the concept of private property. Though I did not accept her kind offer to add a tattoo to my face, her willingness to share tattooed in my heart an everlasting flower.

  A Heartbreaking Rate of Illiteracy

  There were about three thousand residents in Gurrama, most of them born to farming families. Hassan brought us down, following the brook into a forest where there were groves of apricots, plums, peaches, olives, almonds and other produce. There were also stretches of ploughed land where they grew things such as potatoes, onions and corn. Hassan pointed at the olive trees heavily laden with fruit, and said, “Now I only have these seventy-three olive trees. Eventually, when I earn some more money, I plan to buy a whole plot of land and grow a thousand olive trees. Then, I plan to build a modernised oil refinery in the village. You know, refining olive oil is very profitable. When I have the financial ability, I want to help develop the whole village of Gurrama. The first step will be building schools.” Hassan was on a roll. The more he talked, the more excited he became. “Moroccans have vast stretches of land and a wealth of natural resources, but our people continue to struggle on the poverty line. Do you know why? We Berbers have a pair of hardworking hands willing to do manual labour and the virtue of mutual aid, so why are we still struggling every day? I can tell you, there’s only one explanation—education. Our people don’t value education. The rate of illiteracy in Morocco is so high, it is heartbreaking.”

  He was absolutely right. Education is the foundation of a strong nation. I told him briefly how Singapore relied on human resources to rise as a nation from have-nots to haves, and he listened intently, nodding his head in agreement from time to time.

  As we chatted, we came to some ruins. The houses had collapsed, and the broken walls and debris lay forgotten and lonely, silently cherishing the memory of their past glory and beauty.

  “When I was small, I often came here to play. Back then, though the houses were crumbling, they still retained the skeletal framework of houses. These buildings have historical significance, and they should be preserved and protected as ancient ruins, but the villagers have no idea. So when they are building houses and need wood, they often come here, creating greater damage, breaking down beams and pillars. As a result, the houses have collapsed, leaving behind nothing but these ruins.”

  As he spoke, he shook his head and sighed. A child, riding on a skinny mule, drew nearer to us. The string of bells on the mule jangled with its every step, setting up a lovely tune. The mule and the historic site combined together into a perfectly congenial scene.

  We passed from the ruins through the orchard, which was wrapped in sunlight and arrived at the central square of Gurrama. Whenever anyone saw Hassan, they rushed over and exchanged hugs and
pecks on the cheeks and, using the Berber language, warmly and earnestly passed on news about each other. At the height of all this, a boy of seven or eight, riding on a bicycle, hurried anxiously toward us. Hassan greeted him happily, then listened to him talk. After a long while, he looked back at us, a huge smile filling his face.

  “My fiancée knows I’m home. She sent her brother to invite me to her house for dinner.” He paused, then added, “Now, why don’t we go to her house and visit for a little bit?”

  It was common for Berber people to marry young. Hassan’s fiancée Fatima was only fifteen. Hassan planned to come back to the village the year after he finished university and marry her. What was surprising was that, though Hassan was a man of learning, Fatima was totally illiterate, a country girl who had never left the village. The difference was so great, I could not help but ask, “Is it an arranged marriage?”

  “No, it’s a free courtship.” Hassan made a mischievous face and then went on in a serious tone, “Honestly, though she and I are more than ten years apart, everyone in this village grew up together, drinking water from the same river and breathing the same air. We have the same thinking and have learnt the same habits, as if we were all cast from the same mould. We are genuinely kindred spirits. In the university, I have social freedom. I dated several Arabic women. They were lively, fashionable, eloquent, loved to dance and as social partners, we had some fun. But if I were to marry one of them and bring them back here to be my lifelong partner, I think there would just be too many areas of life where we wouldn’t connect.”

  I had not imagined that Hassan, who seemed so open-minded, would take such a traditional Berber approach to his marriage.

