By Bubble Yu, aged 15

0 – 1

If I had been more attentive to weather forecast, I would have brought my sun umbrella. And, if I had done that, I could be situated in a more likeable condition right now. Standing stupefied under a tree, I was now silently begging for a breeze to blow by.

Eight or nine years old, a boy stepped out of a house, shut the back door in a “snap”, and lunged off to a quick jog. The boy wore an over-sized T-shirt, white shorts, and tawny sandals that seem too big for his feet. An ordinary African kid, I guessed. Even though my sight has become blurry in the steaming sun—I can still vaguely make out his dark skin and twinkling small eyes. 

Perhaps it is a tradition here that kids should be accustomed to going out in scorching temperatures, because when that kid stepped out of the house, he appeared absolutely neutral. Not aggravated or bothered, the kid showed no annoyance to the hot temperature—no lip-biting, eyebrow-furrowing, or any of the eye-narrowing, body-tensing, or fist-clenching… absolutely neutral. I remember reading about these people on a traveler’s blog previous to my trip here, Africans show great resilience to extremely high temperatures. Well, indeed! the point seems to be already proven by this kid here. 

So, as the kid jogged by, I no longer took notice of how resilient he is of the hot air, but became more sensitive to the aching, itching, sprawling, twisting, and stinging occurring within and at the surface of my body. Perhaps the kid can lead me to civilization—but then, reminded by the traveler’s blog on African acquaintances, Africans lack personal hygiene due to living in harsh environmental condition. I took out my phone, blew off the dust adhered to the screen, and dialed the number for the nearest tour station.  

No signal. 

Wow, walking away the tourist station for four hours seemed to have finally led me outside of the service zone. And now, lost in the wilderness where there is only a “house” present beside the borderless dessert, I felt my body slowly melting in the steaming August air in Central Africa.    

I picked my body up from the tree where I was standing, took a few steps, and dialed again.  

No signal. 

A few more steps.  

No signal.  

Then, as I figured that I could be miles away from the service zone, I returned to the giant tree, washed down a few gulps of water down my dry throat, and leaned down toward my backpack—hoping that while I took a short rest from combatting the steaming temperature, some tourists might pass by, and hopefully give me a ride back to civilization. 

 

0 – 2

 

Perhaps I had slept too long, because when I finally woke up, the person who was waking me up was already shouting and kicking my body as if checking whether I was still alive.

I opened my eyes. 

"Haai! Is jy oukei? Wakker!" A kid's poignant voice startled my eardrums. I picked my body quickly from the ground, and stared at the stranger hovering above my head. It was the boy. Up close, I could see the sweat drippling down his nose tip, his eyebrows tightly furrowed, and his dark eyes tuned in a fixed gaze. 

“Hello,” I muttered.

“Ah! Ah!” Upon hearing that I spoke in English, the kid started. He spoke in an African accent, “I was just walking by and I saw you lying under a tree and I thought you might be sick, and I was so worried! Are you okay?”

I have to admit, hearing this much English coming from a local African boy was quite a surprise. I remember reading from the traveler’s blog that Africans speak bad English, so, I wasn’t actually expecting that the boy would respond back to my greeting.

The kid was sitting on his heels, hands on his knees, and was staring back at me with big round eyes. Perhaps it’s his first time seeing a foreigner. His back leaned forward, further extending his neck, and his head drooped down like an oversized fishing hook hanging from a thin fishing rod. Typical, I remarked silently. Couldn’t be more typical than an ordinary African boy.

            “Um, sir? Are you okay?” The boy asked.

            Should I answer him? I wondered. Perhaps not. The traveler’s blog on the tourist’s internet has clearly stated that it is inappropriate to commence conversations with African locals, African locals are poor and all desire monetary aid to support their living. This kid was probably asking just to sound nice, and when I’m not looking, was going to rob me of my wallet or whatever. So, in hopes of avoiding conversation, I glanced to the ground, meddled to unzip my half-opened bag and threw my water bottle inside.

