Silk Road

People ask how I stay sane, and I generally reference some form of writing, either read or self-produced. It's an easy answer, but I think it neglects a key escape. It's time you know about the Chinese restaurant.

This is a dry country, and as the axiom goes, you don't know what you've missed until it's gone. The Hong Kong sits between the port and the rarely-used municipal stadium, on a relatively insignificant stretch of paved road that connects with the main artery a bit farther south. Like most everything else here, it hides behind 3 meter walls of sand-based concrete, whitewashed into an inconspicuous uniformity. Out front there is a man selling phone cards to passers-by from a throne of garbage. One can count on at least one feral dog lingering nearby, teats wagging and head down in an attempt to avoid any unnecessary beatings from anyone in the mood. The pitiful eyes mostly evoke disgust, and given enough time, it almost seems as though it is awaiting its own death with the same resentful impatience of the rest of the city.

Inside the compound there are trees fighting through the concrete. Greenery is personal. Trees and bushes left in the public are inevitably cut down for charcoal, and new growth is hindered by roving goats and donkeys desperate to supplement a diet of trash. The trees have been decorated with lights, strung along anything that will support them. Below, there is patio furniture, a perfect target for cockroaches abandoning the leafy canopy. I generally choose to sit inside.

Follow the lights through the patio door and you enter a foyer-turned-bar. To the left are posters of half-naked animated women. To the right, next to the alcohol, is a calendar consisting of Chinese characters and a picture of Jesus. At the bar is the same sun-withered Spanish man jawing with the family that runs the place about who knows what. He punctuates his diatribes by flinging his greasy ponytail. If it is early enough, some members of the Spanish consulate will be eating and drinking whiskey and laughing about something. They used to become silent when I entered, but that has long changed. Now I nod and the conversation continues uninterrupted.

My seat is in the next room. The lights that lined Jesus and the naked women wrap into and around the dining area, ending their journey behind some fake leaves hanging like a limp rag from the corner of the ceiling. I always take my place at a table that affords a view of the bar and the dining room, because I am a spectator. Not to play up the excitement of watching people eat. I sit there because I can watch the Chinese family and the Spanish men and the Nigerian whores. Occasionally, there are Moroccans and Russians, and the din of five to seven languages occurring at once is refreshing. The aunt will bring me a can of beer adorned with characters and the phrase "Laotian Beer," while the uncle shakes my hand and offers me a cigarette from three different brands. Sometimes I eat, but usually I drink and read or watch.

Once the ships have docked, a familiar crowd of Spaniards trickles through the screen door, and the mother, a perpetual hostess who has recently taken to applying bronzer with the same zeal as someone painting their car, screams an enthusiastic "hola!" at anyone and everyone. She is a dynamo, and constantly directs traffic, shoving family members in the direction of anyone who needs attention. She seems friendly and impenetrable.

I am two beers deep, and the first of the Nigerian women have taken their places at the benches across from the bar. They are discrete, despite their wigs. The fact that they are moderately clothed overrides the bouncing knees. They will sit there all night, waiting. Sometimes they will drink a Coke. They are thick, and I can't tell if they are new to the work or players past their prime. If they are lucky, no other women will arrive, and the odds will remain in their favor. Good things come to those who wait.

One time I saw a fight. I don't know what happened, but the uncle was shoving a long-nailed woman out of the compound while she screamed and spit over his shoulder. Another woman stood at the door, antagonizing her. Maybe it was over money. Maybe the one at the door borrowed a book and wouldn't return it.

The daughter brings me another beer. That makes five. She looks around 16, and she reminds me of a bird. She is incredibly businesslike, and though she is the only one I ever speak to, our most in-depth conversation has only consisted of me quantifying how many drinks I want. But I watch, and I wonder what it's like to grow into adulthood in such a place. Aside from a furtive glance at herself in the mirror, she acts like no teenage girls I've ever met. I want to ask her hundreds of questions, but any deviation from the norm seems wildly inappropriate in such a setting.

One time a woman in a mulafa came into the restaurant. From the outset it was jarring. She traded greetings with me in Hassaniya, and then asked for a beer. As the people I was with shooed her off, I noticed a very young girl in a mulafa hugging the wall behind her. She was obviously mortified, and it wasn't until her mother had moved to a table of Chinese sailors that I realized what was going on. She goaded them for alcohol, and by the time she finally convinced them to give it to her, her daughter and one of the men had disappeared. About twenty minutes later they reappeared and the girl smoked a cigarette. The next time I saw the woman at the restaurant, the uncle kicked her out immediately.

Tonight she is sitting alone amidst the crowd, hopelessly outclassed. A slick, relatively youngish Spanish man has arrived with two women hanging over his shoulders. They are wearing incredibly tight, incredibly little clothing, with thongs sticking out above their jeans and glitter on every visible part of their bodies. They shine under the eternal Christmas, like oily, liquid sex. With their arrival the party has hit unseen heights, and Spanish dominates all audible noise. This is the zenith of their weekend.

I was quiet, switching constantly between book and bar. The daughter flitted around the crowd like a hummingbird among cacti, always working, always focused. The women slithered up and down the men, taking over as waitresses and plying their conquests with alcohol. The scene has never been this frantic. Maybe this is perverse, but I usually find it contenting. Though it is cliché, I like to romanticize the grime, and it is definitely not Mauritanian. I finished my beer and waited for the warm embrace around my chest that always cued departure. It never came, but I left anyway.

Tonight I went home profoundly sad.