nanjing2

向导默哈开着越野车载着我们4人周游摩洛哥.  默哈去过不少国家， 见多识广。 在印度被摇头晃脑，开车野蛮的司机吓到过，在泰国被佳丽们靓晕过， 哪个是真的？（原话是”which one is lady, which one is lady boy”)本地人语重心长的告訴：真的往往是丑的。 这句话有意思, 概率分布上看，美女应该是少数。我们从三毛的故事和好莱坞经典片得来的摩洛哥印象再丰富， 现在亲眼看看后才不虚。

第一站哈桑二世清真寺出来，我们为内部的美仑美焕， 外观的气派非凡倾倒。默哈却淡漠的说他从没进去过， 也不会进去。这个皇家清真寺说是由人民捐钱修建，其实派捐到每家，并非都自愿的。这时的国王是哈桑二世，年轻气盛。1972年 coup of the aviators，他的专机被摩洛哥空军的F-5打穿， 国王假装被击毙，专机被允许降落，国王假扮司机开车逃出反击叛乱， 参与叛乱的军官们都被处死。“那是我们柏柏干的”，默哈一脸自豪， 那架国王专机上的洞洞是柏柏勇敢的丰碑，谁惹柏柏就去看看。

默哈是柏柏人， 准确地说， 是撒哈拉的，奉犹太教的柏柏人。

默哈出生后，年轻父母兴冲冲地为他们的头生子去报官， 因犹太名字被拒绝。 他们当即换了最响亮的伊斯兰名字：穆罕穆德。昵称默哈。默哈在撒哈拉沙漠里长大，家里有耶枣树，给黑人佃户照看， 自己养羊， 骆驼。如不出意外，15岁娶媳妇成家， 然后生儿女。 14岁那年， 默哈的父亲死于殴斗。爷爷把母亲连带他和2位妹妹赶出家门。 有乡亲求情，爷爷说那你接娘加仨回家好了！

默哈成了家里的养家汉， 去镇上打工养家。先搬运，后学过屠宰。好心的邻居用自己的车教会默哈后，默哈心飞了，他从卡车司机做起，到如今的有了自己的旅行社。默哈说， 要不是14岁的家变， 他的日子将毫无悬念。大漠虽天高地远却平淡。不是他想要的。最能证明默哈走出悲剧的是他后来知道了谁杀了父亲，却没有仇恨。他说复仇会毁了两个家。他对煽动仇恨的政教一律反感。

富起来的默哈乐于助人。街上看到穷人， 就摇下窗招手叫他们过来给钱。对撒哈拉的乡亲们更是。 学习好的少年就接去出钱上私立学校，买个iPad当家教。 尤其对女孩帮助更多，毕竞部落女孩的路更窄， 更需要接进城里开阔眼界。 他的奶奶在爷爷去世后由他出钱去城里做了手术，又成了家人。

默哈跑的再远，仍然是大漠的儿子。撒哈拉是他的根，后院。撒哈拉人视力极强，很远的活物一眼锁定。 公路边那些拿着雷达枪的警察不管躲在树后， 墙后，沟中，默哈老远就看到。从来没中过。有三次看警察不在， 默哈停车把椅子没收了带回家给老乡。行程中有犹太斋日， 默哈一天开车不吃不喝，我们担心。默哈用中文说：没问题啦， 我是罗驼（骆驼）嘛。

学过屠宰的默哈对肉羊养的对不对， 杀的对不对，从挂着的肉上一眼能看出来。街上一遛烤肉铺， 他挑中一家带我们吃烤羊肉串， 我先拒吃， 但尝了一块后被惊呆了， 羊肉还能这么好吃！除了鲜嫩， 一点膻味也没， 赶紧又买一串。默哈自己吃的羊都是挑选好了送乡人养着，随吃随取。疫情期间， 没了游客默哈自己游。 带上羊往撒哈拉开， 饿了自己烤肉， 没油了从老乡处买， 一元一桶。 阿尔及尔境内的撒哈拉更大更美，就是游客不安全。默哈没打过疫苗， 也没得过新冠。那是段好日子。

默哈指给我们一处高墙大院。大门紧闭。偶尔豪华越野车进出是卡塔尔的牌子。 有一天一位印度人搭默哈的车。他说他是为大院工作的工程师。大漠里有鸟（漠百灵或麦穗鸟）在夜里检发光的石子。大院里放出驯养的猎鹰（falcon）抓这种鸟，收集闪亮的石子，化验后送美国。 默哈申请为大院工作， 只一星期就被解雇。“他们嫌我太聪明了，很快明白他们搞什么”， 默哈如是说。