From the side of my eye, I could see the boy still staring at me. I could make out his dark figure standing placidly like a scarecrow, not moving an inch. I avoided looking at the boy. Perhaps this boy can find me somewhere for the night, but then again, I shouldn’t. The boy looked so poor and perhaps didn’t know any place to stay but the dilapidated house.

By the moment I stood up, I felt my legs wobbling under my weight. I would find the service station on my own, and as I clearly recalled, that would only take two to three hours of walking. I came here from East, didn’t I? Then, I should go West from here again. And West…should be that way—I turned to the direction opposite to where the boy was standing (East, perhaps) and made my way step-by-step through the sweltering evening air.

            It wasn’t until the sun had completely disappeared behind the hills that I realized that I could no longer keep walking. I staggered to keep the balance of my feet in the sand, but as I felt the weight of my backpack increment with each step—I succumbed as my knees bent and pushed my body towards the ground.

            I closed my eyes.

            Oh no.

            The sun had gone down and there was still no sight of the service station. 

            Around me were endless hills, mountains, and oceans of sand—which by now had blended into the night—had become a vacuum of unbreathable darkness. I stretched out my arm, hoping to grab onto something before shrinking into this black hole, but beside the sand furrowing through the gaps between my fingers, nothing existed for me to hold onto.

I reached back for my water bottle. Gave it a shake. Empty.

I glanced back. Where did that boy go? I pondered. The boy had followed me—I could feel his presence ten or fifteen yards behind me for an hour or two. But he had disappeared from my trail too.

            I needed to find shelter, some water, some food. But, with this darkness consuming all the inches of air around me, there was no hope of reaching civilization. Besides, I could hardly move—I sensed my legs—nope, not a bit. So, I just lay there, like a dying bug no longer capable of chasing after lamps in cold winter nights—capitulated in the soreness of my body, disoriented by which direction was the right one to go in, and left with no choice but to cave into the night.

 

0 – 3

 

            When my eyelids fluttered from shut, I thought that I must no longer be alive.

I was lying in a bed. I looked up. A room. I was in a room.

This room in which I had been magically moved in to, rather than alienating me like a stranger, seemed to generously take me in. Under those piles of commingled exotic beauty and antiqueness, I saw everything as familiar as if I were home. A tea table, a wooden desk, a little chair, and paintings were distributed in the room in equal components, mirroring the bedroom of my childhood. The ceiling was a shade of corn yellow, and the tiny window, glassed and wiped clean, despite the heat rising from the ground, still enabled a clear vision of the world outside. Through that hole, I saw a sea of golden waves dancing with the wind forming peaks, troughs, and ripples, but limited by the frames of the window, disappearing…then reappearing, disappearing, then reappearing… 

I had never seen a scene so small yet so beautiful.  

So, long—long I stared—and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and furtively time flew by, and I felt droplets of sweat continuously dripping down my neck. I pulled my feet out of the bedsheets. This sight-seeing position displeased me, and reaching out my legs one by one with difficulty, rather than to escape from the room and the dying sweat drenching my shirt, I lurched closer and closer to the small window so as to get a closer look upon the world outside.

I hadn’t counted how many minutes had passed since I initially stood there, because at the moment when the tranquility of sight-seeing was interrupted, I hardly took notice of who had come to my acquaintance.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I heard from the side of my ear.

Reluctantly, I withdrew my gaze, and shifted it to the direction the sound had come from. Smiling, a dark-skinned woman stood there. She continued,

“You have finally woken up!”

 “How long have I slept?” I asked.

“Three days.”

“It has been that long?”

“Yes,” the woman smiled, “Take a bath and then we’ll have a talk.”

            By the time I got dressed, the woman had already placed breakfast on my table.

            The woman wore a piece of cloth hanging from a side of her shoulder down to her knee. Her feet were exposed like two large pieces of tofu, slightly covered in a pair of sandals, and her toenails—unpolished, looked like they were covered by a layer of rust.

