在记忆消失以前

August 30, 2010

三傻大闹宝莱坞 @ 3 Idiots




这是一部印度片,我知道。

这电影曾获孟买电影博览奖最佳影片、最佳导演、最佳配角(波曼·伊拉尼)、最佳剧本等六项大奖,并获国际印度电影协会最佳影片、最佳导演、最佳剧情、最佳摄影等十六项大奖却是我看完了片子才知道。

就如同周星驰在食神里的对白:“你永远估我不到。”就好像这部戏会给你的惊喜,就是很多的出乎意料,你永远估不到,直到你真的看完了这部戏。

你必须看一看这部看似三星级却有五星级的质数的电影所给的诚意;

如果你想看一部估不到的笑片,他会让你笑足全片,偶尔加几滴眼泪。电影一拉开幕帘,就一直有不一样的点子,估不到又或许我们也可效仿的鬼点子跳出来。

如果你是工程师,因为电影史上很少有工程师为背景的题材,而这电影偏偏就围着某所闻名的大学内的工程系学生所面对的问题来着墨。

如果你是在亚洲(大部分国家)的填鸭式教育制度所孕育出来的,没什么思考或创新空间的大学生,你更应该看,因为电影切确的反应了这些制度下的学生与社会的影响和压力。印度的自杀率奇高,每一个学生不敢追求自己想要的,或许伸手可及的梦,因为还有家庭的逼迫,价值的标码。

如果你看惯了印度的贫穷与落后,你也应该看,因为全片的背景都是养眼的,风光明媚的,让我欲罢不能的自然景色(真好奇到底印度隐藏了多少的好地方)。而另一个主要背景也只是大学内,每一个画面都是考量过的清洁与利落。稍微贫穷的画面与凄凉,他且用黑白两色概括,另一种诠释。

如果你以为一定会有歌舞场面,那他不会让你失望。因为他撇开了一贯的躲猫猫舞曲,而加入了有点如蔡明亮电影里的歌舞,是摩登的,有转折性且可唱出故事与心情的方式。


导演的倒叙电影法,再回到现在的排设,然后间中穿插的片段,让整部电影充实盈满,而且前呼后应的桥段也比比皆是,让你总会自己跟着傻笑。虽然偶有夸张的剧情来圆画,不过,对于一般的印度电影,这完全是跳脱了旧有的框框。非常有意思和启示的一部轻松又有深度的电影。每一个年轻人,父母都应该好好思考的启示。

August 26, 2010

沙漠之花的故事 @ The waris Dirie story

这是中文版

来源: Waris Dirie / Cathleen Miller 着 ; 读者文摘 译

她是沙漠之女,像沙漠上雨后绽放的花朵一样坚强又美丽。她熬过炎热、乾旱和 贫穷,也经历过人生中最可怕的考验:残忍的割礼。她就是国际着名时装模特儿华莉丝迪里(Waris Dirie)。本文是她现身说法,细述从索马利亚牧羊女变身为超级名模的不寻常历程,这位勇敢妇女把痛苦的个人秘密公之于世,是希望此举有助于破除一个已经残害无数妇女的习俗。


离家出走

我出身于索马利亚沙漠上的牧民部落,小时候与大自然的景色、声音、气味朝夕相伴,无拘无束,其乐无穷。我们观看狮子晒太阳,与长颈鹿、斑马、狐狸赛跑,在沙地上追捕蹄免,开心极了。后来,快乐的时光越来越少,日子渐渐不好过了。我五岁就知道身为非洲妇女实在很不幸,不但要忍受种种可怕的折磨,而且求助无门,必须逆来顺受。妇女可说是非洲的中坚。她们肩负大部分的工作,做对任何事情都无决定权,也无发言权,有时甚至无权择偶。我长大到十二三岁时,已饱受这些传统所摧残。我已不再是小孩,而且动作敏捷,身壮力健。以前我只能默然忍受,没别的选择,可是这一次决定不听命。

父亲才宣布已替我定亲,我就决定出走了。我知道必须迅速行动,于是告诉母亲此事「我打算去首都摩加迪沙找姨妈,但我从未去过那地方。那天父亲和家里其他人都熟睡之后,母亲来叫醒我,轻声说「现在走吧。」我四下张望,看看有什么东西可带。没有水,没有奶,没有食物,什么都没有。我披上围巾,光着脚奔进了漆黑一片的沙漠。我不知道摩加迪沙是在东南还是西北,只是径直往前跑。一连跑了几小时,中午时我已进了红沙腹地,一望无际。我叉饿又渴又累,就转为步行。前路茫茫,我不知道接下来会发生什么事情。沉思之豫,忽然听到「华莉丝........华莉丝......」父亲的喊声在四风周荡!我毛骨悚然,心?知道,如果被他抓到,一定会逼我出嫁。

父亲循着沙地上留下的脚印追赶我,就要追上来了。我再拔腿奔跑,过了一阵子回过头来,看见父亲刚越过一个沙丘。他也看见了我。我很害怕,跑得更快了。父女两人好像在沙漠上「冲浪」我在前面冲上一个沙丘,他在后面滑下一个沙丘。跑了几小时,我终于再也见不到他,听不到他的叫喊。我继续跑,直至夜幕落下,什么都看不见,只好停下来。我饥肠驴辙,双脚流血,便坐在树下休息,转眼间睡看了。第二天早晨我睁开眼睛,只见骄阳似火。我站起来继续跑,虽然又饿叉渴又怕又痛,却一直跑到天黑才停下来。就这样过了几天。

中午我会坐在树下睡一阵子,有一次午睡时,给一种轻微声音惊醒了我睁开眼,一张狮子脸赫然在目。我望看那张脸,想站起来,却因几天没吃东西,两腿发软,「噗通」一声又倒了下来,只好再靠在树上。横越沙漠的长途旅程看来要中止了,但我无所畏惧,视死如归。狮子瞪着我,我也瞪着它。它舐了舐嘴唇,在我面前轻松优雅地踱起步来。最后,它一定是认为我没什么肉,不值得一吃,竟然转身离去了。我知道,那狮子不吃我,是因为上天另有安排,要让我活下去。「是什么安排呢?」我一面挣扎起身一面问,请指引我。」。

小牧羊女

离家出走之前,我生活的圈子就是我家和大自然。我们一家人和大多数索马利亚人一样,过看游牧生活,以养牛养羊为生。我们不能一天没有骆驼,尤其在远离水源之时,因为雌骆驼的奶能供应营养并解渴。我们每天早晚两餐都喝骆驼奶,赖以生存。我们日出即起,第一件事就是去牲口栏挤奶。我们逐水草而居,到了什么地方都要 砍小树给牲口筑栏,不让牲口在夜晚走失。养牲口主要为了取奶,以及用牲口易物。我很小就要放羊,常常独自手持长棒、唱看小调,把约六七十头绵羊和山羊赶到沙漠去吃草。索马利亚人谁都没有牧地,因此我要负责去找草多的地方。羊吃草的时候,我要注意是否有野兽接近,既要防土狼悄悄走来抓羊,还要担心狮子。
 
我像其他家人一样,并不知道自己实际的年龄,只能猜测。我们的生活受季节和太阳支配,哪里有雨水就到哪襄去,每天都根据日照时间的长短来安排种种活动。我们的家是帐棚式的圆顶小屋,用草条编成,以树枝做骨架,直径大约两米。要迁移时就把小屋拆散,绑在骆驼背上,等找到有水有草的地方再搭起来。小屋是中午躲避烈日的地方,也是鲜奶储存之所。夜里我们几个小孩在屋外紧挨着同睡在一张蓆子上,父亲睡在一旁保护。父亲很英俊,约一米八三尚,身材瘦削,肤色比妈妈的略浅。我母亲很美,皮肤又黑又光滑,整个人彷彿是用黑大理石雕刻而成。她举止从容稳重,但一开口便总是妙语达珠,常说笑话和有趣的小事逗我们笑。母亲出身于摩加迪沙望族,我父亲则自出生就在沙漠中流浪,因此当年他向我姥姥提亲时,姥姥一口拒绝了「绝对不行。」不过,母亲十六岁那年终于离家出走,和我父亲结婚。

我出生后,母亲给我取名华莉丝,意即「沙漠之花」。在我的祖国,有时一连数月不雨,只有很少生物能幸免于死,但等到终于再降甘霖,转眼间便到处出现鲜橘黄色的小花,真是大自然的奇迹。

封锁阴部

在我们的游牧文化中,未婚妇女是没有地位的,因此凡是做母亲的都把嫁女儿视为重责大任。索马利亚人传统的思想认为女子两腿的中间有些坏东西,妇女应该把这些东酉(阴蒂、小阴唇和大部分大阴唇)割去,然后把伤口缝起来,让整个阴部只留下一倒小孔和一道疤。妇女如不这样封锁阴部.,就会给视为肮脏、淫荡,不宜迎娶。

请吉普赛女人行这种割礼要付不少钱,索马利亚人却认为很划算,因为少女不行割礼就上不了婚姻市场。割礼的细节是绝不会给女孩说明的,女孩只知道一旦月经来了就有件恃别的事情将要发生。以前女孩总是进了青春期才举行割礼,如今行割礼的年龄越来越小了。我五岁那年,有一天晚上母亲对我说:「你父亲遇上那吉普赛女人了,她应该这几天就来。」

接受割礼的前夕,我紧张得睡不着,后来突然见到母亲站在我面前,以手势叫我起来。这时天空还是漆黑一片,我抓住小毯子,睡眼惺忪、晃晃悠悠地跟着她走,进了小 树林。

  「我们就在这里等,」母亲说。我们在地上坐下。不久,天渐渐亮了,我听到那吉普赛女人凉鞋的「喀咯」声,转眼间就看见她已来到我身旁。

  「过去坐在那里,」她伸手朝一块平顶石头指了指。

  母亲把我安置在石上,然后她自己到我后面坐下,拉我的头去贴住她的胸口,两腿伸前把我拑住。我双臂抱住母亲双腿,她把一段老树根塞在我两排牙齿中间。

  「咬住这个。」
  我吓得呆住了。「一定会很痛!」
  母亲倾身向前,低声说「孩子,乖。为了妈妈,勇敢些。很快就完事的。」

  我从两腿之间望看那吉普赛女人。那老女人看看我,目光呆滞,脸如铁板。接看,她在一只旧旅行手提包里乱翻,取出一块断刀片,上有血迹。她在刀片上吐了些口水,用身上的衣服擦乾。然后母亲给我绑上蒙眼布,我什么都看不见了。
  接着我感到自己的肉给割去,又听见刀片来回割我皮肉的声音,那种感觉很恐怖,非言语所能形容。我一动不动,心里知道若动得越厉害,折磨的时间就越长。但很不幸,我的双腿渐渐不听使唤,颤抖起来。我心里祷告道「老天爷,求求你,快些完事吧。」果然很快就完事---因为我失去了知觉。

