In the first week of October 2014, I hurried to Hailar, where I took a bus along the Erguna River to the small village of Qiqian near the China-Russia border. At this time, the grassland had entered deep autumn, and the various colors of fallen leaves scattered on the paths in the forest were full of charm. At 4:10 PM, the light in the forest was dim, and it almost felt like night was falling. Suddenly, a beam of golden light pierced through the trees on the hillside ahead, and I immediately felt the favor of the divine. Fiery red flames danced among the treetops, and a wave of warmth rolled in, vibrant and passionate. This moment vanished in an instant, but it was deeply etched in my mind.
On April 1, 2016, the Ring Road in Iceland had not yet opened, but I was already driving east. I planned to drive around the island for 12 days, visiting ice lagoons, exploring glaciers, traversing snowfields, and searching for Viking relics in the mysterious moss-covered tundra. In my ignorance, I nearly fell into deadly swamps and sank into unfathomable snow pits. Even so, I was rewarded with the intimacy of Icelandic horses, which lined up like children for me to photograph. Staying on a farm, the owner hoped I would stay; they owned 1,000 hectares of land and glaciers. That night, a rare aurora appeared, and I was stunned and moved. The aurora belonged here, while I belonged to a dream.
Before crossing the snowfield, I passed through an approximately 1,000-meter stretch of volcanic ash and stones, with dark, loose hills on one side, capped with white snow, and a mountain gorge on the other. The single-lane road paved with volcanic debris seemed very precarious. I could neither move forward nor retreat, so I resolved to push on, desperately stabilizing the car as I slowly advanced. My body felt weak, my clothes soaked, and at the foot of this small mountain, I began to gasp for breath. Looking at the mountain before me, I started to feel fear; it was an unprecedented sense of oppression. In that moment of loneliness and despair, the mountain gradually bore down on me. After staring for a moment, a cold wind blew from the pitch-black mountain, and suddenly I felt a kinship with it. It was majestic, embracing, and amid its starkness radiated infinite warmth; the long-lost warmth within me returned.
In 2017, I set off from the capital and arrived at Walvis Bay after 12 days, passing through the Etosha National Park. There, I had close encounters with zebras, elephants, spotted hyenas, rhinos, giraffes, lions, leopards, and more. I stayed in a closed camp, but the animals outside the tent disturbed my peace, leaving me shaken.
Entering the Namib Desert, the oldest desert in the world, which has been arid for at least 80 million years, I climbed Dune 45 and enjoyed the feeling of being enveloped by the sunset. The dunes, with their unique and diverse shapes, were elegant, rugged, and charming, appearing reddish-brown and resembling sheets of gold leaf under the evening sun.
Nearby was the “Valley of Death,” a place where nothing grows, and the dead camel thorn trees remain in a state of desperate struggle. Around 4 PM, I walked gently on the parched ground, careful not to crush the beautiful patterns beneath my feet. Occasionally, I gazed into the distance, captivated by the changing colors, and inadvertently captured this exhilarating scene, which became one of the most unforgettable moments of my life.
Dreams are a manifestation of the human subconscious, and most dreams are nearly impossible to recreate; joy and sorrow fade with the awakening. To preserve beautiful dreams, I reconstruct them through visual art, hoping that we can live freely and joyfully in the dreams of the boundless universe.
In a farm in southeastern Iceland, a family of four lives: a couple and their daughter, who is in her first year of university. They manage a 1,000-acre farm with grasslands, glaciers, 200 sheep, a few horses, and many ducks, cats, and dogs. From their window, they can see the farm and their cozy home. The daughter tells me that she wants to marry someone who loves this farm. With such a small population in Iceland, where 90% live in the capital, who would want to live here? It must be a call of love—someone who marries this girl and is willing to spend a lifetime on a farm far from the city.
What is love? No one can define it precisely because everyone experiences love differently, with varying degrees of being loved and different environments and histories. However, one thing is certain: everyone’s love for their parents and ancestors is the same. It is a selfless love, a devoted love, a pure and instinctual love. Sibling love should be the same.