从小失怙失学的默哈会6种语言，对历史事件，年代很清楚。 是外公教会他的。 外公活到117岁。问长寿经验，就是吃肉要配藏红花（saffron)。默哈车里也带着，不时捻几根泡水喝。

默哈的老家现在是表兄弟住着。不能再简陋了。几根木棍支起一块透气的驼毛毯。 如果下雨，驼毛湿了会膨涨，自动防水但会有味道。门，窗，家俱是没有的。 窝棚南北边压好。东西两边背风的一边卷起。撒哈拉一天刮两次风， 总是东西向。



游牧民不洗澡洗头，却看不出脏和油腻， 连羊圈也无味。同行的生物专家海鸥兄说：不奇怪呀， 这么毒的太阳，这么大的风，这么干燥，细菌没法长。女主人捧上现烤的面饼， 松软香好吃的停不下。默哈说这饼里什么也没有，连酵母也没有，令我们称奇。老家周围有法国人留下的废矿， 有黑人村。苏丹后裔表演了音乐歌舞。曲调伤感， 舞步沉重， 那曾是戴着脚镣的舞蹈。如今脚镣没有了， 脚步也轻快不起来。默哈说黑人祖先是从亭巴图（Timbuktu)为美国买来的黑奴，因美国挑不中而留下的。



撒哈拉大沙漠气象万千。阳光强烈，气流活跃。有风时，一切迷蒙，沙丘披上金黄；



无风时，天空靛蓝，沙丘呈鲑红。



晚间， 月光泻下，温柔宁静。 骆驼围一圈或站或蹲，数颗星天空闪耀，三两游客沙丘散歩。



阿拉伯灯照亮顶顶白帐蓬间的小径。当地的小伙隔着老远就看到我们， 一串中文飞来：“你好， 谢谢，再见， 好看， 天啦”。

美丽而严酷，富有而贫穷的撒哈拉沙漠自远古以来养育了世世代代的柏柏人。柏柏的旗上红人形穿过蓝，绿，黄三道，意为海上，绿地，沙漠间纵横自如的柏柏人。一旁，摩洛哥国旗红底绿星， 五角星代表伊斯兰5要素（念，礼，斋，课， 朝）， 红色是摩洛哥人的血性—柏柏人的血。 默哈从罗马人把柏柏人骗到地中海边屠杀， 染红了海， 说到他自己的部落反抗法国统治， 杀了2个法国军官。 默哈说现在阿拉伯人的统治也是我们让的。穆罕穆德五世的功我们记着，不好好做的， 专机上的洞洞在那里。 阿拉伯人头上顶个零（压头巾的圈）就以为有学问，我们柏柏人的头巾原是裹尸布， 准备好死在战场。不管谁来，柏柏人永远是这大地的主人。

路边的骆驼白骨和路人：


柏柏旗和摩洛哥国旗：


马上柏柏（马拉喀什摄影博物馆）


柏柏人肖像（马拉喀什摄影博物馆）

English translation by Google Translate:

Discovering Morocco (2): A Berber’s Sahara Story 

Our guide, Moha, drove the four of us around Morocco in his off-road vehicle. Moha had traveled to quite a few countries and was a man of broad experience. In India, he had been spooked by drivers who bobbed their heads incessantly and drove with reckless abandon; in Thailand, he had been dazzled—and utterly bewildered—by the stunning beauties he encountered. "Which one is real?" (His exact words were: "Which one is a lady, and which one is a ladyboy?") A local had told him, with great solemnity: "The real ones are usually the ugly ones." That’s an interesting observation; from a statistical standpoint, truly beautiful women ought to be a rarity. No matter how vivid our preconceived notions of Morocco—drawn from the stories of Sanmao or classic Hollywood films—it was only now, seeing it with our own eyes, that the experience felt truly authentic.

Our first stop was the Hassan II Mosque. We were utterly captivated—by the breathtaking beauty of its interior and the extraordinary grandeur of its exterior. Moha, however, remarked with indifference that he had never set foot inside, nor did he ever intend to. Although this royal mosque was ostensibly built with donations from the people, the contributions were, in reality, levied upon every household—a mandatory tax rather than a voluntary offering. The reigning monarch at the time was Hassan II—young, and full of fiery vigor. In 1972, during the "Coup of the Aviators," his royal jet was riddled with bullets fired by F-5 fighter jets of the Moroccan Air Force. The King feigned death, allowing his plane to be cleared for landing; he then disguised himself as a driver, drove off the airfield to rally his forces, and launched a counterattack to quell the rebellion. The military officers involved in the coup were all subsequently executed. "That was *us*—the Berbers—who did that," Moha declared with a look of fierce pride. To him, the bullet holes scarring that royal jet stood as a monument to Berber bravery—a stark warning to anyone foolish enough to cross the Berbers.