到我醒来,蒙眼布拿掉了,我看见那吉普赛女人身旁放了一堆刺槐刺。她用这些剌在我皮肤上打洞,然后用一根坚韧白线穿过洞把我阴部缝起来。我双腿完全麻木,但感到两腿中间疼痛难当,恨不得死去。我又昏过去了,等到再睁开眼,那女人已经离去。我的双腿给用布条绑住,从足踝一直绑到臀部,不能动弹。我转头望向石头,只见右上有一大滩血,还有一块块从我身上割下来的肉,给太阳晒得就要乾了。

母亲和我姊姊阿曼把我抱到树荫里,又临时为我盖一幢小屋。在树下建小屋是我们的传统,我会独自在小屋裹住几星期,直至伤口愈合。几小时后,我憋不住了,想小便,便叫姊姊帮忙。第一滴尿出来时我痛得要死,彷彿那是硫酸。吉普赛女人已把我阴部缝合,只留下一个小孔供小便和日后排经血]那小孔只有火柴头大小。

我躺在小屋里度日如年,更因伤口感染而发高烧,常常神志模糊。我因双腿给绑看,什么都不能做,只能思索。「为什么?这是为了什么?」我那时年纪小,不知道男女间事,只知道母亲让我任人宰割。其实,我虽挨切肉之痛,还算是幸运的。许多女孩挨割之后就流血不止、休克、感染或得了破伤风,因而丧生。过了两个星期,我的伤口才渐渐愈合。

盲婚哑嫁

刚十三岁那年,一天晚上,父亲柔声叫我「过来。」他因此我不禁疑心起来。回到家就有大事要发生了。父亲继续说「你干活跟男人一样勤快,牲口照看得很好。我要你知道,将来我会很想念你的。」他说这番话,我猜想是因为他担心我会像我姊姊阿曼那样逃婚!阿曼因为不满父亲为她包办婚姻,逃跑了。我搂住他。「哦,爸爸,我不会走的。」他身子往后一退,盯着我说「好,你果然是我的好女儿。我已为你找了个丈夫。」

「不要,」我摇摇头,「我不要结婚。」我这时已长成反叛少女,精力旺盛又天不怕地不怕。父亲明白非洲男人不愿意讨不听话的女人做妻子,所以想在我个性未为外人所知,仍是值钱商品的时候,为我找个丈夫。我感到恶心又害怕。

第二天,我挤羊奶的时候听到父亲叫我「过来,乖女儿这位是---」我没有听到其余的话,因为有个男人分散了我的注意力。他拄着手杖,至少六十 岁,正在慢慢坐下。

「华莉丝,向葛鲁先生问好吧」

「你好」我尽量用最冷淡的声音说。

那老头大剌剌地坐在那襄,咧开嘴巴对我笑。我惊恐地望着他,再看看我父亲。 父 亲一瞧见我的脸便知道上上之策是立即打发我离去,以免我把未来丈夫吓走。「干你的活去吧」,他说。我跑回去挤羊奶。

翌日清晨,父亲对我说「你知这吗,那就是你未来的丈夫。」

「可是爸爸,他太老了!」

「那才好,。他年老就不会去鬼混,不会离开你,会照顾你,而且他答应给我五头骆驼。」

那天我坐在草地上望看羊群,心里知道这可能是我最后一次替父亲放羊了。我想像自己在沙漠上某个偏僻地方和那老头一起生活的情况一切活儿都由我来干,他只是拄看手杖一跛一瘸地走来走去后来他心脏病猝发,我孤独地度过余生,或者独力抚养四,五个娃娃。

我心中有数了,我不要过这样的生活。

那天晚上大家都睡看之后,我走向仍然坐在篝火旁边的母亲,悄悄地说「妈,我要逃。」

「嘘,轻声点,你打算逃到哪里去?」

「摩加迪沙。」我姊姊阿曼在那里。

「睡觉去。」她表情严肃,似乎暗示这件事到此为止。

入睡之后不久,母亲来到我身边,跪在地上轻拍我的手臂,柔声在我耳边? R「现在走吧。乘他还没醒,现在就走吧。

她伸出双臂紧搂着我。我在黯淡光线下想尽量看清楚她的脸,好把她的容貌铭记于心。我原想表现坚强,岂料眼泪滚滚而下,也哽咽得说不出话来,只能把她紧紧抱拄。

「你会成功的,」母亲说,「只要一路上非常小心就行了。保重,.还有,华莉丝 ......求你,一件事。别忘了我。」「我一定不会忘记你的,妈妈。」我放开她,向黑暗中奔过去。

寄人篱下

摩加迪沙濒临印度洋,当年很美。我一边走,一边引颈观看那些有棕榈和五彩缤纷花朵围绕的漂亮白色房子。大部分房子是义大利人建造的当时摩加迪沙是义大利索马利兰的首都,洋溢着地中海城市的气氛。

我离家出走数周后才终于到达那裹。一路上我的表姊妹收留我过夜,把阿曼的消息告诉我,给我钱完成旅程。抵达摩加迪沙之后,我按地址来到我姊姊所住的地区,在菜市场上问人是否认识阿曼。

「我觉得你很面熟,」那个妇女喊道。她叫儿子带我去阿曼家。我们走了几条小街来到一幢小屋,我走进去,看见姊姊在睡觉,便把她叫醒。

「你来这里做什么?」她半睡半醒地问,同时望着我,彷彿我是梦中人。我坐下来,说了我的事,她深表同情。

姊姊已经结婚,丈夫是个工作勤奋的好人,夫妇俩快要有第一个孩子了。她家很小,只有两个房间,但仍勉强同意收留我,说我想待多久都可以。我替姊姊打扫房子,洗衣服,去菜市场买东西。她漂亮的女儿出生之后,我也帮忙照料娃娃。但不久我就看出姊姊的个性显然和我大相迳庭。她爱指挥别人,而且仍然把我当作五年前她离家时的那个小妹妹。

我在摩加迪沙还有别的亲戚,于是我去投靠姨妈莎露,姨妈家里帮忙做家务。我常常担心母亲,怕她会因为没人帮忙干活而过劳。后来,我觉得应该给她寄点钱聊表心意,便出去找工作,在某建筑工地说服了工头雇用我。第二天早晨,我开始做建筑工人。辛苦极了。我整天搬运一袋袋沉重的沙泥,双手都起了大水泡。人人都以为我会辞职,但我撑了一个月,一共储到了六十美元。我请一个熟人把这六十美元带给母亲,但母亲始终连一分钱都没收到。

我回到姨妈家再过打扫房子的生活。一天,索马利亚驻伦敦大使穆罕默德查马法拉来访。他是我另一姨妈马鲁伊的丈夫。当时我在隔壁房间拂拭灰尘,无意中听到法拉姨丈说要去伦敦做四年大使,想在出国之前找到一个女佣。我的机会来了。

我叫姨妈出来,对她说「请你去问问他,可不可以请我做女佣。」

她回到房间里,轻声对妹夫说:「你何不就带她去?她真是个很好的清洁工。」

姨妈叫我进房。我立刻跳了进去,对姨妈说:「帮我跟他多说好话。」

「华莉丝,嘘!」然后她对法拉姨丈说「她年轻力壮,做女佣正适合。」

姨丈一动不动地坐看,用不屑的眼光看着我,过了一会儿才说「好吧。明天下午在这里等我。我带你去伦敦。」伦敦!我不知道伦敦在哪裹,只知道它离摩加迪沙很远,而且我很想去。我无比兴奋。第二天,法拉姨丈来接我,递给我一本护照。我拥抱莎露姨妈,向她挥手告别。

独留伦敦

飞机慢慢把车驶出机场,进入伦敦早晨的车流。我惊觉自己对眼前这个地方完全陌生,周围全是憔悴的白脸,孤独感油然而生,悲从中来。我们驶过一个高尚住宅区,看见积雪使人行道变成了白色。车子在姨丈家门前停住时,我惊讶得愣住了。姨丈的寓所是一幢四层楼的大宅。我们从正门进屋。马鲁伊姨妈在门厅迎接我。「进来吧,」她冷淡地说,「把门关上。」

我本来想冲上前去拥抱她,但是一看见她交叠双手站立的姿势,立刻不敢造次。

「我先带你到处去看看,再告䜣你要做什么工作。」

「哦,」我低声回应。经过长途飞行,我感到浑身乏力。

「姨妈,我很累,想躺下。能不能让我先睡一觉?」

马鲁伊姨妈带我到她的房间。那卧床有四根帷柱,比我们家的小屋还要大。我爬上床去,有生以来从未摸过那么柔软美妙的东西。我一下子就睡着,彷彿掉进了又长又黑的隧道。第二天早晨我在屋里闲逛时,姨妈来找我。「好,你起床了。我们到厨房去,我来告诉你要做什么。」厨房里蓝色的瓷砖和奶白色的碗橱、碟橱闪闪发亮,中间是一台六个炉头的灶。姨妈把一个个抽屉拉开又砰然关上,喊道「这是碗碟、餐具、餐巾。」我不知道她在 说什么。

「你每天早晨六点半钟就要给你姨丈端上早餐草药茶和两个水煮荷包蛋。我七点钟在房间里喝咖啡。然后你要给孩子做薄煎饼他们八点吃。早餐后---」

「姨妈,我不会做这些东西,谁来教我?什么叫薄煎饼?」

她用吃惊的眼神盯看我,慢慢呼了一口气,对我说「我先给你示范一次。你要仔细看,仔细听,用心学。」我点点头。一星期后我熟习了,其后四年天天如法炮制。早餐后我清理厨房,收拾姨妈的房间和浴室。然后给每一个房间尘、刷洗地板再擦亮,从一楼到四缕全部打扫乾净。我不停干活,每天都到半夜才睡觉,而且从未休过一天假。

