In Time, Out of Place

by You Jin

  I huddled in the carriage, so cold I was shaking. I was too cold to say a word.

  When we came out of the castle, it was already 4.30pm. Our train was leaving at 5.15. There was no time for dinner. Concerned, Geb asked, “Do you want to buy some food to take on the train?”

  “What is there around here?” I asked, my stomach growling.

  “I know a little shop that sells seafood. It’s cheap and good. Are you interested?”

  I quickly nodded. The café was not far from the Mediterranean, from which all of its seafood came, so fresh they were still moving. As soon as we got there, someone took us into a small room. Inside the room were many huge bamboo baskets, each filled with flopping fish and giant prawns.

  “How much?” I asked, overjoyed.

  “The prawns are six pounds a kilo (eighteen Singapore dollars) and the fish three pounds a kilo (nine Singapore dollars).”

  We chose a kilo of prawns and half a kilo of fish. The man carried the fish and prawns we had chosen and brought us into a large round tented area. Under the tent, were five or six long tables. There were two huge black pots on one side of the tent, full of boiling oil. On the other side was a wire mesh grill set up over an open fire.

  “Do you want your fish and prawns grilled or fried?” a chef asked.

  “Fried!” I answered.

  We watched his deft movements, shelling prawns, seasoning them, and throwing them into the pot. Before long, there was smoke everywhere, and the aroma of cooking food. When he was done frying, he wrapped the food and handed it to me. Geb quickly reminded him, “You forgot to give them bread.”

  He grunted in reply, went into a room, and when he came out, my god! He carried six huge round loaves of Arabian bread. I hurriedly said, “One is enough!”

  Geb looked at me doubtfully. “One piece of bread for two people? That can’t be enough!”

  Actually, we were unable to finish the whole kilo of prawns. We didn’t even touch the shockingly huge loaf of plain, tasteless Arabian bread.

  By the time we paid for our food, it was five minutes after five. Geb seemed more anxious than we were. He whipped the horse, making it practically fly to the train station. When we arrived, he looked at his watch and heaved a sigh of relief, “Lucky we didn’t miss the train!”

  We gave him our originally agreed price of six pounds, and added another two for tips. He expressed his thanks over and over. Holding the packet of seafood and watching his carriage disappear in the darkness, my whole heart was also filled with warmth.

  A Treacherous Saviour

  SITTING IN DOUZ, Tunisia, in an alley steeped in traditional Arabic atmosphere, I was filled with inexpressible delight. The narrow lane was packed with shops. The carpet seller showed off a display of colourful magnificence; the spice seller, not to be outdone, released into the air a mixture of smells. The bronze craftsman joyfully carved the African scenery, bit by bit, onto the bronze plates. The rattan weaver, not wanting to be left out in the cold, poured his heart into the rattan baskets. The tired ox, dragging an old broken cart in small steps, full of self-pity, toiled silently through many years. A simple, ignorant donkey, bearing big bundles of strong-smelling mint leaves, plodded along, passing through the vicissitudes of life. Tunisian people sat in twos and threes on wooden benches outside the shops, smoking, drinking coffee, and chatting about everything under the sun.

  Submerged in this ancient, traditional, but lively and beautiful, north African atmosphere, I wasn’t drinking, but felt intoxicated.

  A thin fellow appeared, extending both hands before me. He held two stones. They were special stones. No matter which angle you looked at them from, they were like flowers in full bloom.

  The thin man’s face wore a smile even brighter than the stone flowers he held. He said, “Have you seen the desert rose?”

  Desert rose? What an intriguing name!

  “These stones that look like roses come from the Sahara Desert. They’re buried deep in the desert, and they’re beautiful spirits from the underground,” he explained. “You want to buy one?”

  Inspecting it more carefully, I found that the rich “petals” clustered layer upon layer did not have the fullness of a real flower, but they were still overwhelmingly beautiful. The miracle of nature—what power does it employ to create such a beautiful “flower”?