Beyond this kind of love, there are countless forms of love—between spouses, children, friends, and lovers—but none can compare to the love of parents and ancestors. The complexity of other loves can be overwhelming, leading me to a point where I struggled to understand love. I began a long contemplation: Who should I love? How should I love? What is the purpose of love? How long does love last? What are the reasons for not loving? Can love cause harm?
Love is an intense focus on, attachment to, care for, and nurturing of another person. True love should be selfless and not seek reward. If love becomes an exchange or a conditional relationship, its essence is distorted. Love must have a counterpart, the one who is loved; there cannot be love without a target. When the loved one understands the meaning of love, it becomes a mutual understanding, a gratitude that, while not a prerequisite, is a signal for lasting love. This kind of love is worth it. I believe love cannot be demanded; the notion that the amount of love given will be reciprocated is not true love, but rather an emotional exchange or transaction. In the long journey of love, its weight cannot be measured, nor can it be evaluated as a simple exchange of love and lack thereof. Love transcends physicality, becoming a spiritual force characterized by the desire to give everything to the beloved.
Love is thus persistent and fearless. It is an opportunity, something that can be encountered but not sought; it is fate, everything happens according to destiny; it is a fragrance, a scent that permeates the heart and lungs; it is a gaze, a connection that seems divinely crafted. In the vast sea of humanity, with stars filling the sky, each person is but a speck of dust—what are the chances of meeting? The answer is known without thought. Thus, people often say, “fate,” but what is fate? No one can articulate it. It simply exists when it should.
This is how love happens: who to love and how to love becomes clear. As for the purpose of love, perhaps no one can explain it clearly. How long love lasts and the reasons for not loving depend on the interplay between those who love and those who are loved. I do not believe love leads to harm unless it comes with conditions. When love becomes a matter of exchange, the principle of fairness is violated, which may lead to harm; otherwise, love itself should not cause suffering.
In this small house on the farm in southeastern Iceland, I recall many past events and dream of the future. Such a scene may only exist in my dreams. If a person lives only in reality, all pursuits of perfection will merely become fantasies. Dreams make me happy because they allow me to realize people and events that cannot be achieved in reality. I often remind myself that I cannot step out of the dream unless there is someone in reality who can lead me out of it.
Yesterday, I saw snowflakes drifting gracefully in the sunlight; today, I saw mountain flowers blooming fiercely under the moonlight.
I have come to understand who I am. Only by being willing to let go can one find happiness. I keep my promise and step back decisively, placing the career I have loved for 25 years into my memories from now on.
Love is the host of all things. I believe in fate and destiny; I let everything unfold naturally. Love is mysterious and elusive, a lifelong pursuit; hatred has nothing to do with me. I have achieved this: do not forget too quickly the kindness others show you, and do not remember too clearly the kindness you show to others.
A speck of dust in the vast sky wanders freely in the Milky Way. I once thought loneliness meant being the only person left in the world, but later I realized that loneliness is me becoming a world unto myself.
I am who I am, a firework of different colors. Chasing a dream, I understand it to be the snowflakes drifting in the sunlight and the flowers blooming in the moonlight.
When the Morning Star appears again, I decide to enter another world from now on.
Driving from Beijing into the Bashang Grassland in Hebei, the scattered snowflakes began to flutter down, whimsically covering the ground, repeatedly laying a thick blanket of snow. With the arrival of heavy snow, the snowflakes descended like a sudden gift to the soul, bringing tiny bits of comfort and warmth. The glass windows of the guesthouse were marked with red lip prints and warmth. I carefully gathered this warmth in my hands and placed it by my bedside, falling into a peaceful sleep.
At minus 42 degrees, I felt quiet and serene in the extreme cold, appearing detached from the world and completely transcendent. It seemed this was my fate; my heart was utterly exhausted, yet powerless to escape, leaving me to ponder how to cope internally. When others’ worlds collapse, I bear the weight, but when my own world falls apart, who can support me? I am a contradiction, a split, a fierce conflict. Even with a PhD in conflict law and an understanding of its norms, I find they do not apply to me. That night, my thoughts roamed through my dreams, released in the crisp morning air, allowing my musings to oxidize and disperse in the frozen molecules.