一九八三年夏天,法拉姨丈的妹妹去世,她的幼小女儿索菲搬来和我们同住。姨丈送索菲进「英格兰万灵堂小学」读书,我早上的任务自此包括了送索菲上学。那时我大约十六岁。一天早晨我们去学校的时候,我看见有个陌生男子目不转睛地看着我。他是白人,四十岁左右,梳着马尾发型,他女儿也是在这学校读书的。我送索菲进校门之后,那男子朝我走过来,说了一些话,我不懂英语,不知道他说什么,更因心里害怕,匆匆跑回家去了。

此后,每次在学校看见他,他只是礼貌地笑一笑,便继续忙他自己的事。有一天,他走过来递给我一张名片。我把名片塞进口袋,他转身离去了。回到家,我把名片拿给马鲁伊姨妈的一个女儿看。「上面说什么?」

「说他是摄影师。」

我把名片藏在自己房间裹,彷彿听见有个微弱声音叫我把名片留着。

姨丈任期即将结束,他决定到时全家人都回国去。我不想回索马利亚,希望名成利就才回家。我的愿望是赚到足够的钱给母亲买一幢房子,而且认为留在英国就可以实现这个愿望。我不知道如何达成心愿,但我有信心。

姨丈说了动身日期,要大家检查一下护照。我做了手脚把护照放在塑胶袋内封好,埋在花园里,然后撒谎说护照丢了。我的计划很简单既然没有护照,当然就不能回去。姨丈察觉其中有诈,但我说:「就让我留下吧,不会有问题的。」

他们果然让我留下来。我站在人行道上向众人挥手告别,目送汽车驶出了视野。前路茫茫,我心里很害怕,但知道必须克服。我捡起我的小行李袋挂在肩上,去花园挖出护照,微笑看沿街前行。

娇艳动人

当天我走进一家商店,看见有个身材高挑的非洲裔美女在挑选毛线衣。她非常友善,我和她用索马利亚语交谈起来,知道她名叫贺胡。「你住在哪襄,华莉丝?做什么工作?」

「哦,也许你不会相信,我现在没地方住,因为我家里的人今天回索马利亚去了。

我姨丈本来是大使,但任期满了。如今我不知道去哪里是好。」

她挥手止住我,彷彿那样挥一挥手就能把我所有的烦恼扫走。「我在基督教青年会有个房间。你可以来过夜。」

贺胡和我成了密友,几天后,我在街对面的基督教女青年会租了个房间,着手找工作。

「你何不就去那里? 」贺胡指着麦当劳快餐店说。

「不行。我不会说英语,也看不懂,而且没有工作许可证。」

但她有门路。于是我开始在麦当劳快餐店的厨房里工作,负责洗碗,抹柜台,刷洗烤架,拖地板,晚上下班回家时总是浑身油腻味。但是我没抱怨,因为至少可以养活自已了。

我上免费语言学校去学英语。这是多年来我第一次并非从早到晚只是工作。

有时贺胡带我去夜总会,那里的人似乎都认识她。我撇开非洲女人的传统观念,主动跟陌生人聊天。我明白自己必须学会各种在这个新世界求生存的技巧。

一天下午,我取出夹在护照襄的摄影师名片,走到贺胡的房间,向她解释了卡片的来历,然后说「我真不知道他用意何在。」

「嗯,你何不打电话问问他?」

「你和他谈吧。我的英语还不灵光。」

贺胡和他谈了。第二天,我去参观迈克戈斯的摄影室。我不知道自已指望什么,但是一推开摄影室的门,当下就跌进了另一个世界。大厅里到处挂着大幅的美女海报。

「啊!」我喊了一声,感到眼花撩乱。我只知道「不枉此行,机会来了。」迈克出来了,对我解释说,他第一眼看见我就想给我拍照。我愣望着他,嘴巴张得老大。

「是真的吗?拍这样的照片?」我举起手朝海报挥了挥。

「是真的,」他说,同时点头强调,「你的侧面美极了。」

两天后,我再来到摄影室。女化妆师让我坐下,用棉花、小刷子、海绵、乳霜、胭脂、口红、香粉等替我化妆,又用手指戳我,拉扯我的皮肤。

「好了,」化妆师后退一步,满意地看看我,「照镜子看看。」

我望看镜子。我的脸变了,变得细腻柔滑,光彩照人,漂亮极了。「哇!真美!」化妆师带我到摄影间去。迈克让我坐在凳子上。我周围全是以前从未见过的东西照相机、灯、电池、像蛇一样挂看的电线。

一开始了,华莉丝,迈克说,「把嘴唇闭拢,望向前面,下巴梢微抬高。就这样 ---漂亮!」我听到「喀嚓」一声,接着是响亮的一声「砰」,吓了我一跳。闪光灯一闪即逝,但很奇怪,那闪光竟让我觉得我已经脱胎换骨,从此变成另一个人了。

迈克从照相机里拿出一张纸,打手势叫我走过去。他掀掉纸的面层。我看看那纸,只见一张女人脸渐渐显现。他把那张拍立得照片递给我,我一看,照片上是个娇艳动人的美女,髦不逊色于大厅裹海报上的那些女郎。我巳今非昔比,再也不是女佣华莉丝,而是模特儿华莉丝了。

打开封锁

不久,有位见过那照片的模特儿公司职员介绍我去拍照。我不明白她说什么,但既然她给了我钱坐计程车,我就去了那地方。那里挤满了职业模特儿,每个都像绕看猎物打圈的雌狮般神气活现。我向其中一个打招呼。

「是什么工作?」

「倍耐力年历。」

「唔---」我点点头,「谢谢。」但那到底是什么呀?

摄影师泰伦斯唐纳芬给我端来一杯茶,让我看他的作品。桌上有一本年历,每页上都有一个不同的迷人美女。「这是去年的倍耐力年历,」泰伦斯告诉我,「今年的会有所不同---全是非洲美女。」他给我解释了拍照的程序。我直到这时才总算感到轻松自在,而旦从此成了真正的职业模特儿。工作完毕,我的照片获挑选做封面。

我的模特儿事业一帆风顺,渐渐出名。我起先在巴黎和米兰工作,后来转去纽约,迅即红起来,赚钱比以往任何时候都多。我穿着白色的非洲长袍为某珠宝公司拍了一系列广告,为露华浓公司拍了几辑化妆品广告,后来又为该公司新香水艾姬的代言人。

那广告说「来自非洲心脏的芳香,每个女人都为之倾倒。」我和辛蒂克劳馥、克劳迪姬希弗、罗兰赫顿一起出现在露华浓公司的广告上。我越来越红,不久就常常在各大国际时装杂誌上亮相。

新生活给我带来兴奋和名利,昔日的创伤却依然使我苦恼。割礼之后我的阴部只有 一偭小孔,小便时尿液只能一滴滴流出,每次小便都要花上十分钟。来月经时更苦不堪言;每个月总有几天无法工作,只能躺在床上,痛苦得但愿就此死去,一了百了。

我以前在法拉姨丈家时,更曾因月经问题几乎送命。一天清晨,我端着托盘从厨房去饭厅,在半路突然失去知觉,倒在地上。我甦醒后,马鲁伊姨妈说「我要带你去看医生,今天下午就去。」我没告诉医生我之前行过割礼,他也没有给我检查,所以不知道我的秘密。「我给你处方避孕药,应该可以止痛,」他说。吃避孕药之后,我体内随即产生激烈变化,既古怪又异乎寻常样,我于是停止服药。一切恢复原样,只是痛得比以往更厉害。后来我又看了另外几位医生,也只是给我处方避孕药。我知道要另想别法,便对姨妈说「也许该去看专科医生。」

她严厉地看看我,斩钉截铁地说「不行。顺便问一下,你对那些男人说过些什么?」
「什么都没说。只说我要止痛,就这样。」我心里明白她言外之意「割礼是我们非洲人的习俗,不应该跟那些白人谈论。」

但我如今渐渐明白必须去找白人医生讨论一下,要不然我每月总有三分之一时间要活受罪。我去看迈克尔麦雷医生,对他说「有件事我一直没有告诉你。我是索马利亚人,我......我.....」

他没有让我把话说完。「去换衣服。我要给你检查。」他看见我面露惧色,便加一句「放心,不会有事的。」

他把护士叫进来带我上我去换衣服,又问护士,医院里可有人会说索马利亚语。护士回来时旁边有个索马利亚男子。我心想「噢,真倒楣,讨论这种事竟然找来一个索马利亚男子做翻译,还有比这更槽糕的吗?」

麦雷医生说「对她说,她封闭得太过分了,我不明白她怎能熬这么久。她要尽快动手术。」

我看得出那索马利亚男子很不高兴。他朝医生瞪了一眼,对我说「嗯,如果你真的想把封锁打开,他们可以给你开刀。但你可知道这样做是有违文化传统的吗?家人知道你要这样做吗?」
「不知道。」

「我认为你应该先跟他们商量一下。」
我点点头。他说这番话,是非洲男子的典型反应。

一年后我决定动手术。麦雷医生的手术很成功,我会永远感激他。他告诉我
「不只你一个人有这种间题。常有妇女因为这种问题来求诊,大部分来自苏丹、埃及、索马利亚。其中有些是孕妇,因为担心不能生产,未经丈夫同意就来找我。我总是尽力而为。」
不到三个星期我就能坐在马桶上了。呼,.那种痛快非笔墨所能形容。

母女团聚

一九九五年,英国广播公司建议为我的超级模特儿生涯拍一套纪录片。我对导演捷里波默罗说,如果他愿意带我回索马利亚并且帮我找到我母亲,我就答应。他同意了。

英国广播公司在非洲的工作人员随即开始努力寻找。我们查阅地图,我尽可能指出家人常去的地方,又列出我家所属部落及氏族的名称。突然间沙漠里冒出许多妇女自称是我母亲,但都是假的。后来捷里想出一个主意。

「我们需要一个只有你母亲和你知道的秘密。」

「唔,我母亲以前叫我时,总是叫我的乳名---艾多荷。」

「她会记得吗?」

「一定记得。」

从那时起,艾多荷就成了秘密口令。英国广播公司的人与前来认亲的妇女面谈时,那些妇女通常都能回答头两三个问题,但一问到乳名就无言以对。后来有一天,英国广播公司的人打电话对我说:「看样子已经找到了,这个妇女不记得乳名,但她有个女儿名叫华莉丝,曾在伦敦为大使工作。」