  Fatima’s house was located at a spot near the brook. When we arrived, we saw her and three other women squatting on the bank, washing special pots used in traditional Moroccan cooking. Hassan called gently, “Fatima.”

  She lifted her head. Her face, fresh and round as an apple, was enveloped in a lovely rosy glow. Acting like she didn’t hear her beloved call her name, she quickly bent her head and scrubbed her pot vigorously, even though her heart seemed to leap in rhythm with the babble of the brook.

  Hassan asked us to take a picture of the two of them together, but no matter how he begged or cajoled, she kept shaking her head. The two blushes of red on her cheeks seemed like ink accidentally dripped onto blotting paper, spreading all the way to her neck. Only later when everyone had gathered for a group photo did she relent.

  Hassan served as our translator as we exchanged pleasantries with Fatima’s family, then bade them farewell.

  When we walked out, one of Hassan’s friends who owned a teahouse hailed us, inviting us to his shop for a drink. When we sat down, he hospitably brought us peppermint tea and all kinds of cakes, ardently urging us to eat. Many people passed by, saw Hassan, and quickly came in, greeting him warmly and chatting enthusiastically.

  A pot of tea and a happy reunion. How many matters have been settled, in the past and present, in the midst of laughter and pleasant conversation?

  I suddenly felt that Hassan was like a bee. He had built a temporary hive in Pas, and even “brewed” a kind of honey called “knowledge”. He was not flitting here and there, blind and aimless. He had ideals, and he had direction. When he had gathered all that pollen from so many different flowers, who would enjoy its sweetness?

  The answer was obviously clear in Hassan’s mind.

  Mediterranean Carriage Driver

  WHEN THE POWERFUL horse trotted steadily past me in the rain, my gaze followed it. It was dark brown, with fine hair covering its body, and its coat was glossy, the mane on both sides of its ears drooping softly. It was muscular, and its gait was graceful and rhythmic as it pulled a black, open-topped carriage. Sitting behind the horse was a weather-beaten middle-aged man. He carried a fine whip in one hand, which he occasionally flicked at the horse. Seeing us, he reined in the animal, bent down and said in fluent English, “Would you like to take a carriage around to see the historic sites in Alexandria?”

  “We’ve only got three hours here. How much will it cost?” Risheng asked directly.

  “Two pounds per hour.” Then he added honestly, “Sir, I didn’t ask for a high price, so please don’t try to bargain with me, okay?”

  We liked his sincere attitude, but not as much as we liked his beautiful horse, so we did not hesitate at all. We quickly climbed into the carriage.

  That day, we had taken a bus from Cairo, and arrived a little after one o’clock at Alexandria, Egypt’s northern port city situated on the Mediterranean, to a torrential downpour. Alexandria greeted us with tears. The wind was blowing hard, filling up my skirt, and making it swell up like a balloon. The rain attacked us like arrows from all directions; I was so cold I couldn’t stop shivering. Fearing we would have a difficult time making our way back, we had gone straight to the train station to buy return tickets, then set out from the station in the rain, where we immediately came across this carriage driver.

  “So, where would you like to go first?” he asked, turning back to us.

  It was then that I noticed how gentle his eyes were, soft and full of laughter. His hair was pulled up in a white turban embroidered with tiny orange flowers, and he wore an overcoat that reached to his knees. His face, full of wrinkles, was adorned by fine whiskers. A face like this was clearly not young, but he really did not come across as old. In fact, he was full of vitality.

  I took the travel brochure from my bag and started reading the name of one famous site after another. He nodded and said, “Okay, I’ll bring you around to all of them.”

  I asked his name. He smiled and said, “You can call me Geb. My horse is called Avi.”

  The Port of Alexandria has a history of more than two thousand years. All the streets were only about twenty feet wide, and both sides were lined with huge ancient buildings; the paint was peeling off the buildings, the mottled look revealing their age. The horse’s hoofs clopped along the newly surfaced road, the sound bringing us back to a simpler time.