            “Please, sit.” She asked, lifting a flat wooden chair over to my side and gesturing me to sit.

            I sat down.

            The woman sat down beside me, “I’m Marsha.” She stuck out her hand, gesturing me to shake it. I hesitated, shaking an African’s hand will get you dirty. But, refusing to shake her hand will be impolite. So, I gave her hand a tiny shake without contacting too much of her skin. Marsha smiled. I smiled back.

“Here’s breakfast,” Marsha pointed to the dish lying on the table, “Nyama na irio.”

I stared at the green and yellow heterogeneous mixture scattered on the dish. Disgusting, I thought, is this food even edible?

Marsha smiled, “We don’t usually make this here. You are our first visitor anyway. Don’t worry, it’s just mashed potatoes, peas, and beans.” She pointed at the dish.

I took a bite.

The mixture of mashed potatoes, peas, and beans between my jaw tasted like Australian blue cheese commingled with raw chili. Disgusting, I thought. Still, I managed to swallow it down.

“Um, so, where am I?” I asked.

The corners of Marsha’s lips lifted, “Our house. My son found you in the night a few miles from here… about three days ago.” She paused. “You were almost dead.”

“Oh,” So it was that boy. That boy with the fish-hook scalp and the over-sized T-shirt. I pictured myself lying dead in the desert, wondered how he found me. He must had followed me down to where I fell down. But, why didn’t he help me at the instant I fell?

“Your son?”

Marsha nodded, “He saw you staggered to the ground and ran back for help. Together with his brothers, he got you here.”

So, the boy was actually trying to help me. Out of all possibilities, the boy was following me just to save me by the time I fall down. Is this a kind of tradition and custom here that locals watch tourists so they will know when they need their help? I have to say, I was shocked by their unusual kindness. 

By the time I finished breakfast, I heard a “crack” at the door.

“Oh. It’s the boys,” Marsha smiled, stood up, and scurried out of the kitchen.

            I heard Marsha’s voice entangled with voices of children. I closely examined the voices as they entered my ears—and found that the melody of the African language was none other than a tangled mess of “kakas” and “blahblahs.” I listened closely as those voices got louder…and then, the voices suddenly ceased.

            I turned around.

            Behind me, stood four children. Standing petrified, they were all staring at me. And upon looking at their faces, I instantly realized that they looked pretty much identical: each of their faces constituted of two small eyes, one large nose, a pair of bulging lips, and a flat land of oily skin; and not to exaggerate, each of their heads looked like fishing hooks, each of their arms and legs are skinny, and each of them wore clothes that are either too tight or oversized. However, from the three boys, I still recognized the boy who had greeted me days ago in the desert. He was now standing with his hands in his pockets, eyes locked on the floor, and nervously meddling something with his hand.

“Um, hi,” I broke the silence.

            By instinct, I would have expected a chain of voices shouting salutations back to me, either “Hi” or “Good Afternoon.” But no voices came from the mouths of these children, not even from the boy who had met me in the desert. I stared at these children, and as I did so, I found their gazes instantly locked on the floor.

            Marsha walked by, “Boys, say hello!” she yelled.

The boys, upon listening their mother’s yell, gave me a quiet “Hello.”

Marsha raised her volume, “Boys, that’s not the way you greet a visitor.” She said.

“But Mama,” One of the boys, a younger one, said, “He doesn’t want us to greet us.”

The rest of the boys remained in silence.

Marsha’s smile disappeared, she walked towards the little boy, bent down on her knees, and whispered, “Shush, what makes you say that?”

The little boy thought for a moment, then stood on his toes and whispered to Marsha in a voice that I couldn’t hear.

At the next moment, Marsha stood up, and smiled at me, “It’s fine, don’t mind them. The boys just had a rough day, plus, they are just a bit nervous because they haven’t had a chance to get to know you yet.”