几天后我们飞抵衣索比亚首都阿迪斯亚贝巴,再包租双引擎小飞机前往衣索比--- 索马利亚边界上的小村加拉迪。那时候索马利亚发生内战,边境上聚集了许多难民。我闻到热空气和沙的气味,记起了我的童年,每一件大事小事都在脑海浮现。我奔跑,轻摸土地,捏弄沙泥,抚摸树木。树木满布沙尘,而且很乾,但我知道雨季就要来临,到时会遍地开花。后来查明那妇女不是我母亲。我们在村里挨家逐户去问是否有人知道我家人的下落,有个老人走到我面前说「还记得我吗?」

「不记得了。」

「我叫伊斯梅,和你父亲是同部落的兄弟,而且是好朋友。」

我终于想起他是谁了,并为了刚才认不出他而深感惭愧。其实也不能怪我,因为我只小时候见过他。「我大概知道你的家人在哪里,应该能找到你母亲,但我需要钱买汽油。」

我们给了他一点钱,他跳上卡车,随即开走,扬起大团沙尘。三天过去了,依然不见母亲的踪影。捷里焦躁起来,我对他说「我向你保证,我母亲明晚六点钟以前会来到这里。」我不知道为何有此信念,但我就是那么想。

第二天傍晚五时五十分左右,捷里向我慢跑过来。「真是想不到!那人回来了,还带了个妇女,说是你母亲。」前方就是伊斯梅的车,一个妇女正从座位上爬下来。我看不到她的脸,但从她披围巾的方式上且即认出是我母亲,拔腿就奔过去。

「妈妈!」

起先我们只是谈日常琐事,但母女团聚的喜悦很快就使我们之间的隔膜冰消瓦解。

母亲告诉我,卡车到时父亲刚巧外出找水源去了。她又说,父亲老了,视力很差,亟需配副眼镜。
随母亲来的还有我小弟弟阿里,以及一个堂弟。

那天晚上,母亲睡在加拉迪村一户人家的小屋里,我和阿里睡在屋外,就像从前一样。我躺在那里,有一种安详幸福的感觉。

第二天和母亲聊天时,母亲问「你为什么不结婚?」

「妈妈,我一定要结婚吗?难道你不想看到我坚强独立、出人头地吗?」

「但是,我想有外孙、外孙女。」

飞机来接我们离去了,我问母亲想不想和我一起到英国或美国生活。

「但我有什么可做呢?」

「问得好。我什么都不要你做。你做得够多了。该享点福了。」

「不。你父亲老了,需要我。再说,我也闲不住。如果你想为我做点什么,就在索马利亚给我盖幢房子吧,我累了可以去那里休息。这里是我的家。我离不开这里。」

我紧紧拥抱她。「我爱你,妈妈。我会再回来看你的,可别忘了。」

我的使命

回到美国,我的事业继绩欣欣向荣,常在广告和音乐录象带上露面,也常和时装界大名鼎鼎的摄影师合作,生活愉快美好。我对母亲说过还没找到合适的对象,但一九九五年秋天一个晚上,我终于在纽约某家小爵士乐俱乐部里找到了。他名叫达纳墨雷,是个内向而带有一九七O年代非洲乡土味的鼓手,我对他一见锺情。

第二天我们一起吃晚饭,我笑看对他说,将来有一天会给他生个孩子。这是我有生以来第一次想有个丈夫。不久我们相爱了,愿意共同生活,白头偕老。一九九七年六月十三日,我们的儿子出生,实现了我那奇妙的预言,儿子很漂亮,头发乌黑柔软,脚和手指很长。我给他取名阿里基。
从阿里基出生那天起,我的生活就改变了。他给我带来愉悦,如今已成为我的至宝。生命---以及生命所赐予我的---比什么都更重要,这一点是我生儿子之后才明白的。

从五岁接受割礼到三十岁生孩子,我在这段岁月里所经历的一切,使我对母亲更加尊敬了。我已经明白索马利亚妇女的能耐是多么惊人。我想到家乡灌丛里的女孩,尽管月经来的时候痛得几乎无法站起来,却仍然要把山 羊赶到几公里外的地方去饮水想到妇女怀孕九个月仍然要去沙漠为孩子寻找食物 想到做妻子的刚分娩就得用针线把阴部缝起来,好让丈夫日后仍可享用到紧窄的阴道想到阴部缝紧的新娘的初夜,以及后来生第一个婴儿时的情景。

孕妇独自进沙漠去生产,其间会不会出什么事?

如今我阅历增加,已终于明白由于一种残酷的仪式,非洲大陆许多妇女终生要活在痛苦之中。 那些没有发言权的小女孩太可怜了,必须有人挺身代为打抱不平。既然我像她们之中许多人一样出身于游牧部落,我觉得自己注定要去帮助她们。

不久前,时装杂誌「玛利嘉儿」(Marie Claire)的撰稿人劳拉齐夫来访问我,一见面我就喜欢上她,跟她说「我不知道你准备怎么写我,只知道那种以时装模特儿生涯为主题的文章已刊登过无数次了。如果你答应一定发表,我给你讲一个真实的故事。」她说「那太好了,我会尽力而为。」她开了录音机,我给她讲述我小时倏行割礼的经过,请到一半她就哭了起来,关掉录音机。

「太可怕了,」她说,「我做梦都没想到今天,世界上还有这种事。」

「问题就在这里,」我说,「西方世界的人不知道。」

接受采访后翌日,我感到很不自在,坐立不安。不久就人人都会知道我那个最私人的秘密。我小时候曾行割礼的事,连我最亲密的朋友都不知道,如今却就要公之于世了。

再三考虑之后,我明白有必要告诉世人我曾受割礼。首先,它害得我饱受折磨。割礼不但使我健康出了问题且至今未愈,也令我终生体会不到性爱的乐趣。我感到自己残缺不全,而且知道自己无力扭转这种感觉。

第二个理由是我希望让大家知道这种习俗至今仍存。我不但要为自己讨公道,也要为数以百万计曾遭此苦甚至因之去世的女孩仗义执言。专访发表之后,反响强烈,杂誌编辑部收到无数来信。我接受更多的访问,并且去 学校、社区组织和一切能去的地方演讲,一有机会就谈论这个议题。

一九九七年,联合国人口基金邀请我参与他们的反女性割礼运动。世界卫生组织蒐集了一些骇人听闻的数据,助人了解此问题。我看了那些数字以后,心里更明白这不仅是我个人的问题。割礼主要流行于非洲---二十八个国家有此习俗。美国和欧洲的非洲裔移民当中,据报也有女孩和妇女曾行割礼。全世界有一亿三千万女孩和妇女遭此厄运每年至少有二百万女孩可能成为下一批受害者,即每天六千人。

手术通常由村妇用刀、、剪刀、甚或锐利的石片在原始的环境中施行,不用麻醉剂。手术致残程度最轻的是割去阴蒂,最重的是封锁阴部(百分之八十的索马利妇女曾如此受害),以致终生无法享受性爱的乐趣。一想到有许多小女孩将要经历我曾经历的酷刑,我心都碎了,也义愤填膺。我很荣幸获联合国人口基金邀请担任特使,参与该基金的运动。我要回非洲去讲述自己的遭遇,声讨这种罪行。

朋友担心我会被激进分子杀害,因为许多伊斯兰原教旨主义者认为割礼是可兰经所要求的神圣习俗。其实,可兰经从头到尾都没提到女性要行割礼。我只祈求有朝一日再也没有妇女要受这种罪,但愿割礼成为历史。这就是我奋斗的目标。从上天当年保祐我狮口余生那一刻起,我就感到上天对我另有安排,要让我活下来做某件事。我的信念告诉我,上天有工作要我去做,有使命给我。我清楚我的任务危险。我承认我害怕,但决定碰碰运气。我的个性一向如此。

本文摘自读者文摘中文版

The Waris Dirie Story @ 沙漠之花的故事

昨天看了由导演(Sherry Horman )所拍的沙漠之花 ( Desert Flower ) 。

这电影是根据一个出生在索马里的黑人模特,华莉丝·迪里(Waris Dirie ) 的自传而完成。是关于一个国际名模所经历的"残忍割礼"的真实故事。

记得我中六的时候就看过了刊登在读者文摘上的这篇故事,感受深刻。这部电影的拍摄手法更加起了那画龙点睛之效。不过,看这部电影前,最好先看看他的故事,她人生所经历的,我们无法想象的那些可怕的过去。

这是英文版本:

My family was a tribe of herdsmen in the Somalian desert. And as a child, the freedom I had to experience nature’s sights, sounds and smells was pure joy. We watched lions baking in the sun. We ran with giraffes, zebras and foxes. We chased hyraxes—rabbit-size animals—through the sand. I was so happy.

Gradually, those happy times disappeared. Life became harder. By five I knew what it was to be an African woman, to live with terrible suffering in a passive, helpless manner.

Women are the backbone of Africa; they do most of the work. Yet women are powerless to make decisions. They have no say, sometimes not even in whom they will marry.

By the time I was around 13, I had had my fill of these traditions. A little girl no more, I was fast and incredibly fit. Before, I had no choice but to suffer. This time I determined that I would run away.

My nightmare journey began when my father announced he had arranged my marriage. I had to act fast, I told my mother I wanted to run. My plan was to find an aunt who lived in Mogadishu, the capital, a place I had never been.

While my father and the rest of the family were sleeping, my mother woke me and said, "Go now."

I looked around, but there was nothing to take—no water, milk or food. So, barefoot and wearing only a scarf draped around me, I ran off into the black desert night.

I didn’t know which direction led to Mogadishu; I just ran. Slowly at first, because I couldn’t see. But as the sky lighted, I was off like a gazelle. I ran for hours.

By midday I’d traveled deep into the red sand. The landscape stretched on to eternity. Hungry, thirsty and tired, I slowed and walked.

As I pondered what was going to happen next, I heard, "Waris … Waris…" My father’s voice echoed all around me! I was frightened. If he caught me, I knew that he would make me, marry.

Even though I had gotten a head start, Papa had tracked me down by following my footprints through the sand. He was close.

