J-emine's reflexionando

Night had deepened. The mountain maze fell behind us like a bad dream. I was following Ursa Minor to the north.

‘Sanmao, do you still want fossils? Jose asked in a voice like a groan.

‘Yes’, I said simply. ‘And you?’

‘Even more than you’.

‘When are we coming back?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

Stories of the Sahara, Sanmao

This weekend, I found myself immerse in the world of Sanmao, akin to a druken stupor – my awaken days were spent soaking up Sanmao and anything I can get on her – which also includes completing the English translation of ‘Stories of the Sahara’.

Sanmao wears her heart on her sleeves, she’s energetic, full of empathy, righteous and holds strong indignation towards injustice. ‘Stories of the Sahara’ is 50+ odd years old but voices of the page seems to have been written only yesterday. The cultural and political landscape sheds a world that may not have been given much attention or it could be my own ignorance that had me googling and doodling on my notebook – Spanish Sahara, Morocco to the north, Mauritania to the south, Algeria to northwest (or west…:) etc. Each of the stories beautifully narrated by Sanmao brings a life of its own; The Mute Slave still tugs at my heartstring, amongst others as well.

Jose is ubiquitous in Sanmao’s life and I am sure there’s many articles and speculation of their love and whether he was the love of her life. Does it really matter? I like to think Jose’s love was ever embracing and he tango-ed well with the Sanamo (of the Sahara), and possibly this worked well within his own adventurous whims.

NY Times article on Stories of the Sahara

I am still relishing the weekend of Sanmao, her wit – her literal expression – her spirit, with my small glass of Monet and bag of chips (and no, I didn’t consume it at one go) – and dreaming of a Sahara trip in the future, maybe?