  Each piece cost one dinar (the equivalent of one US dollar). The man took my money and plopped happily down in the chair beside me for a chat.

  “Tomorrow, how about I bring you to the Sahara to spend half a day with the nomadic shepherding tribe?”

  Douz was situated in the central interior region of Tunisia. Many tourists came from thousands of miles away especially to see the wonders of the Sahara Desert. We had just gone to the tourist bureau to find out about the desert, but unfortunately, we had arrived too late and they were closed. We had not imagined that we would now run into someone who could help make arrangements for us. Pleased beyond our expectations, we asked him about the itinerary. He rambled on, “Tomorrow morning, we set out at seven and go to the tents of the desert tribe and have lunch with them, getting a taste of the typical dry wheat bread of the nomadic tribes. We can ride camels with them, view the desert scenery, and then come back in the car. It’s a six-hour itinerary. For the two of you, it’s fifty dinar.”

  Feeling this was a suitable arrangement, and he was a charming and amiable fellow, we nodded in agreement.

  Both sides felt good, then he pointed at my big handbag and said, “Some other parts of Tunisia are not very safe. You should watch your bag. In Douz, you can relax a little. The people here are honest, happy, and content.”

  When we had spent a long while chatting with this “honest, happy, and content” Tunisian man, I decided to go to one of the cafés along the next alley for dinner. After setting the time and place for the next day, he suddenly stuck a hand out toward me and said, “You’ll need to give me the fifty dinar in advance.”

  Pay in advance? Only a fool would do that. I refused tactfully. “We’ll see you tomorrow at seven, and we’ll give it to you then.”

  “No, I need the money to buy petrol.”

  I continued my refusal. His expression turned unhappy. He asked, “You mean you don’t trust me?”

  I said, “It goes against the trading rules.”

  He said, “Sooner or later, you will have to pay. If you give it to me earlier, it will be much more convenient to make the arrangements.”

  I insisted, “No.”

  Neither side backed down. Finally, he turned hostile, and said, “Forget it!”

  Enraged, he walked away, leaving me standing there, furious. Having lost all interest, I wandered to another alley, then went into a café and had dinner.

  Another man followed me in. His hair was curly, and he had a big, round face. There was a light scar on his left cheek.

  He came straight to the point and said, “Just now that fellow said he wanted to bring you to the desert. Lucky for you that you wouldn’t pay him in advance. To be honest, he’s a cheat. But me, I’m an experienced guide. I’ve brought many tourists in and out of the desert.” Saying this, he took out a small photo album and put it on the table, adding, “Have a look.”

  I flipped through the album. It was full of photos of him with the nomadic tribes. The pictures were very good, fully showing off the distinguishing feature of vast expanses of sandy desert landscapes.

  “Just now, I heard the whole conversation between you and that cheat. How about this: I can follow all the arrangements you discussed with him. I’ll drive over in a jeep to pick you up at your hotel, and you don’t need to give me any money now. When the tour is over, you can pay me fifty dinar.”

  Feeling this arrangement fair, we agreed.

  The man readily stuck out his hand to shake ours, saying, “That settles it, then. My name is Abdul. Tomorrow morning at seven, I’ll meet you at the entrance of the Sahara Hotel.”

  By the time we had eaten, it was da
rk. Risheng and I went for a stroll along the road. We saw a lorry at the side of the road, full of big round watermelons. Under the light of the kerosene lamps, they exuded a greenish glow. It was extremely hot, and a line of sweat snaked down my back. Seeing all these watermelons priced at one dinar each, I thanked my lucky stars.