I started to run. I looked back and saw him coming over the hill. He spotted me too. Terrified, I ran faster. It was as if we were surfing waves of sand; I flew up one hill, and he glided down the one behind me. On and on we continued for hours, until I realized I hadn’t seen him for some time. He no longer called to me.

I kept running until the sun set, and the night was so black I couldn't see. By this time I was starving and my feet were bleeding. I sat down to rest, and fell asleep under a tree.

In the morning, I opened my eyes to the burning sun. I got up and continued to run. And so it went for days—days marked by hunger, thirst, fear and pain. When it grew too dark to see, I would stop. At midday I’d sit under a tree and take a siesta.

It was during one of these naps that a slight sound woke me. I opened my eyes and was staring into the face of a lion. I tried to stand, but I hadn't eaten in days, so my weak legs wobbled and folded beneath me. I slumped back against the tree that had sheltered me from the merciless African sun. My long journey across the desert had come to an end. I was unafraid, ready to die.

"Come and get me," I said to the lion. "I’m ready."

The big cat stared at me, and my eyes locked on his. He licked his lips and paced back and forth in front of me, elegantly, sensuously. He could crush me in an instant.

Finally he turned and walked away, no doubt deciding that I had so little flesh, I wasn't worth eating.

When I realized the lion was not going to kill me, I knew that God had something else planned, some reason to keep me alive. "What is it?" I asked as I struggled to my feet. "Direct me."

Child of the Desert

Before I ran away from home, my life had been built around nature and family. Like most Somalis, we lived the pastoral life, raising cattle, sheep and goats. On a daily level, our camels kept us alive, since the females gave milk to nourish us and quench our thirst, an enormous asset when we were far from water. For everyday sustenance, we had camel's milk for breakfast, and again for supper.

In the morning we got up with the sun. Our first chore was to head out to the pens and milk the herds. Wherever we went, we cut saplings to make pens for the animals, to keep them from straying at night.

We raised animals primarily for their milk and to trade for goods. While still a little girl, I was responsible for taking herds of about 60 to 70 sheep and goats into the desert to graze. I got my long stick and headed off alone with my herd, singing my little song to guide them.

No one owns the grazing land in Somalia, so it was up to me to discover areas with lots of plants. While the animals grazed, I watched for predators. The hyenas would sneak up and snatch a lamb or kid that had wandered off. There were also lions to worry about. They hunted in prides, but there was only one of me.

Like the rest of my family, I have no idea how old I am; I can only guess. We lived by the seasons and the sun, planning our moves around our need for rain, planning our day around the span of daylight available.

Our home was a tentlike domed hut woven from grass and built on a framework of sticks; it was about six feet in diameter. When it came time to move, we dismantled the hut and tied it to the backs of our camels. Then when we found a spot with water and foliage, we'd setup again.

The hut provided shelter from the midday sun and storage space for fresh milk. At night we children slept outside under the stars, cuddled together on a mat. My father slept off to one side, our guardian.

Papa was very handsome, about six feet tall, slim and lighter-skinned than Mama. My mother was beautiful. Her face was like a Modigliani sculpture and her skin dark and smooth, as if perfectly chiseled from black marble.

Her demeanor was very calm, very quiet. But when she started talking, she was hysterically funny, telling jokes and saying silly little things to make us laugh.

She grew up in Mogadishu, where her family had money and power. My father, on the other band, had always roamed the desert. When he asked permission to marry my mother, my grandmother said, 'Absolutely not." However, when Mama was about 16, she ran away and married Papa anyhow.

My mother affectionately called me Avdohol, her word for "small mouth." But she named me Waris, the word we used for the desert flower. In my country sometimes it doesn't rain for months. Few living things can survive. But finally the water pours down and the brilliant yellow-orange blooms of the desert flower appear, a miracle of nature.

Becoming a Woman
In a nomadic culture like the one I was raised in, there is no place for an unmarried woman, so mothers feel it is their duty to ensure their daughters have the best possible opportunity to get a husband.

And since the prevailing wisdom in Somalia is that there are bad things between a girl's legs, a woman is considered dirty, oversexed and unmarriageable unless those parts--the clitoris, the labia minora, and most of the labia majora-are removed. Then the wound is stitched shut, leaving only a small opening and a scar where the genitals had been-a practice called infibulation.

Paying the gypsy woman for this circumcision is one of the greatest expenses a household will undergo, but is considered a good investment. Without it the daughters will not make it onto the marriage market.

The actual details of the ritual cutting are never explained to the girls-it's a mystery. You just know that something special is going to happen when your time comes. As a result, all young girls in Somalia anxiously await the ceremony that will mark their becoming a woman. Originally the process occurred when the girls reached puberty, but through time it has been performed on younger and younger girls.

One evening when I was about five, my mother said to me, "Your father ran into the gypsy woman. She should be here any day now."

The night before my circumcision, the family made a special fuss over me and I got extra food at dinner. Mama told me not to drink too much water or milk. I lay awake with excitement, until suddenly she was standing over me, motioning. The sky was still dark. I grabbed my little blanket and sleepily stumbled along after her.

We walked out into the brush. "We'll wait here," Mama said, and we sat on the cold ground. The day was growing lighter; soon I heard the click-click of the gypsy woman's sandals. Then, without my seeing her approach, she was right beside me.

"Sit over there." She motioned toward a flat rock. There was no conversation. She was strictly business.

Mama positioned me on the rock. She sat behind me and pulled my head against her chest, her legs straddling my body. I circled my arms around her thighs. She placed a piece of root from an old tree between my teeth. "Bite on this."

Mama leaned over and whispered, "Try to be a good girl, baby. Be brave for Mama, and it'll go fast."

I peered between my legs and saw the gypsy. The old woman looked at me sternly, a dead look in her eyes, then foraged through an old carpet-bag. She reached inside with her long fingers and fished out a broken razor blade. I saw dried blood on the jagged edge. She spit on it and wiped it on her dress. While she was scrubbing, my world went dark as Mama tied a blindfold over my eyes.

The next thing I felt was my flesh being cut away. I heard the blade sawing back and forth through my skin. The feeling was indescribable. I didn't move, telling myself the more I did, the longer the torture would take. Unfortunately, my legs began to quiver and shake uncontrollably of their own accord, and I prayed, Please, God, let it be over quickly. Soon it was, because I passed out.

When I woke up, my blindfold was off and I saw the gypsy woman had piled a stack of thorns from an acacia tree next to her. She used these to puncture holes in my skin, then poked a strong white thread through the holes to sew me up. My legs were completely numb, but the pain between them was so intense that I wished I would die.

My memory ends at that instant, until I opened my eyes and the woman was gone. My legs had been tied together with strips of cloth binding me from my ankles to my hips so I couldn't move. I turned my head toward the rock; it was drenched with blood as if an animal had been slaughtered there. Pieces of my flesh lay on top, drying in the sun.

Waves of heat beat down on my face, until my mother and older sister, Aman, dragged me into the shade of a bush while they finished making a shelter for me. This was the tradition; a little hut was prepared under a tree, where I would rest and recuperate alone for the next few weeks.

After hours of waiting, I was dying to relieve myself. I called my sister, who rolled me over on my side and scooped out a little hole in the sand. "Go ahead," she said.

The first drop stung as if my skin were being eaten by acid. After the gypsy sewed me up, the only opening left for urine-and later for menstrual blood-was a minuscule hole the diameter of a matchstick.

As the days dragged on and I lay in my hut, I became infected and ran a high fever. I faded in and out of consciousness. Mama brought me food and water for the next two weeks.

Lying there alone with my legs still tied, I could do nothing but wonder, why? What was it all for? At that age I didn't understand anything about sex. All I knew was that I had been butchered with my mother's permission.

I suffered as a result of my circumcision, but I was lucky. Many girls die from bleeding to death, shock, infection or tetanus. Considering the conditions in which the procedure is performed, it's surprising that any of us survive.

The Marriage
I was around 13 when came home one evening and called, "Come here," in a soft voice. Normally he was very stern, so I began to feel suspicious.

He sat me on his knee. "You know," he began, "you've been really good." Now I knew something serious was up. "You've been working hard as any man, taking good care of the animals. And I want you to know I'm going to miss you very much."

When he said this, I thought he was afraid I was going to run away like my sister, Aman, had when he had tried to arrange her marriage.

I hugged him. "Oh, Papa, I'm not going anywhere."

He pulled back, stared at my face and said, "Yes, you are, my darling. I found you a husband."

"No, Papa, no!" I shook my head. "I'm not going to marry."

I had grown into a rebel, sassy and fearless. Papa had to find me a husband while I was still a valuable commodity, because no African man wanted to be challenged by his wife. I felt sick and scared.

The next day I was milking my goats when my father called, "Come here, my darling. This is Mr.-"

I didn't hear another word. My eyes fastened onto a man sitting down, holding on to a cane. He was at least 60 years old, with a long white beard.

"Waris, say hello to Mr. Galool." (name has been changed to protect privacy)

"Hello," I said in the iciest voice I could muster.

The old fool just sat there grinning at me. I stared at him in horror. I looked at my father, and when he saw my face, he realized his best tactic was to shoo me away so I didn’t scare off my prospective husband. "Go finish your chores," he said.

I ran back to my goats.

Early the next morning my father called me. "You know that was your future husband."

"But Papa, he's so old!"

"That's the best kind. He's too old to run around. He's not going to leave you. He'll look after you. And besides," Papa grinned proudly- "he's giving me five camels."

As I sat watching the goats that day, I knew it would be the last time I looked after my father's herd. I pictured my life with the old man in some isolated desert place. Me doing all the work, while he limped around with his cane. Me living alone after he had a heart attack, or raising four or five babies by myself after he died.

I made up my mind--this was not the life for me.

That evening after everyone went to sleep, I went to my mother, who was still sitting and whispered, "I’m going to run away."

"Shhh, quiet! Where are you going to go?"

"Mogadishu." My sister, Aman, was there.

"Go to bed." Her stern look seemed to say the subject was closed.

While I was sleeping, Mama knelt on the ground beside me and lightly tapped my arm. "Go—go before he wakes up," she said softly into my ear. My escape across the desert was about to begin.

I felt her arms tighten around me. In the gloomy 1ight I struggled to see her face, trying to memorize its features. I had planned to be strong, but instead choked on my tears and hugged her hard.

"You're going to be all right," she said. "Just be very careful. Careful! And Waris..., please, one thing. Don't forget me."