I bit my lip.

Marsha continued, “Why don’t we all sit down—”

“Sorry, but I really must go now,” I feared that any further conversation would indeed, just as the traveler’s blog said, make me dirty. So, I hurried my body out of the chair. However, I felt my knees weakening more and more as I moved every step forward. Instantly, I fell to the floor.

“You have not recovered yet.” Marsha helped me up, “You still need a few days of rest”. By the tenderness of her voice, I knew that she must be smiling. However, because of the shame and frustration that I was feeling as a result of my clumsiness, I refused to look at her face. I staggered back to my chair, with my eyes locked to the floor.

“You should tell us a little about yourself.” Marsha suggested.

Then, she gestured the boys around the room. The boys, upon perceiving her gesture, each lifted a hay mat by a corner of the room and sat down around the table. The little boy, who sat closest to me, exclaimed,

“Wow, Mommy made Nyama na irio!” He pointed at the unfinished dish lying at my desk and stared longingly at the yellow-green mixture on the plate.

“Shush. That’s for the visitor.” The boy, who looked the oldest, held the little boy back.

“But we’ve never had it in these few years…” the little boy protested, but was instantly interrupted by Marsha, who coughed and sat down beside me.

Marsha turned to look at me, “Tell us about yourself,” she said, “How did you wind up in the desert without a place to stay in a night like that?”

I felt four pairs of eyes instantly locked onto my skin, heating my whole body up like an air balloon.

“I was lost.” I said.

 “But how did you get here? Isn’t this place four miles away from the central tourist center?” Marsha continued.

“I was looking for ancient pyramids,” I muttered, “I steered off from the central route for tourism, followed my compass down northwest, but got lost in the desert after finding nothing but sand.”

Suddenly, the three kids cracked up laughing.

“What’s the matter?”

The tall boy choked, “Northwest? Where you have gone from the tourist center is West. You can actually tell from the position of the sun—which decelerates in travelling West in relative velocity if compared to travelling Northwest.”

“And, pyramids?” The little boy crackled, “You don’t find pyramids here. What you’ve heard is probably a legend. The pyramids that have once been here either merged into the desert or were moved to other places. All we’ve got here is mountains and mountains of sand.”

I stood in awe as I listened to the boys easily rebuking my choice of travelling here. Extremely surprised and shocked by how much knowledge these boys possessed, I stuttered in response,

The boys nodded. They certainly won’t mind if I leave the table. No, of course they won’t, the traveler’s journal did say that Africans live without rules. So, I gave each of the boys and Marsha a nod, and without gaining their permission to leave the table, I returned to the bedroom, and gently shut the door behind me.

 

0 – 4

 

The next few days passed quicker than I expected. The superiority of being an American somehow slowly faded. And, the African family, which at first appeared like a group of strangers, now became one of the acquaintances in my life that I particularly enjoyed. In one morning, the little boy invited me to see the sandstorms with him by his window. It was then that I became aware that the phenomenon whereby sand dances in the air is called a ‘sandstorm,’ and that the bedroom at which the window is located is the little boy’s bedroom—which he has generously lent me for as long as I stayed.

“Look at the edges of each sandstorm,” he suggested, “Aren’t they beautiful?”

I watched. Indeed, they were. Although the sandstorms were none other than whirls of sand, they looked like golden sprinkles poured into the atmosphere, forming exquisite shapes as if under a fairy’s spell.

“I watch by the window every time there is a sandstorm,” and the little boy watched with large twinkling eyes, “and every time these sandstorms enchanted me.”

“Can we go out to see?” I asked, stepping out of the room and gesturing the little boy to follow.

“No, you can’t!” The little boy yelped, suddenly grabbing my hand, “The sandstorm is dangerous. Although it looks like magic – you’ll figure that it is not as magical once you get smothered and buried under heaps of sand!”

I gulped.

Seems like everything has a rule for others to follow here in the desert.