  We bought one and carried it to a nearby teahouse, where we asked the owner for a knife. When we cut it, we were pleased to find that the juicy red flesh was seedless. We sat at a dilapidated table outside the teahouse and held our slices of watermelon, feasting on them contentedly. The fresh, sweet juice flowed down my throat. When we were enjoying ourselves tremendously, a dark shadow came into my view. I looked up and saw Abdul. Pleased, I asked him to sit down and share the watermelon with us. He sat, but he did not accept the fruit we offered. He just took out a pack of cigarettes, removed one from the pack, lit up, and started to smoke. At a glance, he seemed very young. When I looked more closely, he wasn’t so young. A handful of wrinkles sat at the corner of his eyes, lined neatly one by one like little fish sleeping soundly. Occasionally when he smiled, the little fish would be startled and try to escape. The scar on his left cheek also seemed to jump about following the sound of his laughter.

  Seeing me take stock of him, he self-consciously ran his hand through his hair, saying, “My curly hair is inherited. All three of my sisters have hair as curly as a doll’s. They never need to perm it. That seems to make a lot of people jealous!”

  “Are your three sisters all working?”

  “No, they are still studying. I’m the oldest. Both of my parents are dead, so after I finished secondary school, I had to pass up the chance to go to university. I started working so that my sisters could continue their studies.”

  “You’re a good brother.”

  “If you had the chance to see my three sisters, you’d understand. It’s worth it, going out to work for their benefit. They are not only very pretty, they also have very kind personalities.”

  The watermelon was huge, and by the time we forced ourselves to finish it, our stomachs had swelled as big as drums. We chatted for a little while longer, then I was ready to go back to the hostel to rest. Abdul threw what was left of his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it to put it out. He said, “Would you like to go to my house for a bit? My sisters would be very happy to meet you. I have lots of other photos of the desert that I’d like to show you.”

  I looked at my watch. It was only a little after nine, so I nodded my head.

  It was a moonless night, and was completely dark all around. He brought us through a twisting maze of streets, moving from larger thoroughfares to smaller lanes. The alleys were not only dark, but so quiet you could hear the sound of silence clearly. At that moment, my stomach suddenly started to hurt. I figured the watermelon we had just eaten did not agree with me. I wrinkled my eyebrows and asked Abdul, “How much further?”

  “About another twenty minutes.”

  I knew I could not hold out for another twenty minutes. I pulled on Risheng and awkwardly backed out onto the main road. Whilst we were retreating, I said, “Abdul, I suddenly remembered I have some important business. I can’t go to your house.”

  I only heard his exasperated voice coming from behind, “Hey, don’t worry. We people from Douz can all be trusted.”

  By this time, my stomach was really churning. Without answering, we started to run like the wind.

  The next morning we waited at the Sahara Hotel for Abdul. When we had waited for an hour, there was still no sign of him. What had gone wrong? I could not think of anything at all.

  Several days later, I was flipping through a magazine on the train, and by chance, came across these words, In Tunisia, foreign tourists should not accept the invitation to go to a stranger’s home. Often, these people offer invitations to tourists, then lead them to a secluded place and rob them…

  That night, the treacherous watermelon saved us from danger, in an act of mercy we can never repay.

  All the Stories in the Land

  No Protection in a Tent

  THE TERM “SAFARI park” applies to Kenya, because going to Kenya without taking a few days to see the animals in Safari Park is like, in the old saying, “returning from the sacred mountain empty-handed.”

  In Safari Park, the animals wander freely without any protective barrier, so an itinerary must be arranged in advance for travellers to visit. On the day we went, the travel agent drilled these words into our minds: “If you really want to appreciate the wonders of the wild, you need to stay in the wilderness. In the daytime, we will pitch tents, and you can see the wonderful scenery. At night, you can lie in the tent and hear the calls clearly of the wild animals. All of the wonders of nature will be right there before you.”

  We quite liked the idea, so we immediately booked the three-day package. That morning, we took a bus from Nairobi, the capital of Kenya, and travelled a very long way before we finally reached the world-famous Masai Mara National Park.

  It was evening, and dusk was settling in, enveloping us in a luxuriant coolness. When we got off the bus, we were immediately dumfounded at the sight. My heart froze in my chest.