"I won’t, Mama." I spun away from her and ran into the darkness.

Mogadishu

A port city on the Indian Ocean, Mogadishu was beautiful then. Walking along, I craned my neck to look at the stunning white buildings surrounded by palm trees and brightly colored flowers. Much of the architecture was built by the Italians when the city was the capital of Italian Somaliland, giving the city a Mediterranean feel.

I arrived there several weeks after fleeing home. Along the way cousins sheltered me, told me news of Aman, and gave me money to complete the journey. Once in the city, I got directions to my sister's neighborhood and asked some women at a market if they knew Aman.

'I thought you looked familiar!" one cried. Then she told her son to take me to Aman's house. We walked1 along the quiet streets until we came to a tiny shack, I went inside, found my sister asleep and woke her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked groggily, looking at me as if I were a dream. I sat down and told her my story. At last I had someone to talk to who

would understand. She had found a husband, a good man who worked hard.

They were expecting their first child.

Hers was a cramped two-room place, but she grudgingly agreed I could stay as long as I needed. I cleaned the house, scrubbed the clothes and did the shopping in the market. And after Aman gave birth to a beautiful little girl, I helped take care of the baby.

However, it became clear that my sister and I were not alike. She was bossy and treated me like the same little sister she'd left behind five or so years before.

We had other relatives I’d met in Mogadishu, so I went and knocked on the door of Aunt Sahru, my mother sister, and asked if I could stay with her family for a while.

"You have a friend here," she said. "If you want to stay with us, you can."

Things were off to a better start than I'd imagined. Once again, I began helping around the house.

I had been worried about leaving Mama without anyone to help her with her work, and one day I decided that a partial remedy was to send her money.

So I set out to find a job. I stopped at a construction site and convinced the man in charge that I could carry sand and mix as well as the men.

The next morning my career as a construction worker began. It was horrible. I carried backbreaking loads of sand all day and developed enormous blisters on my hands. Everyone thought I would quit, but I stuck it out for a month. By then I had saved $60, which I sent to Mama through an acquaintance, but she never saw a penny of it.

I had started cleaning house for my aunt again when one day Mohammed Chama Farah, the Somalian ambassador in London, arrived. He was married to yet another aunt, my mother's sister Maruim.*

As I dusted my way around the next room, I overheard him say he needed to find a servant before beginning his four-year diplomatic appointment in London. This was my opportunity.

I called Aunt Saliru aside. "Please ask him if I can be his maid."

She walked back into the other room, sat beside her brother-in-law and said quietly, "Why don't you take her? She really is a good cleaner."

Auntie called me, and I leapt through the door. I stood with my feather duster in hand, smacking gum. The ambassador frowned.

I turned to Auntie. "Tell him I'm the best."

"Waris, shhh!" To my uncle she said, "She’s young. She’ll be okay.

Uncle Mohammed sat still for a moment, looking at me with disgust. "Okay. Be here tomorrow afternoon. We’ll go to London."

London! I didn’t know where it was, but I knew it was very far away, and far away was where I wanted to be. I was on fire with excitement.

The next day Uncle Mohammed picked me up and gave me my passport. I looked at it in wonder, the first paper with my name on it. I hugged Auntie Sahru and waved farewell.

Maid in London
As the driver eased the car out of the airport and into the London morning traffic, I was overcome by such a sad, lonely feeling, in this completely foreign place, with nothing but white, sickly faces around me.

Snow was turning the sidewalks white as we glided through a posh residential section. When we stopped in front of my uncle’s home, I stared in astonishment. The ambassador's residence was a four-story mansion.

We walked to the front door and entered. Auntie Maruim greeted me in the foyer.

"Come in," she said coolly. "Close the door."

I had planned to rush to her and hug her, but something about the way she stood there in her stylish Western clothes, her hands pressed together, made me freeze in the doorway. "First I'd like to show you around and explain your duties."

"Oh," I said quietly, feeling the last spark of energy leave my body after the long night. "Auntie, I'm very tired. I want to lie down. Can I please go to sleep?"

Aunt Maruim took me into her room. The four-poster was the size of my family's entire hut. I climbed under the covers. I had never felt anything so soft and heavenly in my life, and I fell asleep as if I were falling down a long black tunnel.

The following morning I was wandering through the house when she found me. "Good. You're up. Let's go to the kitchen, and I can show you what you'll be doing."

I followed in a daze. The room gleamed with blue ceramic tiles and creamy-white cabinets. A six-burner stove dominated the center. Auntie opened and slammed drawers, calling out, "And here are the utensils, the cutlery, the linens." I had no idea what she was talking about.

"At six-thirty each morning you'll serve your uncle's breakfast: herbal tea and two poached eggs. I'd like my coffee in my room at seven. Then you'll make pancakes for the children; they eat at eight sharp. After breakfast-"

'Auntie, who's going to teach me these things? What's pancakes?"

She stared at me with a sort of panicky look. Exhaling slowly, she said, "I'll do these things for the first time, Waris. Watch closely. Listen and learn." I nodded.

I had the routine down t a science after the first week and followed it every day for the next four years. For a girl who had never been aware of time, I learned to watch the clock closely—and live by it.

After breakfast I cleaned the kitchen, my aunt’s room and her bathroom. Then I worked through each room of the house, dusting, mopping, scrubbing and polishing my way up all four floors. I kept working until I fell into bed around mid-night. I never had a day off.

Throughout Africa it’s common for more affluent family members to take in the children of their poor relations, and those children work in return for their upkeep. Sometimes the relatives educate the children and treat them like one of their own. Obviously, my aunt and uncle had more important issues on their minds.

During the summer of 1983, when I was about 16, Uncle Mohammed’s sister died and her little daughter, Sophie,* came to live with us. My uncle enrolled her in All Souls Church of England Primary School, and my morning routine then included walking Sophie to school.

On one of the first mornings, as we strolled, I saw a strange man starting at me. He was white, around 40 and had a ponytail. He had brought his daughter to the school. He didn’t hide the fact that he was staring.

After I left Sophie at the door, he walked toward me and started speaking. Since I didn’t speak English, I had no idea what he was saying. Frightened, I ran home.

From then on, each time I saw him at the school, he simply smiled politely and went on about his business. Then one day he walked up and handed me a card. I tucked it in my pocket and watched as he turned to walk away.

When I got home, I showed the card to one of Auntie Maruim’s daughters. "What does it say?"

"It says he’s a photographer."

I saw that my cousin wanted to get back to the book she was reading, so I hid the card in my room. Some little voice told me to hang on to it.

When Uncle Mohammed’s term was coming to an end, he announced the family would be going home. I wasn’t excited about returning to Somalia. I wanted to go home wealthy and successful, but I had saved only a pittance from my main’s wages. My dream was to make enough money to buy my mother a house, an to accomplish this, I felt I should stay in England. How I would manage this, I didn’t know. But I had faith.

Uncle Mohammed advised us all of the date we were leaving, and of the need to make sure our passports were in order. I promptly sealed mine in a plastic bag, buried it in the garden and announced I couldn’t find it. My plan was simple enough: if I didn’t have a passport, they couldn't take me back. Uncle smelled something rotten, but I said, "Just leave me here. I’ll be fine."

Until the morning of departure, I hadn’t really believed that they would leave me all alone. But they did. I stood on the sidewalk, waved good-bye and watched the car until it was out of sight. I was scared and had to fight an overwhelming feeling of panic.

I picked up my little duffel, slung it over my shoulder, unearthed my passport and headed down the street, smiling.

"Look in the Mirror"
I entered a store that same day and saw a tall, attractive African woman examining some sweaters. We began talking in Somali, and she was quite friendly. Her name was Halwu.*

"Where do you live, Waris? What do you do?"

"Oh, you'll think I'm crazy, but I don't have any place to live because my family went back to Somalia today. My uncle was the ambassador, but now the new man is coming. So right this minute, I have no idea where I'm headed."

She waved to silence me, as if the movement of her hand could sweep away all my problems. "I have a room at the YMCA. You can come and stay for the night."

Halwu and I became close friends. After a few days I took a room at the YWCA right across the way. Then I set out to find a job.

"Why don't you start by looking right here?" Halwu said, pointing to McDonald's.

"There's no way. I can't speak English or read. Besides, I don't have a work permit."

But she knew the ropes, and I began working there, in the kitchen. I washed dishes, wiped counters, scrubbed grills and mopped floors. I went home at night smelling of grease. But I didn't complain, because at least now I could support myself. I was grateful to have a job.

I began going to free language school, learning English and how to read and write. For the first time in years my days weren't only about work.

Sometimes Halwu took me to nightclubs, where the whole crowd seemed to know her. Overcoming my strict African upbringing, I chatted away, forcing myself to talk with everyone-black, white, male, female. I had to learn survival skills for this new world. My life was moving smoothly. It was about to change dramatically.

One afternoon when I got back home from McDonald's, I pulled out the photographer's card, which I'd stuck in my passport, and marched to Halwu's room. I showed her the card, explained the history and said, "I never really understood what he wanted."

"Well, she said, "why don't you call and ask him?"

"You talk to him. My English is still not very good."

She did, and the next day I went to inspect Mike Goss's studio. I had no idea what to expect, but when I opened the door, I stumbled into another world. Hanging everywhere in the lobby were enormous posters featuring beautiful women. "Oh!" I said, spinning. I just knew-this is it. This is my opportunity.

Mike came out and explained that as soon as he saw me, he had wanted to take my picture. I stared at him with my mouth hanging open. "That's it? A picture like this?" I waved at the posters.

"Yes," he said, nodding emphatically. "You have the most beautiful profile."

Two days later I returned to the studio. The makeup woman sat me down and started to work, coming at me with cotton, brushes, sponges, creams, paints, powders, poking me with her fingers and pulling my skin.

"Now"-the woman stepped back and looked at me with satisfaction- "look in the mirror."

I stared in the glass. My face was transformed, all golden, silky, and light with makeup. "Wow! Look at me!"

The woman led me out to Mike, who positioned me on a stool. I studied objects I'd never seen before: the camera, lights, battery packs, cords hanging like snakes.

"Okay, Waris," he said. "Put your lips together and stare straight ahead. Chin up. That's it-beautiful!"

I heard a click, followed by a loud pop, which made me jump. The flashes went off; the lights blazing for a split second. Somehow the lights made me feel like a different person.