On another afternoon, I listened to Marsha and the boys chant and dance.

“It is an African song that my family has inherited from our ancestors, to celebrate the arrival of guests,” Marsha smiled, “Our guest today is you.” She was wearing a long white dress—one that was handmade from cotton. The dress was tied at her neck, covering her entire body to the knees. She wore a red necklace, slightly tinting her skin pink under daylight. The oldest boy, standing beside her, carried a large drum.

She gestured the oldest boy to hit the drum. The dance started.

The drumbeats are initially fixed in a slow rhythm, Marsha glided on the ground from one side to another. Then, as the drumbeats got faster and faster, Marsha quickened her footsteps from one side to another, incorporating her hands waving in the air, and occasionally moving her waist as she raised her hand above her head. The other boys joined in too. The boy whom I met in the desert earlier grabbed a pair of maracas, shaking them perfectly to rhythm. And, the smallest boy began to sing.

His voice was tender, but strong. His words were not understandable, but were forcing my emotions to pour out like hot tea. The drum, the dance, the maracas, and the voice were all mixed together in such an odd way that the family’s performance seemed paradisal. I watched in awe, mesmerized by the music, and sat still as I permitted my soul to take a trip in the essence of African music.

After they finished the dance, they joined me by the table. Smiling, the boys huddled beside me, and Marsha went back to her room to change her clothes.

“How do you think?” The smallest boy asked, excitedly.

“It was beautiful.” I admitted. I can’t believe that I have complimented African people, but indeed, the performance was truly beautiful.

The boys laughed at my remark. The smallest boy told me, “Mama and we always practice this dance at home. Even though there was no audience to watch us.”

“But she usually doesn’t put on that dress,” the oldest boy said. “The last time she put that on was when Papa came home.”

The three boys fell into silence.

Where did their father go? I wondered. Was he dead? Possible in a desert like this. Ill? Not likely. Left them? I don’t know.

Marsha stepped into the room. Now changed back to her normal clothing, she smiled warmly at me, then looked at the boys.

I broke the silence, smiling, “Nice performance, you and your sons were awesome.”

Marsha smiled back, “It hasn’t been a long time since we greeted our last visitor,” she looked at the boys, “and plus we’ve been practicing, so we’ve still got the moves!”

The oldest boy and the boy whom I met in the desert smiled tenderly and nodded.

The smallest boy, however, stayed numb.

“I miss Papa,” he said.

Marsha smiled, went over and cuddled his little head. “I know, I know.” She turned to look at me, her eyes showing a tint of sadness. “Their Papa went to the big cities in North America three years ago for work.”

“He kept saying that what we’ve got here is not enough,” the boy whom I met in the desert added. “He always wanted us to have a better life.”

“But he never understood that we only want him to stay,” the smallest boy continued. “And he promised to come back for New Year’s Day, but he didn’t.” 

The tallest boy remarked angrily, “And he never thought of the dangers lying out there! There are people, people who don’t like us, people who despise us for our skin color, people who—”

Marsha slightly coughed and shot him a stern face. The boy immediately quietened down. Marsha looked at me, “But, you see, we still managed to live a decent life without a father. We’ve got food, shelter. Everything we need is right inside this house!” She smiled again, sweetly and sadly.

Humility burned inside of me, like a flame, setting every organ on fire. I wanted to say something to comfort her and the boys, but no words came out of my throat. The family managed to live in a desert with no father, with no supermarkets at all, and with no electronic devices available for use. I looked to the ground, bathed in shame. That night, I didn’t sleep well.

 

0 – 5

 

On the next morning, I followed the boy whom I had met in the desert to ‘the fields.’ I was capable of walking and could also manage to run a little bit if needed. It was a peculiarly hot day, and because of the elevated temperature and steaming heat, I didn’t want to go at first. However, because the boy pleaded with me for almost an hour, and Marsha suggested I go, I figured that it would be too cruel to say no.