I have long understood the coldness of the world; the glaciers and snowfields of Iceland feel so familiar, affirming my sense of belonging. Everything in my dreams is the true reality; last night’s dream was what I longed for, with snow flickering like burning charcoal in a deep red glow.
So warm and cozy, I remember how my parents used to warm our small room with a cast iron stove, its long chimney extending out through a round hole in the window. As the smoke was expelled, it reminded me of my breath dissipating in the cold air. Reluctantly, I would leave the warmth of the blankets, enamored with the reality and comfort of my dreams.
In that half-awake state, I greedily enjoyed the warmth of my exhaled breath; it was my thoughts manifesting. Inside my being, there was at least a fragment of my soul engaging in conversation with itself. The cold became a condition for my soul’s survival, and all ugliness and filth faded from view, leaving only a faint breath of warmth, pure and immaculate, quietly floating around me. I could feel that warmth, a warmth coming from beyond the cold. I might feel lost, perhaps even willing to lay bare my soul, as my mother said I couldn’t stand it when others treated me well; I would give my life away, and perhaps that is true, a natural flaw.
Meditation or conjecture became my state of being, and that was fine; my skin and body remained in a youthful state, untouched by aging. In another thirty years, I would still be like this. This must be one of the benefits of living in a world of ice and snow. I can’t say I fully enjoy the pleasures of dreams, the dispersal of hormones, emotional outbursts, and confessions, because I know all beauty is fleeting, and nothing exists eternally.
The snow in the forest was waist-deep, and suddenly a few foxes appeared not far away. A silver fox wandered a few steps from me, its beautiful eyes watching me closely. In the distant sky, a halo appeared, commonly referred to as three suns, and then the silver fox vanished. That night, I dreamed of pouring a kettle of boiling water into the air, instantly creating an arc of ice that transformed into a diamond collar around the neck of the silver fox. The fleeting excitement and the long-awaited warmth vanished in an instant.
This weather lasted for months, and the snow quickly melted. Six months later, the desertified grassland lay bare under the harsh sun, the world returning to a pale, powerless, and unpoetic scene.
Taipei boasts one of the highest numbers of motorcycles in the world, and its motorcycle order can be considered the best globally—without exception. When I stand at any street corner in Taipei waiting for the traffic light, dozens, even hundreds, of motorcycles rush by in a flash. During rush hour, the scene is even more spectacular, with hundreds of motorcycles gathering at intersections, the sound of their engines humming like a huge machine on standby. One morning, I specifically went to a major intersection leading into Taipei from the direction of Sanchong to photograph motorcycles. Standing high above with my camera, I captured the magnificent sight of motorcycles waiting on the road. The sea of bikes seemed endless, with riders wearing helmets, no one talking, all silently gazing ahead. In that moment, it was as if the air had solidified, embodying the world of motorcycles.
The impression that Taipei’s motorcycles leave on visitors is one of speed, order, and grandeur. The adherence to rules by riders is a crucial factor, and to ensure compliance, regulatory bodies have clearly marked lanes and parking spots for motorcycles on the roads. Regarding parking, management has made efforts to delineate parking spaces along any street where it is convenient, alleviating concerns about improper parking. I rarely see instances of motorcycles parked improperly on the streets.
In contrast, motorcycles are absent from Shenzhen’s roads due to a ban similar to those in Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou, which prohibits motorcycles from operating on designated urban roads. This measure is said to address concerns over emissions, road safety, and personal safety. In the past, cities like Guangzhou and Shenzhen frequently experienced robberies committed by individuals on motorcycles, which indeed posed risks to personal and property safety, as the accident rate for motorcycles is relatively high. However, after the ban in Shenzhen, countless electric vehicles began to speed through the streets without restrictions. Electric vehicle riders do not require a driving license, and their operation lacks the regulatory guidelines that previously governed motorcycles, leading to a significantly higher rate of accidents. Consequently, management began to impose bans on electric vehicles (with exceptions). If one wishes to ride a motorcycle, they must go to second- or third-tier cities where there is no motorcycle ban. After years of prohibition, Xi’an recently allowed motorcycles back on the roads, resulting in many purchasing motorcycles for transportation, while more motorcycle enthusiasts began to buy larger displacement bikes to indulge. However, motorcycle management regulations have not improved, and the safety of riding motorcycles on the roads remains unguaranteed.