Mike took a piece of paper from the camera and motioned for me to walk over. He pulled off the top layer of paper. As I watched, a woman gradually emerged from the sheet as if by magic. When he handed me the Polaroid; I barely recognized myself. There was a glamorous creature like the ones posing in the lobby. They had transformed me. Instead of Waris the maid, I was Waris the model.

Welcome Surgery
Sometime later, a woman at a modeling agency who had seen that photo sent me for a job casting. I had no idea what she was talking about, but she gave me taxi money and I went to the address.

The place was crawling with professional models strutting like lionesses circling for the kill. I said hello to one of them. "What is the job?"

"Pirelli calendar."

"Mmmmm." I nodded. "Thank you." What is that?

The photographer, Terence Donovan, brought me tea and showed me all his work. Lying on a table was a calendar. He flipped through it; on each page was a different, stunningly gorgeous woman. "This is last year's Pirelli calendar," he told me. "This year it's going to be different-just African women." He explained the whole process to me. By that point I felt comfortable, and from then on I was a complete professional. And when the job was done, my picture wound up being selected for the cover.

My career as a model got better and better. I worked in Paris, Milan and then New York, where I immediately began running faster and making more money than ever before. I appeared in a series of commercials for a jeweler, wearing white African robes. I did makeup ads for Revlon, then later represented their new perfume, Ajee. The commercial announced, "From the heart of Africa comes a fragrance to capture the heart of every woman."

I appeared in a Revlon commercial with Cindy Crawford, Claudia Schiffer and Lauren Hutton. These projects kept snowballing, and soon I was in the big fashion magazines: Elle, Glamour, Italian Vogue, and British and American Vogue.

But for all the excitement and success of my new life, I carried wounds from the old. The tiny hole the circumciser had left me only permitted urine to escape one drop at a time. It took me about ten minutes to urinate. My periods were a nightmare always. I couldn't function for several days each month; I simply went to bed and wanted to die so the suffering would stop. The problem had reached a crisis while I was living with my uncle Mohammed.

Early one morning, carrying the tray from the kitchen to the dining-room table, I suddenly blacked out, and the dishes crashed to the floor. When I came to, Aunt Maruim said, "We have to take you to the doctor. I'll make an appointment with my doctor this afternoon."

I didn't tell the doctor that I'd been circumcised. Since he didn't examine me, he didn't find out my secret. "The only thing I can give you is birth-control pills. That will stop the pain."

I began taking the pills, but they produced drastic changes in my body that seemed weird and unnatural. Deciding I'd rather deal with the pain, I stopped taking the pills. It all came right back again, fiercer than ever. Later I visited more doctors, but they too wanted to give me birth control pills. I realized I needed to do something else. I said to Auntie, "Maybe I need to see a special kind of doctor."

She looked at me sharply. "No," she said emphatically. "And by the way-what do you tell these men?"

"Nothing. That I just want to stop the pain, that's all." I knew the unspoken message of her comment: circumcision is our African custom-and not something you discuss with these white men.

I began to understand, however, that this was exactly what I had to do-or suffer and live like an invalid for one third of each month. When I went to Dr. Michael

Macrae's* office, I said to him, "There's something I haven't told you. I'm from Somalia and I...I..."

He didn't even let me finish the sentence. "Go get changed. I want to examine you." He saw the look of terror on my face: "It's okay."

He called in his nurse to show me where to change, how to put the gown on, and asked her if there was someone in the hospital who could speak Somali. But when she came back, she brought a Somali man. I thought, Oh, here’s the rotten luck, to discuss this using a Somali man to translate! How much worse could it get?

Dr. Macrae said, "Explain to her that she's closed up way too much-I don't even know how she's made it this far. We need to operate on her as soon as possible."

I could see the Somali man wasn't happy. He glared at the doctor and then said to me, "Well, if you really want it, they can open you up. But do you know this is against your culture? Does your family know you're doing this?"

"No."

"The first thing I'd do is discuss it with them."

I nodded. His was the response of a typical African man. Over a year went by before I was able to have the surgery. I had to overcome some practical problems and my own last-minute doubts, but Dr. Macrae did a fine job, and I've always been grateful. He told me, "You're not alone. Women come in with this problem all the time. A lot of women from the Sudan, Egypt, Somalia. Some of them are pregnant and terrified. So, without the permission of their husbands they come to me, and I do my best."

Within three weeks I could sit on the toilet and-whoosh! There's no way to explain what a freedom that was.

Back to Somalia
In 1995 the BBC proposed making a documentary about my life as a supermodel. I told the director, Gerry Pomeroy, I'd do it if he'd take me back to Somalia and help me find my mother. He agreed.

The BBC staff in Africa began searching diligently. We went over maps, and I tried to show them the regions where my family usually traveled. Next I had to go over all the tribal and clan names of my family.

Suddenly the desert was alive with women claiming to be my mother, but none were. Then Gerry came up with an idea. "We need some kind of secret that only your mother would know about you."

"Well, my mother used to have a nickname for me-Avdohol."

"Will she remember that?"

"Absolutely."

From then on, Avdohol became the secret password. When the BBC was interviewing, the women would make it through the first couple of questions; then they'd flunk out on the nickname. But finally the BBC called me: "We think we've found her." This woman didn't remember the nickname, but she said she has a daughter named Waris who worked for the ambassador in London."

Within days we flew to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, and chartered a small twin-engine plane to take us to Galadi, a village on the Ethiopia-Somalia border where Somali refugees had gathered to escape the fighting at home.

I smelled the hot air and the sand, and suddenly I remembered my lost childhood. Every little thing came flooding back to me, and I began to run. I touched the ground and rubbed the earth between my fingers. I touched the trees. They were dusty and dry, but I knew it was time for the rains soon, when everything would blossom.

Then we found out the woman was not my mother. We combed the village, asking everybody if they had any information about my family. An older man walked up to me and said, "Do you remember me?"

"Well, I'm Ismail; I'm from the same tribe as your father. I'm a very close friend of his." And then I realized who he was and felt ashamed for not recognizing him, but I hadn't seen him since I was a little girl. "I think I know where your family is. I think I can find your mother, but I'll need money for gas.

The BBC crew agreed and gave him some cash. He hopped into his truck and took off immediately, raising a cloud of dust. Three days passed with no sign of Mama. Gerry grew more anxious by the day. "1 promise you my mother will be here tomorrow evening by six o'clock," I told him. I don't know why I had this belief-it just came to me.

The next day Gerry jogged up at about ten minutes to six. "You're not going to believe it! The man is back and he's got a woman with him; he says it's your mother."

Up ahead was Ismail's pickup, and a woman was climbing down from the seat. I couldn't see her face, but from the way she wore her scarf-I could tell immediately that it was my mother, I ran to her. "Oh, -Mama!"

At first, we just discussed little everyday things. But the gladness I felt at seeing her overcame the gap between us. Papa was off searching for water when the truck came. My mother said Papa was getting old. He would go off chasing the clouds looking for rain, but he desperately needed glasses because his eyesight was terrible.

My little brother Ali was also with her, along with one of my cousins. I kept holding Ali, and he would cry, "Get off now I'm not a baby. I'm getting married."

"Married! How old are you?"

"1 don't know. Old enough to get married."

At night Mama slept in the hut of one of the families in Galadi who had taken us in. I slept outside with Ali-just like in the old days. As we lay there at night, I felt such a state of peace and happiness.

My brother started asking me what I thought about this and that.

"Well, I don't know everything, but I've seen a lot and learned a lot I didn't know living back in the bush."

They didn't know whether to believe this bizarre idea, but there was one topic they felt confident I couldn't argue with. My mother started "why aren't you married?" "Mama, do I have to be married? Don’t you want to see me a success- strong, independent?"

"Well, I want grandchildren." Gerry got several scenes of me with my mother. But she hated it, saying: "Get that thing out of my face." The cameraman asked what we were laughing about. "Just the absurdity of it all," I answered.

The next morning before the plane came to get us I asked my mother if she would like to come back and live with me in England or the United States.

"But what would I do?"

That’s precisely it. I don't want you to do anything. You've done enough work. It's time to rest."

"No. Your father's getting old and he needs me. Besides, I can't just sit around. If you want to do something, get me a place in Somalia that I can go to when I'm tired. This is my home. This is all I've ever known."

I gave her a big hug. "I love you, Mama. I'm coming back for you, don't you forget that."

My Mission
By now my career had taken off. I was appearing in commercials, music videos, and worked with the biggest photographers in the fashion business. My life was heavenly.

I had told Mama that I had not found the right man for me. But then one night in the fall of 1995 I discovered him in a tiny jazz club in New York. He was a shy drummer with a '70s Afro and a funky style. His name was Dana Murray, and I knew from that moment he was my man.

At dinner the next night I laughed and told him that someday I was going to have his baby. For the first time in my life I wanted a man. Soon we realized we were in love and wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. My crazy prediction came true with the birth of our son on June 13, 1997; He was beautiful, with silky black hair and long feet and fingers.

I named him Aleeke. With his tiny mouth, chubby cheeks and halo of curls, he looks like a little black cupid.

From the day he was born, my life changed. The happiness I get from him is everything to me now. Life--the gift of life-is what matters, and that's what giving birth to my son made me remember.

After going through the cycle of womanhood that began prematurely with my circumcision at age five and came full circle with my baby's birth when I was about 30, I had even more respect for my own mother. I understood what incredible strength the women in Somalia possess.

I thought of the girl back in the bush, walking miles to water her goats while she's in such pain from her period that she can barely stand. Of the woman nine months pregnant hunting for food in the desert to feed her starving children. Of the wife who will be sewn back up with a needle and thread as soon as she gives birth so her vagina will remain tight for her husband. And of the new wife who's still sewn up tight, and it's time for her first baby to be born. What happens when she goes out into the desert alone, as my mother did?

As I grew older and more educated, I learned that because of a cruel ritual, many of the women on the continent of Africa live their lives in pain.

Somebody must speak out for the little girl with no voice. And since I began as a nomad like so many of them, I felt it was my destiny to help them.

Some time back, Laura Ziv, a writer for the fashion magazine Marie Claire, made an appointment to interview me. When we met, I liked her right away. I said, "I don't know what kind of story you wanted from me, but all of that fashion model stuff's been done a million times. If you promise to publish it, I'll give you a real story."