“Go now, or else you’ll miss it!” Marsha exclaimed by the time we stepped out of the house. Maybe it was because of my fear of getting lost again, I took all of my belongings with me—including four bottles of water and two bags of food.

That was the first time that I ever came out of the house after the boys miraculously found me in the desert. The desert was a shade of bright yellow, and walking on the yellow sand added a terrible burning sensation to my feet, but I still managed to keep pace with the boy walking in front of me. I could feel Marsha’s gaze lingering on my back as I went.  I looked back, and she smiled.

In front of me, the boy was taking big steps, heading toward a direction that is probably West, and was walking on thin sandals. The sandals were so thin, I wondered if the sand burned under his feet.

The boy kept walking, non-stop, not permitting any instant for rest. Finally, at the moment he stopped and turned around, I already felt my legs wobbling under my weight and I had emptied two bottles of water already.

“Here we are.” The boy led me to a field down by a hill of sand, “my vegetable field.”

Following his steps, I found myself approaching a rectangular field filled with rich soil and green sprouts. Beside the field, lay two gravels and large amounts of clay, as well as three buckets of water.

“Today’s job is to water the plants, and harvest the potatoes there.” The boy pointed to the left-hand side of the field.

The boy glanced at me, smiling, “C’mon, let’s do this fast. Mama wanted me to show you something after we do this.” He handed me a bucket, “Hold this.”

I held the bucket, and at the instant the boy let go of its handle, I felt my body pulled down to the ground by its weight. The boy immediately helped me up and clutched the bucket.

“Here. Perhaps you’re not strong enough yet. I’ll do it for you,” he said, laughing. I stepped aside, watching the boy as he watered the plants. There were three rows and six columns of sprouts that needed to be watered, and I watched him as he managed to drip a little bit of water onto every sprout, not too little nor too much. Sweat was dripping down his face, but he shook it away to continue with the work. I have to say, I really admired his sense of dedication to this field work.

By the time he completed watering all of the plants, he threw the bucket aside, and grabbed my hand quickly as he led me to run northwards. A short time later, we came panting to the edge of the desert. I gasped at the scene before me.

In front of me, were rows and rows of camels. In front of the camels, walked a man. The camels were travelling East, and some had tourists on their backs.

My heart was racing up in my stomach, this was the chance to get me a ride back to civilization. Initially, I wanted to shout, but ceased my urge to do so as I thought of Marsha and the boys. Could I manage to stay a few days longer? Staying with them had made me really happy. I hesitated, and watched the camels walk by.

Suddenly, a thin voice penetrated my ears,

“Hey! Hey!” the boy shouted. I jerked to look at him, he was waving his arms, shouting on the top of his throat to the camels and the man walking past us. The man heard him and led the camels to us, then, I heard the boy and the man talking in African language.

 I wondered, what was he doing? Then, the man gestured to me. What did he want me to do? I stood in confusion. The boy ran towards me, excited. He yelled,

“Go climb onto a camel! The man is going to the central tourist center. He and the camels can get you out of the desert!” Joy was flickering in his eyes.

“W-what?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Didn’t you always want to go back? Now this is your chance!” The boy pushed me toward a camel, and reluctantly, I climbed onto its back.

I gazed at the boy; he was waving at me.

“Take care,” he said, “Mama knew the camel man would pass by today, so she asked me to take you here.”

To be honest, I didn’t want to go. I didn’t know what to say. I just stared at the boy.

Then, before I even knew it, the camel started walking. I jerked to hold on tight. I looked back.

The boy was still waving at me. I could see something inside his small dark eyes glimmer under the boiling sun.

Sadness, that was the word to describe this moment.

I watched as his figure became smaller and smaller in the desert. I kept watching, watching, until his figure became as small as a particle of dust, and finally, it dissolved into the steaming air of mid-August.

I closed my eyes. And the next time I opened them the desert was gone. The air was mild, colors were everywhere, and I was already back in the tourist center.