Moha was a Berber—or, to be more precise, a Berber from the Sahara who practiced the Jewish faith.

Shortly after Moha was born, his young parents excitedly went to the local registry office to officially register their firstborn son. However, they were turned away because the name they had chosen was Jewish. Without hesitation, they immediately swapped it for the most prominent Islamic name they could think of: Muhammad. His nickname, naturally, became Moha. Moha grew up in the Sahara Desert; his family owned a date palm grove—which they entrusted to Black tenant farmers to tend—while they themselves raised sheep and camels. Had fate not intervened, his life would have followed a predictable path: marrying and starting a family at fifteen, then raising children of his own. But when he was fourteen, Moha’s father was killed in a brawl. His grandfather—enraged by the incident—drove his mother, Moha, and his two younger sisters out of the family home. When sympathetic villagers pleaded on their behalf, his grandfather retorted, "Fine, then *you* take them in!"

Moha suddenly became the sole breadwinner for his family, heading to the nearest town to find work. He started out as a porter, then learned the trade of butchery. A kindhearted neighbor eventually taught Moha how to drive using his own vehicle; once he got behind the wheel, Moha felt his spirit take flight. He began his career as a truck driver—a journey that has led him, today, to owning his very own travel agency. Moha reflects that were it not for that family tragedy at age fourteen, his life would have unfolded without a single twist or turn. The vast desert, for all its boundless skies and distant horizons, is ultimately a place of monotony—a life he never desired. The most profound testament to Moha’s triumph over tragedy lies in the fact that, years later, he discovered the identity of his father’s killer yet harbored no desire for revenge. He reasoned that vengeance would only destroy two families. Consequently, he holds a deep aversion toward any political or religious ideology that incites hatred.

Now a man of means, Moha is generous in his support of others. Whenever he spots impoverished people on the street, he rolls down his window, waves them over, and hands them money. He is even more devoted to his fellow villagers back in the Sahara. If he encounters a bright young student, he personally covers their tuition at a private school in the city, even buying them an iPad to aid their studies. He is particularly dedicated to helping young girls; after all, the opportunities available to girls in tribal communities are far more limited, making it all the more essential for them to be brought to the city to broaden their horizons. After his grandfather passed away, Moha paid for his grandmother to undergo surgery in the city, thereby welcoming her back into the fold as a cherished family member once again.

No matter how far he travels, Moha remains, at heart, a son of the great desert. The Sahara is his root—his very own backyard. The people of the Sahara possess extraordinary eyesight, capable of instantly spotting living creatures from vast distances. Whether police officers wielding radar guns are hiding behind trees, walls, or ditches along the highway, Moha spots them from miles away; consequently, he has never once been caught speeding. On three separate occasions, finding the officers absent from their posts, Moha stopped his vehicle, "confiscated" their chairs, and brought them home to give to his fellow villagers. During one of our trips, our itinerary coincided with a Jewish fast day; Moha drove all day long without eating or drinking, leaving us quite concerned. Moha simply smiled and replied in Chinese: "No problem at all! After all, I’m a *luotuo*—a camel!" Having trained as a butcher, Moha can tell at a glance—simply by looking at the meat hanging on the hooks—whether a sheep was raised correctly and slaughtered properly. Walking down a street lined with barbecue stalls, he singled out one particular shop and took us there to eat grilled lamb skewers. I initially declined to eat, but after tasting just one piece, I was stunned: I never imagined lamb could be *this* delicious! Beyond being incredibly fresh and tender, it had absolutely none of that gamey odor often associated with lamb; I immediately bought another skewer. As for the lamb Moha eats himself, he personally selects the animals and entrusts them to villagers to raise, allowing him to simply pick one up whenever he’s ready to eat. During the pandemic—when there were no tourists—Moha went traveling on his own. He would load a sheep into his vehicle and drive out into the Sahara; whenever he got hungry, he’d barbecue the meat himself. If he ran out of gasoline, he’d buy some from the locals—at just one dinar a bucket. The Sahara within Algeria’s borders is even vaster and more beautiful than elsewhere, though it isn't exactly safe for tourists. Moha never received a COVID-19 vaccine, nor did he ever contract the virus. That period was the best time for Moha.

