Yes, as the song says "I have a few," but not necessarily of the sort that you might be thinking about, though I have a few of those also. However, the regrets that I would like to share with you have to do with travel, with who we meet, how we behave and not least in the order of importance, how, (in exotic places), we spend our money.
I can see and hear them still, the "Hello people," those stallholders in China who, on the advice of our guides but with some unease, I ignored. And not infrequently I think of the small boy of nine or ten whose offering of stones I had to refuse.
I met him in a deep ravine in one of the Lesser Gorges along the Yangtze River. With its high hills, cultivated corners and cock crowing, this place had a timeless almost biblical feel to it. It was a secluded spot, a place where the sophisticated world from which we had come, was most definitely shut out. And while I, searched with care among the stones, I felt that I was deep in the earth where I belonged and among a tranquil people. Then and as if from nowhere he was in front of me, brown, bare-chested and with his hands outstretched. Perhaps he had been there many times before and had profited from his enterprise, but this was different. As I looked at his small hands and the ugly stones, I knew that I could not accept them, not because they were ugly, but because I had nothing to give in return. No syllables were exchanged between us as I searched in my head for something, and pointed to my empty pockets and empty hands. And while I struggled to help him understand my predicament, I knew that the one thing I must not do, is take the stones and drop them to the ground by way of explanation. Somehow, I think he understood, and the three stones that I selected and brought back from China sit quietly beside a plastic water bottle filled with sand from the Sahara Desert. But I will always remember this meeting and the fact that I had nothing to give.
In Beijing it was different. There we were at the start of our tour and the helpers around us were smart and personable, and keen to tell us tales of what might happen to us as free spending and gullible visitors. The word "gullible" of course wasn't used, but who, especially in a far away and uncertain place, wants to think of himself or herself as a fool? So we listened respectfully to the cautionary tales as told by our guide from Europe, to the disappointments of previous tourists who, had traded with the "Hello People." And our charming upwardly-mobile Chinese hosts were just as keen to save us from ourselves and make sure that we had something of real value to carry home.
So alongside the three stones from the banks of the Yangtze River, and the bottle of sand from the Sahara desert, sits an intriguing red and gilded box. Open it and sitting snug in its ruby red interior, is a circular porcelain dish decorated with a blue motif, a dragon, and with just a hint of fire. Next to it, in faded marble effect, is the all-important stamp of authority, our psychological link to China's Imperial past. Turn it up and the underside is red with experimental wax; in bold lettering is the word CORMAC, and below that, the Chinese phonetic equivalent - I think!
Now it is not just in China that cautionary tales abound. Recently in Morocco, a beautiful and intriguing place to visit. John was our leader. And like a good leader as we passed between Casablanca and Rabat, he too made us aware of the perils of travelling abroad. We must stay together as a group and be cautious about befriending strangers, especially those claiming to be friends of "John" or of our driver. "They will invite you to come and meet their families, and take you to an old part of town where you will be lost and there the story will change. You will be told that their predicament is dire, that they have a family member who is ill and ask, "Can you help?" What they want is money.""
From John's point of view, this was necessary and timely advice, for we were on a journey that would take us beyond Rabat to Meknes, and from there to the ancient city of Fez. From there we would travel south to the desert town of Erfoud, and in time, we would reach the fabled city of Marrakesh. But not before we had stopped at Rassani.
Today the walled city of Rassani is a place of modest proportions, but in ancient times it was an important stopping off point for the caravan trains that crossed the Sahara desert from Timbuktu. It was an arduous journey, that lasted fifty-five days; and they brought with them slaves and spices. Here at Rassani our guide for the day, (in full Berber dress), was "Prince" and it was here, for me at least, that our holiday in Morocco truly came to life.
In brilliant sunshine (and after we had looked in at the Mausoleum of Moulay Ali Sharif), I found that I had made the acquaintance of a man in his early twenties. He was one of many street hawkers and he wanted to sell me a knife. His English was impeccable and his enterprise in direct conflict with our guide, who, seeing us talking, loudly made the point that we should shop in the Kasbah as the goods in the street were inferior. In effect, the pair of us were being admonished and the rest of the group alerted, but having learned something from my experience in China, I kept on talking. If I might use the analogy, we were engaged in a duel. While I persisted in telling my friend that I didn't want the knife, or that I didn't want it because it was too expensive, he, with some eloquence, kept telling me why it was beautiful and that I should buy it. And as I boarded the bus for our next destination within the city, he was still trying to sell it. For my part, I had enjoyed the banter, so I took my seat satisfied, believing, or so I thought, - that that was that. So imagine my surprise as I stepped off the bus at our next stop, only to see him coming towards me. I couldn't help laughing at my own naivety and at his cunning, and joked with him, telling him, that he must have had a helicopter somewhere. He replied: "No my firend, this is very good knife."
Well I liked him, so we bartered, agreeing and disagreeing until I got the price down from 700 to 150 dirham. So now, alongside the three stones from the banks of the Yangtze, the bottle of sand from the Sahara desert, and the red gilded box from Beijing, sits an ornate Bedouin knife. Much to Jenny's relief it is safe in its silvered sheath, and the handle still smells of cedar.
By the standards of need, handing out pencils and notepads, (which was what we did), was a wholly inadequate thing to do, but the experience brought its own reward, and the unexpected. As we walked away a small boy came running after me, desperate for what I was carrying in my hand. When I looked, it was the empty but colourful pencil box. And a young girl was just as keen to have the plastic bag in which we had carried our gifts. We knew then, that nothing in Cuba is wasted. And a man standing on the street corner, who saw it all and from whom I had earlier refused to buy a cigar, came across and said: "Thank you for coming to Cuba."
As for the "Hello People" of China, we did meet them, once and briefly. It happened at Suzhou. It was evening, and as I remember, we crossed over a narrow bridge and made our way down a rough incline and round a corner to a secluded spot. They were there, gathered together in a cul-de-sac, in a place that had the feel of a desolate railway embankment. It was as though someone, somewhere, in this lovely city of gardens and hand woven silks, had wanted the poor to benefit from our visit. But in a manner that was not obvious.
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© Cormac McCloskey
Note: "Regrets" was first published, by me, on Windows Live Spaces on 10th August 2005
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