向導默哈開著越野車載著我們4人周遊摩洛哥. 默哈去過不少國家， 見多識廣。 在印度被搖頭晃腦，開車野蠻的司機嚇到過，在泰國被佳麗們靚暈過， 哪個是真的？（原話是”which one is lady, which one is lady boy”)本地人語重心長的告訴：真的往往是醜的。 這句話有意思, 概率分布上看，美女應該是少數。我們從三毛的故事和好萊塢經典片得來的摩洛哥印象再豐富， 現在親眼看看後才不虛。
第一站哈桑二世清真寺出來，我們為內部的美侖美煥， 外觀的氣派非凡傾倒。默哈卻淡漠的說他從沒進去過， 也不會進去。這個皇家清真寺說是由人民捐錢修建，其實派捐到每家，並非都自願的。這時的國王是哈桑二世，年輕氣盛。1972年 coup of the aviators，他的專機被摩洛哥空軍的F-5打穿， 國王假裝被擊斃，專機被允許降落，國王假扮司機開車逃出反擊叛亂， 參與叛亂的軍官們都被處死。“那是我們柏柏幹的”，默哈一臉自豪， 那架國王專機上的洞洞是柏柏勇敢的豐碑，誰惹柏柏就去看看。
默哈是柏柏人， 準確地說， 是撒哈拉的，奉猶太教的柏柏人。
默哈出生後，年輕父母興衝衝地為他們的頭生子去報官， 因猶太名字被拒絕。 他們當即換了最響亮的伊斯蘭名字：穆罕穆德。昵稱默哈。默哈在撒哈拉沙漠裏長大，家裏有耶棗樹，給黑人佃戶照看， 自己養羊， 駱駝。如不出意外，15歲娶媳婦成家， 然後生兒女。 14歲那年， 默哈的父親死於毆鬥。爺爺把母親連帶他和2位妹妹趕出家門。 有鄉親求情，爺爺說那你接娘加仨回家好了！
默哈成了家裏的養家漢， 去鎮上打工養家。先搬運，後學過屠宰。好心的鄰居用自己的車教會默哈後，默哈心飛了，他從卡車司機做起，到如今的有了自己的旅行社。默哈說， 要不是14歲的家變， 他的日子將毫無懸念。大漠雖天高地遠卻平淡。不是他想要的。最能證明默哈走出悲劇的是他後來知道了誰殺了父親，卻沒有仇恨。他說複仇會毀了兩個家。他對煽動仇恨的政教一律反感。
富起來的默哈樂於助人。街上看到窮人， 就搖下窗招手叫他們過來給錢。對撒哈拉的鄉親們更是。 學習好的少年就接去出錢上私立學校，買個iPad當家教。 尤其對女孩幫助更多，畢競部落女孩的路更窄， 更需要接進城裏開闊眼界。 他的奶奶在爺爺去世後由他出錢去城裏做了手術，又成了家人。
默哈跑的再遠，仍然是大漠的兒子。撒哈拉是他的根，後院。撒哈拉人視力極強，很遠的活物一眼鎖定。 公路邊那些拿著雷達槍的警察不管躲在樹後， 牆後，溝中，默哈老遠就看到。從來沒中過。有三次看警察不在， 默哈停車把椅子沒收了帶回家給老鄉。行程中有猶太齋日， 默哈一天開車不吃不喝，我們擔心。默哈用中文說：沒問題啦， 我是羅駝（駱駝）嘛。
學過屠宰的默哈對肉羊養的對不對， 殺的對不對，從掛著的肉上一眼能看出來。街上一遛烤肉鋪， 他挑中一家帶我們吃烤羊肉串， 我先拒吃， 但嚐了一塊後被驚呆了， 羊肉還能這麽好吃！除了鮮嫩， 一點膻味也沒， 趕緊又買一串。默哈自己吃的羊都是挑選好了送鄉人養著，隨吃隨取。疫情期間， 沒了遊客默哈自己遊。 帶上羊往撒哈拉開， 餓了自己烤肉， 沒油了從老鄉處買， 一元一桶。 阿爾及爾境內的撒哈拉更大更美，就是遊客不安全。默哈沒打過疫苗， 也沒得過新冠。那是段好日子。