  This place was much more rugged than I had expected. There were ten triangular tents arranged in two lonely rows. The tents were just green canvas thrown together, very small and very narrow. When you went inside, there was no room to move around. In fact, it was hard to find space to breathe. Someone had tossed a yellowy field mattress on the ground. It was dark inside, and the shadows seemed to move, ghost-like. But, what was really disappointing was that there did not seem to be a safe place to step anywhere around the tent. The ten tents were completely exposed to the sky, and also to the wilderness outside us. What if…what if we met with a surprise attack from an animal? Where would we go for protection? I mean, if a wild elephant came at night when we were all asleep, and wandered into the tents, it would just be a matter of seconds before we were flattened into pancakes.

  When the tour leader heard me voice my concerns, he laughed without the least bit of anxiety. “Don’t worry, we’ve arranged for a pair of guards to watch over this place twenty-four hours a day.” He pointed to a pair of red figures not far away and added, “They are from the Masai tribe. They are the fiercest, most vigorous, and bravest people. To tell the truth, even a lion would be scared if it saw them!”

  I looked at the guards, but all I could see of them was that they carried long spears in one hand and a mace in the other. They stood there, as immovable as the mountains.

  Well, I was already here, so I might as well relax. I put my luggage outside one of the tents, but then it struck me that there were no washroom facilities. When I asked about that, the guide pointed into the distance and said, “There you go.”

  Those two narrow rooms made of a few boards topped with grass? I looked up, and I could still make out the shifting colours of the clouds overhead. Then I remembered the words of the tour agent, All the wonders of nature will be right there before you. I laughed bitterly. He certainly had not exaggerated! We would be spending a few days here living a primitive life.

  When night fell, the whole place was enveloped in total darkness. We sat around candles at the wooden table with two couples from the US and Canada, eating our dinner together. The food was laid out on two round metal plates. It was all self-service. We had a buttery flavoured soup. I scooped out fried fish, boiled cabbage, potatoes and bread, and sat down to eat. As I ate, insects about the size of my thumb crawled over and fell into the plate. I kept using the ladle to flick them out, but they would dive merrily back in again. I was really feeling harassed and irritated when an insect I did not recognise dropped as if from the sky and landed right on my fish, face up, showing its ugly underside, its numerous appendages wiggling uncontrollably. It was disgusting, and I lost my appetite.

  The Masai Tribe, Brave as Lions

  When I took my plate and walked to the open area in the centre of the tents, I saw the two guards ch
opping firewood with a hatchet, able and untiring. They held the wood with one hand and the hatchet with the other, chopping up and down, producing stalks of rough kindling. In an instant, they had numerous fine branches. When they had piled them up, they started a fire. As the flames rose, I struck up a conversation with the two guards in the fierce glow.

  “I heard you all are brave warriors, and that even the lions are afraid of you. Is that true?”

  “How can that be?” they said, exposing their white teeth as they laughed. “But, amongst the Kenyan tribes, the Masai is the one that has the most contact with lions.”

  “Why is that?”

  “As a basic part of the way we live, every sixteen-year-old Masai male has to undergo ritual circumcision. Before he can be circumcised, he must kill a lion to prove that he has become a fearless man.”

  “He has to kill the lion by himself?” I asked in amazement.

  “Of course not! A group of friends will go with him to the mountains and into the jungle to search for the lion’s lair. When we find it, we surround it. The most effective way to kill a lion is to drive a spear into its eye. Once it is blinded, we can move in for the kill. That’s when the man about to undergo circumcision takes the lead, and it is his responsibility to kill the lion.”

  “Are most of them able to do it?”

  “No. Many of our tribesmen have met their death in the lion’s mouth.” Saying this, the guard called Bintu, only vaguely visible in the firelight, stuck his legs out from under red cloth and said, “Look, this is a lion’s masterpiece.”