In Ho Chi Minh City, while there are fewer motorcycles than in Taipei, the spectacle during rush hours is still impressive. The difference lies in the lack of rules governing motorcycle operation and parking. In Taipei, at a red light, all motorcycles come to a stop in their designated lanes; I can cross the pedestrian crossing without worry. Conversely, on any street in Ho Chi Minh City, I would hesitate to cross because, even with a red light, motorcycles still dart out unexpectedly. Although the riders are skilled enough not to hit me, from a pedestrian’s perspective, this kind of road management is certainly unsafe.
I have often pondered why Taipei can accommodate so many motorcycles without issue. If road resources are limited and the number of private cars cannot increase indefinitely, can public transport provide convenience for citizens? Undoubtedly, the answer is affirmative; buses cannot reach every corner of the city. In this situation, how do citizens choose their modes of transport? Analyzing the development of several cities, Taipei serves as a model. With buses as the primary means of urban transport, most citizens choose motorcycles over private cars, as the costs, maintenance, and parking for private cars do not offer advantages over motorcycles. If regulatory bodies pre-design all aspects regarding rules and convenience, it is likely that most people would prefer motorcycles due to their convenience. Those who are passionate about motorcycles are even less likely to consider private cars as their primary choice.
Motorcycles are scarce in Hong Kong, and parking issues are likely the main constraint on their development. The notion that riding motorcycles is unsafe is valid; narrow streets, dense pedestrian traffic, and fast-moving vehicles create various safety risks for riders. However, the management has not banned motorcycles; instead, they have made it more challenging to obtain a motorcycle license, thereby enhancing riding skills and safety awareness.
I enjoy motorcycles. When I go out to photograph, if my driving license is recognized, I would definitely rent a motorcycle instead of a car for the convenience it brings, especially in terms of parking. My love for motorcycles stems from their mechanical operation, the sense of unity between rider and machine, and that innate feeling of control reminiscent of riding horses or bicycles. From the perspective of a motorcycle enthusiast, like many others, I find myself losing the power of choice. Whether in Hong Kong, Shenzhen, Beijing, or Xi’an, if one wishes to enjoy riding while ensuring safety, Taipei should be the only option, as it is truly the world of motorcycles.
Published in Taiwan’s Dream Sharing Journal, 2019.
Morocco is worth visiting because its culture blends French, Spanish, and Arab elements. Educated people speak French, Arabic, and English, and behave very politely. Their homes have European-style decorations and feel casual and comfortable. I sensed this during my journey a few years ago when I took a ferry from Algeciras in southern Spain to the Moroccan town of Tangier and then traveled south. The Moroccans in Rabat and Casablanca are quite different from those in Marrakech and Chefchaouen. Most people in the Sahara Desert region speak only Berber and Arabic.
This time, I flew from Barcelona, Spain, to Rabat, then traveled to Marrakech near Merzouga in the Sahara Desert, and finally went to Fes and Chefchaouen before returning to Spain.
Due to photography, I needed to observe the local culture more carefully to discover the most captivating and moving aspects. Unfortunately, during my first shoot, I received several warnings prohibiting photography from passersby. I understand the taboos of photographing in Islamic countries, so I avoided directly portraying people, especially women. In Morocco’s capital, Rabat, and Casablanca, it’s relatively easy to take photos as long as you don’t shoot people directly; few people mind. In Marrakech and Merzouga, people were casual about it, and sometimes they even encouraged me to take photos when they realized I was a photographer. However, it was much more challenging in Fes and Chefchaouen, where people would watch my every move with suspicion.
One afternoon, while walking on the cobblestone streets of Chefchaouen looking for planned scenes, I came across a colorful food cart parked at a low corner of a house. The wall behind it was painted a large area of the signature blue of Chefchaouen. This color attracted me, so I approached to take a closer look. It turned out to be a snack cart, covered with orange canvas on three sides, leaving two square openings at the front resembling a house door. The cart was decorated with various flowers, and there was no one beside it. After I took a few shots, a middle-aged man came out of the house and asked if I had taken pictures of the cart. I replied that I had, and he requested that I delete the photos. He didn’t seem unfriendly, but neither was he polite. After deleting the photos for him, I asked why I couldn’t take pictures. He glanced at me and said that photographing took away his soul.