Moha pointed out a large compound enclosed by high walls. Its massive gates remained tightly shut. Occasionally, a luxury SUV would drive in or out—bearing Qatari license plates. One day, an Indian man hitched a ride with Moha. He explained that he was an engineer working at the compound. It turns out that deep within the desert, certain birds—such as desert larks or black wheatear (a local desert bird)—search for and collect glowing pebbles during the night. The compound’s staff release trained falcons to hunt these birds, retrieve the shiny pebbles they’ve gathered, and—after analyzing them—ship them off to the United States. Moha asked  to work in the compound but was fired after just one week. "They thought I was too smart," Moha remarked. "They felt I figured out exactly what they were up to far too quickly."

Despite having lost his father and dropped out of school at a young age, Moha speaks six languages and possesses a remarkably precise knowledge of historical events and dates. He owes this education to his grandfather, who lived to the ripe old age of 117. When asked the secret to his longevity, the grandfather’s answer was simple: always pair your meat with saffron. Moha keeps a supply of saffron in his vehicle as well, occasionally plucking a few strands to steep in water and drink.

Moha’s ancestral home is now inhabited by his cousins. It is a dwelling of the utmost simplicity: merely a few wooden poles propping up a breathable blanket woven from camel hair. If it rains, the camel hair absorbs the moisture and swells—creating a natural, watertight seal—though the damp fabric does give off a distinct odor. There are no doors, no windows, and absolutely no furniture. The shelter is anchored securely on its north and south sides, while the camel-hair walls on the east and west sides are rolled up on the leeward side to provide shelter from the wind. In the Sahara, the wind blows twice a day—always in an east, or west direction.

The nomads neither bathe nor wash their hair, yet they show no visible signs of dirt or greasiness; even their sheep pens remain entirely odorless. My traveling companion, a biologist named Haiou, remarked: "It’s not surprising at all. With such scorching sun, powerful winds, and extreme aridity, bacteria simply cannot thrive." Our hostess served us freshly baked flatbread—soft, fragrant, and so delicious that we simply couldn't stop eating. Moha told us that the bread contained absolutely nothing else—not even yeast—leaving us truly amazed. Surrounding Moha's old home lay abandoned mines left behind by the French, as well as a nearby village inhabited by Black people. Descendants of Sudanese lineage performed a program of music and dance for us. The melodies were sorrowful and the dance steps heavy—echoes of a time when such dances were performed while wearing shackles. Although the shackles are gone now, their footsteps are still heavy. Moha explained that the ancestors of these Black villagers were slaves originally brought from Timbuktu to be sold to America; they were left behind only because the American buyers didn't want them.

The vast Sahara Desert presents a kaleidoscope of atmospheric wonders. The sunlight is intense, and the air currents are dynamic. When the wind blows, everything becomes shrouded in a hazy mist, and the sand dunes take on a golden-yellow hue. When the wind stills, the sky turns a deep indigo, and the dunes glow with a salmon-pink radiance. At night, the moonlight cascades down, creating an atmosphere of gentle tranquility. Camels gather in a circle—some standing, others crouching—while a scattering of stars twinkles in the sky, and a few solitary travelers stroll across the dunes.

Arab-style lanterns illuminate the pathways winding between the rows of white tents. Local youths spot us from a distance and immediately call out a string of Chinese phrases: "Hello! Thank you! Goodbye! Beautiful! Oh my goodness!"

Beautiful yet harsh, rich yet bare, the Sahara Desert has sustained generations of Berber people long before ancient time. The Berber flag features a red human figure traversing three horizontal bands of blue, green, and yellow—symbolizing the Berber people’s freedom across the sea, the fertile lands, and the desert. Nearby flies the Moroccan national flag: a green five-pointed star set against a red background. The star represents the five pillars of Islam (Faith, Prayer, Charity, Fasting, and Pilgrimage), while the red background symbolizes the Moroccan people's vitality and spirit—the very blood of the Berbers. Moha recounted how the Romans once lured the Berbers to the shores of the Mediterranean only to slaughter them—a massacre that stained the sea crimson. He then spoke of his own tribe's resistance against French rule, recalling how they killed two French officers. The current Arab dominion exists only because we—the Berbers—have permitted it. We remember the good deed by  Mohammed V; but for those who fail to govern well... well, the bullet holes in the royal aircraft serve as a stark reminder.  Arabs wear a "zero" atop their heads—a ring to secure their headscarves—and imagine themselves to be knowledgeable. Yet our Berber headscarves were originally burial shrouds—worn in readiness to die in the battlefield. No matter who comes, the Berbers shall forever remain the true masters of this land.