默哈指給我們一處高牆大院。大門緊閉。偶爾豪華越野車進出是卡塔爾的牌子。 有一天一位印度人搭默哈的車。他說他是為大院工作的工程師。大漠裏有鳥（漠百靈或麥穗鳥）在夜裏檢發光的石子。大院裏放出馴養的獵鷹（falcon）抓這種鳥，收集閃亮的石子，化驗後送美國。 默哈申請為大院工作， 隻一星期就被解雇。“他們嫌我太聰明了，很快明白他們搞什麽”， 默哈如是說。
從小失怙失學的默哈會6種語言，對曆史事件，年代很清楚。 是外公教會他的。 外公活到117歲。問長壽經驗，就是吃肉要配藏紅花（saffron)。默哈車裏也帶著，不時撚幾根泡水喝。
默哈的老家現在是表兄弟住著。不能再簡陋了。幾根木棍支起一塊透氣的駝毛毯。 如果下雨，駝毛濕了會膨漲，自動防水但會有味道。門，窗，家俱是沒有的。 窩棚南北邊壓好。東西兩邊背風的一邊卷起。撒哈拉一天刮兩次風， 總是東西向。
遊牧民不洗澡洗頭，卻看不出髒和油膩， 連羊圈也無味。同行的生物專家海鷗兄說：不奇怪呀， 這麽毒的太陽，這麽大的風，這麽幹燥，細菌沒法長。女主人捧上現烤的麵餅， 鬆軟香好吃的停不下。默哈說這餅裏什麽也沒有，連酵母也沒有，令我們稱奇。老家周圍有法國人留下的廢礦， 有黑人村。蘇丹後裔表演了音樂歌舞。曲調傷感， 舞步沉重， 那曾是戴著腳鐐的舞蹈。如今腳鐐沒有了， 腳步也輕快不起來。默哈說黑人祖先是從亭巴圖（Timbuktu)為美國買來的黑奴，因美國挑不中而留下的。
撒哈拉大沙漠氣象萬千。陽光強烈，氣流活躍。有風時，一切迷蒙，沙丘披上金黃；
無風時，天空靛藍，沙丘呈鮭紅。
晚間， 月光瀉下，溫柔寧靜。 駱駝圍一圈或站或蹲，數顆星天空閃耀，三兩遊客沙丘散歩。
阿拉伯燈照亮頂頂白帳蓬間的小徑。當地的小夥隔著老遠就看到我們， 一串中文飛來：“你好， 謝謝，再見， 好看， 天啦”。
美麗而嚴酷，富有而貧窮的撒哈拉沙漠自遠古以來養育了世世代代的柏柏人。柏柏的旗上紅人形穿過藍，綠，黃三道，意為海上，綠地，沙漠間縱橫自如的柏柏人。一旁，摩洛哥國旗紅底綠星， 五角星代表伊斯蘭5要素（念，禮，齋，課， 朝）， 紅色是摩洛哥人的血性—柏柏人的血。 默哈從羅馬人把柏柏人騙到地中海邊屠殺， 染紅了海， 說到他自己的部落反抗法國統治， 殺了2個法國軍官。 默哈說現在阿拉伯人的統治也是我們讓的。穆罕穆德五世的功我們記著，不好好做的， 他專機上的彈孔在那裏。 阿拉伯人頭上頂個零（壓頭巾的圈）就以為有學問，我們柏柏人的頭巾原是裹屍布， 準備好死在戰場。不管誰來，柏柏人永遠是這大地的主人。
路邊的駱駝白骨和路人：
柏柏旗和摩洛哥國旗：
馬上柏柏（馬拉喀什攝影博物館）
柏柏人肖像（馬拉喀什攝影博物館）
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 his 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.
謝謝閱讀留言。 你的導遊和默哈有不少共同之處， 好有意思！
哈哈， 我在舍夫沙萬看過華人小夥和店主bargain， 一件長袍350成交。 默哈說那袍子根本不是柏柏做的。 是Casablanca中國工廠做的， 買入價最多150. 在菲斯， 另一berber導遊從一個不起眼的極小的鋪子裏買了乳酪， 在一個老頭的塑料桶裏買橄欖， 請我們嚐， 本來不敢吃， 他再三請才嚐了， 那確是特別新鮮美味。 問導遊怎麽挑的。 他說他對販子都知根知底的， 不可能假。 這種眼力我們遊客就不要想了。
謝謝閱讀留言！
翻內襯看看，中國製造的標簽忘了摘掉。
柏柏人早都知道怎麽去騙遊客了。