When I returned to my accommodation that day and mentioned this to the owner, he said that some people believe everything has a soul, and tourists shouldn’t take it away, so photographing anything is inappropriate. His words were validated in the old city of Fes, where while photographing an old city gate, a group of people gathered in the distance, and I could only see their backs in the frame. After I finished shooting, a middle-aged man told me I couldn’t take pictures. He didn’t make me delete the photos but just walked away. I felt confused and somewhat frustrated, unsure about where I could and couldn’t take photos in the old city. However, in Rabat, Marrakech, and Merzouga, it was different. When we stopped by the roadside in the Sahara Desert, a group of camels was gathered around a deep well, with their owner drawing water for them. I asked the driver if I could take pictures of the camels and their owner, and he said I could shoot as much as I wanted. Still not entirely at ease, I asked him to check with the owner. They spoke Arabic, and the owner invited me to come closer. He told me to take as many photos as I wanted, saying that the well was at least 50 meters deep and that it takes at least an hour for the camels to drink. I quickly changed lenses to take close-up shots of the owner and the camels.
Moroccan culture isn’t exactly mysterious, but there are significant regional differences. People in the south are straightforward, while those in the north, especially in Fes and Chefchaouen, are more reserved. This may be due to the higher level of commercialization in the north, making them adept at dealing with others. The boys in the old city of Fes left me with a bad impression, and I referred to them as “guides.” When I was searching for scenes in the alleys, they would suddenly appear like ghosts, thinking I was lost, and would then insist on showing me the way. When I realized I was being trapped, I tried to shake them off, but they stuck to me like chewing gum, following me wherever I went. They demanded 20 euros, and when I threatened to call the police, he said 5 euros would suffice. After being scammed for 5 euros, I started to refuse all the kids in Morocco who offered to guide me. Asking adults for directions was mostly fine, but almost no one spoke clear English; they spoke Arabic and French, so I had to rely on gestures and directions. The mobile signal in the old city was poor, and my phone navigation sometimes failed, leading me to unnecessary detours. Later, I bought a map and studied it roughly before shooting, marking important intersections, and asking adult passersby for directions, which helped me avoid getting lost.
The square in Marrakech is worth visiting, filled with countless snacks and vibrant activities at night, including various performances and games. It is one of the busiest squares in Africa and the world, known as Jemaa el-Fnaa. After leaving the square, I walked back to my accommodation, allowing me to observe the city’s nighttime life.
I passed by a watermelon stand where the vendor had just cut open a huge watermelon. The inherent fragrance of the watermelon instantly transported me back to my childhood. Every summer, my father’s workplace would distribute large watermelons—some even bigger than basketballs. Whenever there was a watermelon distribution, our whole family would mobilize to transport it home, often from a hundred meters away. Watermelons would occasionally drop and crack open, releasing their unique aroma, making it impossible for me to resist devouring them.
The smell took me far away to North Africa, and I wanted to buy one to enjoy back at my accommodation, eating it in big bites. However, the watermelons here were enormous, larger than three basketballs, and I couldn’t carry one by myself. I couldn’t understand what the vendor was saying, but from his gestures, I gathered he wanted me to buy the freshly cut watermelon. Even a quarter of it was still quite large, so I gestured that I only wanted a small piece. He cut off a quarter, wrapped it in a plastic bag, and handed it to me. When I asked him how much it cost, he used a calculator to show me a number, which I calculated to be about 1.8 RMB.
I took out 2 dirhams to give him, but he refused to accept it. I thought I must have miscalculated. He picked up a whole watermelon, pressed the same number on the calculator, and told me the entire watermelon was 2 dirhams. I was stunned—such a large watermelon for just 1.8 RMB! That’s about 7 cents per pound! I couldn’t help but think how wonderful it would be if a whole train could transport these watermelons back to China.