She said, "Oh? Well, I'll do my best," and switched on her tape recorder I began telling her the story of my circumcision when I was a child. Halfway through the interview, she started crying and turned off the tape. "I mean, it's horrible, it's disgusting. I never dreamed such things still happen today."

"That's the point," I said. "People in the West don't know."

The day after the interview, I felt stunned and embarrassed. Everybody would know my most personal secret. My closest friends didn't know what had happened to me as a little girl, and now I was telling millions of strangers.

But after much thought, I realized I needed to talk about my circumcision; First of all, it bothers me deeply. Besides the health problems that I still struggle with, I will never know the pleasures of sex. I feel incomplete, crippled, and knowing that there's nothing I can do to change that is the most hopeless feeling of all.

The second reason was my hope of making people aware that this practice still occurs today. I've got to speak not only for me but for the millions of girls living with it and those dying from it.

When the interview came out, the response was dramatic. The magazine was swamped with letters. I began giving more interviews and speaking at schools, community organizations and anywhere I could to publicize the issue.

In 1997 the United Nations Population Fund invited me to join its fight to stop female circumcision, or female genital mutilation (FGM), as it is more aptly called today. The World Health Organization has compiled some truly terrifying statistics that put the extent of the problem in perspective. After I saw those numbers, it became clear that this wasn't just my problem.

FGM is practiced predominantly in Africa-in 28 countries. Now cases have been reported among girls and women in the United States and Europe, where there are large number of African immigrants. This practice has been performed on as many as 130 million girls and women worldwide. At least two million girls are at risk each year of being the next victims-that's 6000 a day.

The operations are usually performed in primitive circumstances by village women using knives, scissors, even sharp stones. They use no anesthetic. The process ranges in severity. The most minimal damage is cutting away the hood of the clitoris. At the other end of the spectrum is infibulation, which is performed on 80 percent of the women in Somalia, and which prohibits the girl from enjoying sex for the rest of her life.

When I imagine more little girls going through what I went through, it breaks my heart and makes me angry.

With great pride, I accepted the U.N. Population Fund's offer to become a special ambassador and to join its fight. I will return to Africa to tell my story and speak out against this crime.

Friends have expressed concern that a fanatic will try to kill me, since many fundamentalists consider FGM a holy practice demanded by the Koran. However, this is not the case; neither the Koran nor the Bible makes any mention of female genital mutilation.

I just pray that one day no woman will have to experience this pain and that it becomes a thing of the past. That's what I'm working toward.

From the moment God saved me from a lion, I felt he had a plan for me, some reason to keep me alive. My faith tells me God has work for me to do and this is my mission.

I'm sure my work will be dangerous. I admit to being scared. But I might as well take a chance. It’s what I’ve done all my life.

© Reader’s Digest, June 1999

越南以北 之 下龙湾 (3)

其他点点滴滴。。。。。


奥地利的小帅哥,写意的在甲板上看书。

渔家

导游带我们到这小渔家附近kayaking.
开始咯
岩壁下的夫妻。


来自美国的韩美情侣教师回来了。
纽西兰的老夫老妻。
让大海更添特色的船家小贩。

休息中的船家小贩。
独自划艇的婆婆。
天有点黑,要打道回岸的早上,留影。
一起吹吹风
Syiok sendiri no 1

Syiok sendiri no 2

August 23, 2010

越南以北 之 下龙湾 (2)

甲板上,三三两两的各自在休闲聊天。

比较起来相对不热情的东方人干脆坐在船头,就在那个龙头边,没有栏杆的地方,双脚一伸,背对着船长,面向着浩瀚的大海,迎着晚风和夕阳,我破浪前进,宛如引领着大军迈向无尽的未来。



稍稍倾斜望向大海,感觉有种欲坠的错觉,是有点危险,因为我不会游泳。



英姿飒飒的龙头挺立在前线,一点也不畏惧。



夕阳开始落下,船长正急速向前,深怕错过最美好的金黄余晖。

天空开始绘上金黄色的霓裳。
神秘兮兮的石山在眼前此起彼落,我怀疑夜间的他们会否移动?
平静的海面没有涟漪,而海底是否真有龙宫呢?
渐渐西下的斜阳,一直被不同的石山遮掩着,我们总是等着跨过这座石山就会看到完整的日落,然而,跨过了这座石山,不一样形状的石山又会悄悄的替换了那个景色而依然见不到玩整地日落。
结果。。一等再等。。
天逐渐的被黑暗吞噬了日光。。

落日努力的发出最后的余光,四射于天际,普照最后的生命。。

瞬谢以后。。
深蓝的忧慢慢转成黑色的郁。。
那一晚,我们在甲板上看着满天星星,期待着流星的出现。也是那一晚我第一次那么认真地看到了拉着长长尾巴慢慢在我眼前划过的流星。其实,之前也看到很多瞬间的,短暂的流星,可是感觉不踏实,好像幻觉般,直到我清楚地见证了慢速的那一颗。。。赶紧许下了愿望。
吹着整晚的海风,看着满天斗的星星,真的不舍得入眠,可是,看着看着眼睛却也越来越小了,耳际依然听到楼下的朋友疯狂的唱着卡拉永远ok。 停泊在同一个地方的几艘大船,也隐约传来他们唱翻天的乐声,打破了夜的宁静。。。就这样在海之上,星空之下进入了梦乡。
亚洲号大船上的这样的一个黄昏和这样的一个夜晚,留下了浪漫的幻想。
p/s: 几天后才发现,从那里带了一些皮肤敏感回来,或许是大船的卫生不太好,也有人劝告不要跳下水游泳,也或许是虫虫留下的痕迹。

August 19, 2010

越南以北 之 下龙湾 (1)

下龙湾 - 有"海上桂林"之称。

属于石灰岩侵蚀地貌, 在广阔达1553公里的海湾上遍布大大小小的奇岩怪石, 蔚为海上奇观并在1994年被联合国教科文组织登录为世界自然遗产。

根据越南的神话传说,很久以前,有一条母龙降落在这个海湾,挡住了汹涌的波涛,使这一带人民安居乐业,因此人们便把这个海湾称为“下龙湾”。



“山不在高,有仙则灵;水不在深,有龙则名。”



第二天,船只陆陆续续的驶回码头的时候,天,下起了毛毛的细雨。
隔着雨丝品味朦胧美的下龙湾,可以画上一副水墨图。



下龙湾的配套有很多种;
单日游(不晓得多少钱)
或两天一夜于船上或 Cat ba的酒店(普通配套 40 块美金 或 特别配套 56 块美金)
或四天三夜的配套还可以到无甚人烟的monkey island 冒险。
我们选择了在船上过一夜的两天一夜之配套。

清晨8点坐上了小型旅巴,凑够了人数后,花了2个多小时才抵达码头。



这是一大群船只包围着的斗鸡石,旅客们都被带往同一个地方歇息与介绍。

关于配套的素质,很难有一个结论,我们大家都循着寂寞星球或网上资讯来避免不愉快的经验,但却依然每个人各自各精彩。这是因为那里的观光代理实在太多了,冒牌的,真实的也相去不远,因为之间还会遇到不一样责任感的导游或新旧的船厢。所以虽然我们遇上了一个没什么介绍景点的导游也惟有自得其乐,和同船的异国过客相互交流。



这里的游客算欧美游客占多数,亚洲人只是寥寥。
而且大部分欧美游客都是趁学校假期两个月来这里混,大部分都比我们年轻。
和我们同船的有一对恩爱的西班牙情侣,一对奥地利的小帅哥,一对纽西兰的老夫妻,一对来自美国的韩籍女友和美国佬,一位独闯数国的年轻人还有一家人的越南籍家族。



下龙湾的水是沉静的,
但曾经清澈透明的水质现在偶尔会飘过一些垃圾在水面上。



我们从小船上了大船以后就在看得到码头的海上享用我们的船上大餐。
开始听纽西兰夫妇分享他们卖掉花圃,牧场后来这里的行程,还笑言失业了的他们,回去还要从新来过找份工作呢!其实,有时和他们聊天满讲究专注力的,有时他们说得太快,一不留神就傻眼了,或不同国籍的发音不同,也让我们猜测了好一会。所幸,他们都很热情也很有耐心与友好,将气氛控制得很好,所以才分享了很多他们国家的事情和旅途上的事情与看法,而我们也必须将马来西亚搬上台。。

在其他国家背包或许也都是独来独往,难得因为越南这所流行的当地旅行带团式才促进了这种机会,可以和不一样背景的人聚在同一个空间里一段时间,酝酿火花。

在那里也看到类似槟城渡轮的巨物,就在蓝天白云下。

看着这些苏醒的船只,骄阳越来越撒野了。

海中间的,海面上的小小渔村。听说他们各自在陆地有房子,但却喜欢回来这里度假或捕鱼而留宿在海上,继续当个水上人家。


蓝天白云下的甲板上,还没有人影。
因为漂亮的天空下,代价通常是异常温热的天气,还好有凉风来调和。

天气晴朗的第一天。
午餐以后,我们就被带往另一个渔村附近进行独木舟划行。
烈日下的划行,根本是暴晒,还好我不会游泳所以看着别人划来划去。
心理其实又痒痒的想玩。


这就是我们的大船。
独木舟以后,回到大船不久,大伙儿都疯了,玩起了跳海游戏。
一个接一个从甲板往下跳,然后潜到水底良久才浮出水面,就这样不停的跳了好多次,邻家大船更有很多个穿三点式的金发美女也在玩跳水。

这是在参观钟乳洞的时候,在最高点拍下来的下龙湾全景。


我突然以为自己来到了赤壁,一场火烧连环船的戏码即将开始。



可是,没有诸葛亮,没有周瑜,更没有曹操。



有的只是那份龙腾的仙气。。。


在下龙湾是坐大船远观石山,屏息于中。



我不知道哪个山顶住着什么仙人。


发现槟城大桥在下龙湾码头附近。


经典的老帆船。

集聚在码头四周的大船和小船与白云相应辉。。。
上百艘船,不计其数,是他们的吃饭工具或住所。
简单的船只上可以烹饪?住宿?
阴天的下龙湾,将它转换成我喜爱的黑白画面后,更有味道。
静止的画面,就在这一刻。
这是第一天的大热天下的团团白云紧追着海面上的那艘小船。