  Because of the rain, water had collected everywhere on the streets, making a mess of the traffic. The passengers on the buses were packed so tightly that it seemed they might overflow. Car horns beeped, creating a noisy chaos. Occasionally a car would speed past, stirring up a black billowing splash, but our horse Avi was not the least bit bothered by it. Even in the torrential wind and rain, it seemed completely unfazed and even-tempered, mixing in with the more modern modes of transportation, plodding quietly along. Its steady gait gave me a comforting sense of security.

  When the carriage passed a small market, there were many women wearing raincoats or carrying umbrellas standing at the stalls buying meat and vegetables. When they saw Geb, all of them gave him a friendly smile as they greeted him. I couldn’t keep myself from saying, “Geb, you’re really popular around here!”

  “Take a guess. How old do you think I am?” he asked out of the blue.

  “Oh—fifty?”

  “Fifty-eight! I’m fifty-eight years old. And I’ve lived here all fifty-eight years,” he said, voice full of pride. “I often come here and buy vegetables, so everyone, whether buyer or seller, is on very good terms with me.”

  “How many children do you have?”

  “Eight,” he replied, turning back to glance at me. His eyes twinkled. “Each one is my treasured child.”

  Eight children! That’s really too many! I thought to myself, but I didn’t dare say it. After a moment, I took the liberty to ask, “Your income must be pretty good.”

  “I don’t have a steady income. Sometimes it’s a lot, and sometimes a little, according to the seasons. Summer is the best, but in winter, the local people don’t go out, and there are fewer tourists, so my income is low.” He paused then said, “When the pay is good, everyone in the family gets to eat meat. When it’s low, we eat bread. Even though we’re poor, we’re happy!”

  Of course everyone’s expectations in life are different, but we
all pursue happiness. With just one look, I could tell for sure Geb was a happy, contented man.

  As we chatted, he brought us to the museum. Everything inside was from the Greco-Roman era in Alexandria. We took a quick walk through to see the artefacts, then got back into the carriage and continued our journey to see an ancient mosque, the Pompeiian stone pillar, the ancient imperial palace, and a war memorial. When we went to visit the underground Roman tombs, I discovered something that made me feel really good about Geb.

  As we reached the place, the gatekeeper was locking the heavy iron gate. I looked anxiously at my watch and saw that it was only two-fifty. Why would they close? Geb turned back and said to us warmly, “I know this place doesn’t close until three. Let me go and talk to him for a minute.”

  Saying this, he hopped down from the carriage and stood there in the rain, conversing with the gatekeeper in Arabic, first softly, then much louder. By this time, the gentleness had disappeared completely from his brown eyes, and they were exuding a sort of unrelenting persistence. Unfortunately, that irresponsible gatekeeper was in a hurry to go home, so even though Geb continued to quarrel with him, he was not backing down. We felt it was no use arguing, and anyway, we had already seen ancient tombs in the old city of Luxor, so Risheng spoke up and told him, “Geb, never mind. We can see other places.”

  Angry, Geb hopped into the carriage and said, “This fellow is really too much! He wants to go home, so he closes early!” When he’d said this, he apologised profusely. One would think he was the one who had done something wrong!

  The last site we saw that day was a fifteenth century castle. It was situated on the coast. When we arrived there, the rain had got heavier. The waves were rolling in the blue Mediterranean. The area around the coast was surrounded by a five-foot-high rock wall, but because the wind and waves were so strong, the water hitting against the huge rocks on the shore rose over the rock wall and splashed onto the road. The whole carriage seemed about to be blown away by the strong wind. I panicked and cried out. But Geb was not the least bit anxious. He just stood up steadily on the unstable, shaking carriage, and deftly helped us pull the black canopy down. Then he controlled the horse with the reins, making sure it didn’t take fright and start galloping blindly. Finally, he turned back, his whole face covered with rainwater. He smiled and, looking at me, said, “Ma’am, are you cold?”