I still insisted on giving him 2 dirhams, but he smiled and declined, implying it was a gift for me. Carrying the watermelon back to my accommodation, I devoured that quarter in one go; it was sweet and juicy, leaving my lips sticky with pulp. I thought to myself how kind the Moroccans are. A small piece of watermelon didn’t mean much, but it filled my heart as a Chinese person with sweetness. Later, whenever I recalled the unpleasant experience with the children who tried to guide me in the old city, the image of that watermelon vendor occupied a cherished place in my thoughts.
Ralph, the owner of a guesthouse in Fes, has excellent English skills. He studied design in the United States and returned to Morocco to run his guesthouse, but he remains a professional designer. In addition to designing many guesthouses, he collaborates with Morocco’s largest mosaic factory to create products. He travels to China every year, working with partners in Guangzhou, Ningbo, and Shenzhen.
During my stay at his beautiful Riad, he treated me to afternoon tea and took me to the mosaic factory, a two-story building with an olive stone furnace and workshop on the first floor and a showroom on the second, showcasing various handmade mosaic artworks worth purchasing and collecting. That evening, Ralph arranged for me to experience a unique Moroccan spa treatment at one of his two Riads. To celebrate our newfound friendship, he offered me a discount on the spa service.
Just a five-minute walk from my guesthouse, I arrived at the Riad offering spa services, where a plump woman greeted me after I rang the bell. Ralph introduced me to the spa therapist, who led me upstairs to a room filled with the refreshing scent of essential oils. After Ralph left, the therapist asked me to change into cotton shorts and took me downstairs to the bathing area.
I initially thought she would leave, but sensing my hesitation, she explained that Moroccan spa treatments require assistance from the therapist, specifically for hot stone baths. She instructed me to lie on a black stone slab, and warmth enveloped my back. She mentioned that it would take at least 15 minutes to prepare the hot water and other bathing products.
As I lay there, she adjusted the water and gathered various essential oil bottles and towels. When the time was up, she began my wash, applying different essential oils from head to toe, reminding me of childhood experiences in public bathhouses. To my surprise, she was able to scrub away quite a bit of dirt. After rinsing me off, she repeated the process several times. The basement was hot and humid, with sweat pouring down.
She offered me water and continued the treatment, and after several rounds, we finished. Upon exiting the steamy bathing area, I felt an overwhelming sense of renewal, as if I could float. When I returned upstairs to the massage table, she had changed into another outfit, still in a short skirt and tank top. The room was lit with fragrant candles, and soft French songs played in the background.
As she skillfully massaged me, we chatted about her life. She and Ralph were classmates in high school, and after he returned from the U.S., he invited her to establish the hot stone spa. By then, she had already obtained a government-issued spa therapist license and had a thriving business. However, due to her five-year-old daughter, she insisted on making appointments to not interfere with her parenting.
She mentioned that Morocco is an Islamic country, and while she is a believer, the culture here is more open and accepting than in other countries. She does not have to wear a veil like some Arab women and is free to do as she wishes. When I asked about any potential harassment from clients during spa treatments, she admitted there had been some instances, but they were few, as guests at this establishment are generally of a higher caliber.
She recounted an incident with an American guest who became inappropriate during his treatment. When she warned him and ended the service, he continued to misbehave, prompting her to call the police. The American, feeling embarrassed, left the guesthouse that same night. She believes that the guests who stay here are kind-hearted. As for her choice of attire, she explained that given the humid and warm conditions in the bathing area and her fuller figure, she had little choice in what to wear while working.
When traveling and shooting in Morocco, English is mainly usable in hotels, some guesthouses, and at the airport, while Arabic and French are widely spoken. Communication with Moroccan Arabs can be quite challenging, and I often find it difficult to distinguish between the local people, who may be a mix of Berbers, French, and Spanish. I rely on observing their friendliness to gauge whether I can communicate, interact, and take photos.
From my experience, if people do not avoid me or appear uncomfortable while I’m shooting, there’s a good chance I can greet them or chat after taking their picture. However, this often depends on whether they speak English or Spanish, as most people do not.
Chefchaouen, known as the “Blue City,” looks like a blue lake from above. The sunlight reflects off the blue and white walls in the narrow alleys, creating perfect scenes with passersby and objects. I try to avoid photographing people head-on, but I found myself at a loss when I encountered an elderly Moroccan Arab man walking his birds.
Exiting a narrow alley, I came face to face with a wall where an elderly man in a white Arab robe sat on a small stool, dozing. The morning sun was warm and gentle, accompanied by the chirping of birds from the cages hanging on the wall. He seemed to be in a deep sleep. While shooting in Morocco, I only had my 35mm and 50mm lenses with me, as I hadn’t brought a medium telephoto lens. To avoid waking him or being noticed while photographing him and the birds (which reminded me of a previous moment capturing cars), I quietly approached to within about two meters, took a quick shot, and turned to leave.
Suddenly, he spoke, startling me. I wondered if he would want me to delete the photo, fearing I had captured his soul. His words were incomprehensible to me, but his kind eyes conveyed friendliness rather than displeasure. As I stood there, unsure, he came over, took my hand, and continued speaking in a language I didn’t understand. He then gestured for me to come closer to the birdcage, sitting down and encouraging me to take more photos. I managed a stiff smile and snapped a few shots while he smiled back at me.
Feeling reassured by his friendliness, I took several portraits of him and his birds. When we finished, he stood up, shook my hand in farewell, and returned to his rest. Back at the guesthouse in Chefchaouen, I asked the owner about the encounter, but he couldn’t explain it either. He noted that most Moroccan Arabs, especially the elderly, are generally reluctant to be photographed.
Morocco is indeed a magical country, and I find it difficult to truly understand its people through just a few trips and conversations. This only deepens my curiosity, driving me to engage with more locals without feeling fatigued. However, one thing I struggled to recall was the cuisine. Morocco offers a variety of delicious dishes, with most restaurant menus showcasing a mix of Moroccan and Mediterranean cuisine, usually in French and Arabic, with few options in English. I only encountered one menu in a Chefchaouen Chinese restaurant that featured Chinese, French, and English.
In larger city restaurants, appetizers often included shrimp and salads, while main dishes typically featured Moroccan specialties like lamb with couscous or pasta. In smaller towns, options were limited to tagine, mashed potatoes, and fried meatballs. Throughout my journey to the Sahara Desert, I had tagine at every meal, to the point where just the sight of it made me feel nauseous.
Traditional Moroccan tagine is a dish cooked in a tagine pot, combining chicken, onions, tomatoes, raisins, cilantro, and Moroccan saffron with spices like pepper, turmeric, paprika, and cinnamon, similar to a hot pot, and generally a healthier way to eat. After returning home, I avoided hot pot for quite some time, possibly due to my overexposure to tagine.
Traveling in Morocco is best done by self-driving or independently, avoiding group tours. The slow pace of life, the historical layers of old towns, handmade crafts, and diverse characters all require time to appreciate. Without knowledge of French or Arabic, it’s advisable to download translation apps to communicate with locals, which makes the journey much more enjoyable. I prefer staying in guesthouses, particularly local Riad-style accommodations, but it’s essential to take the time to find clean places where the staff can speak English, ideally those with strong design and artistic ambiance.
Interacting with locals during my travels always leaves a profound impression on me; happy and unhappy moments occur daily, and I record these events as material for my work, allowing me to reflect on and better understand society.
Published in Hong Kong’s “Chaoyou” magazine in 2018.
I have been to Japan many times, visiting almost every city from south to north, yet I still feel unfamiliar with it. Perhaps I don’t understand Japan, and the language barrier makes communication with Japanese people quite difficult. Whenever I think about this, I compare my lack of understanding of Japan with my familiarity with Cuba and Iceland, where I can freely communicate with locals in English and Spanish.
Ultimately, it’s a matter of cultural customs; Japanese people tend to be more reserved and it’s not easy to become close friends in a short time. Therefore, simply going there to film and getting to know a few people doesn’t allow for the same depth of conversation as in Cuba and Iceland.
In my “Dream” series of works, one of the main filming locations is Tokyo, alongside Cuba, Taipei, and Hong Kong.
One of them. It gives me the impression of a hurried and cold city, with tired commuters in the subway, people rushing down the streets, and solitary diners quietly having dinner in restaurants at night. The cafes are scattered throughout, always filled with many people, seemingly contrasting with Tokyo’s indifference. During my days filming in Tokyo, I often encountered rainy weather, which I felt brought my topics closer to the atmosphere I wanted. The cafes became my frequent refuge; I would find a window seat to sit down, allowing my camera to capture the scenes outside at any moment.
One time, a friend invited me to a café for breakfast around 7 o’clock, and it was raining that morning. As we left the subway station, the fine rain dampened our clothes, but we took some photos along the way to protect the camera. We stopped at a storefront that was easy to miss, and my friend mentioned we had arrived, so we climbed the narrow staircase to the third floor.
Upon entering through a small door, we found a long bar with a few customers already there. My friend greeted them and led me to a window seat. She chatted with a middle-aged woman preparing coffee and told me that this café had been around for 67 years. I was encouraged to choose my favorite cup from the shelf, where no two were alike. I picked a blue-and-white porcelain cup and ordered a double espresso. My friend ordered a ham sandwich, fried eggs, and orange juice.
Next to us, an elderly lady had been quietly sipping her coffee since we arrived. With her silver hair and wrinkled face, she looked to be over 70. My friend said she was in her 80s and lived on this street, having breakfast there every day. When she married and moved to Tokyo 20 years ago, she lived nearby and often came for coffee, always seeing the elderly lady.
The busy middle-aged woman behind the bar was the owner’s daughter and was very familiar with the elderly lady; they chatted freely. When she was a child helping her father in the café, the elderly lady would come with her husband and daughter. Afterward, she came with just her daughter when her husband passed away, and eventually, she came alone after her daughter died. For many years now, the elderly lady has sat in the same spot almost every morning, drinking coffee and having breakfast.
Tokyo’s rain is usually light, and people like to carry umbrellas when they go out. I don’t enjoy carrying one, so when it rains, I wait in a café for it to stop, which also helps protect my camera. Whether on the main streets or in the alleys, I can always easily find a café.
Once, I was at a coffee bar in the corner of a large department store, having coffee to wait out the rain while chatting with the owner. He looked to be around 60 years old and managed this corner café, which had only three high stools outside. Seeing that it was inconvenient for me to drink coffee while holding my camera, he kindly offered to put it on the small bar counter for me.
Two middle-aged women nearby joined our conversation about cameras and photography. The owner’s English was just understandable, but the two women relied on him for translation. When he asked where I was from and I replied, “China,” they all fell silent, and time seemed to freeze. At that moment, I didn’t know what to say next, nor did I know what they were thinking. At that time, the negotiations between China and Japan regarding the Diaoyu Islands were at a standstill. Later, I asked some Japanese friends about it, and they explained that right-wing sentiments are quite loud in Japan, and negative media coverage affects ordinary people. However, Japanese people generally don’t pay much attention to politics.
Tokyo’s rain gives me a sense of comfort; walking on the streets after the rain, the moist and fresh air alleviates the hustle and bustle of the crowded city. At this moment, my desire to capture images is strong, and I can always find scenes that satisfy me. I was surprised by the abundance of cafés in Tokyo. Later, I researched online and found that Japanese coffee merchants annually purchase large quantities of premium coffee from countries like Jamaica, Cuba, and Panama, usually reserving all of it. They also source coffee from other regions to meet Japan’s coffee consumption demands.
When I visit cafés in Tokyo, as well as in Fukuoka, Kyoto, and Hokkaido, I try to choose non-chain establishments to experience different characteristics. In fact, many unique cafés are tucked away in inconspicuous alleys, with only a few seats, but they are cozy, often serving homemade pastries alongside coffee. Japanese sweets are not overly sweet or greasy, and sitting at a street corner with a cup of espresso and a glass of water, I watch the hurried Japanese people.
Although there is no verbal communication, the surrounding environment and culture often make me feel as if I am in a city in China. Sometimes, when the café owner’s English isn’t very good, I write in Chinese, which surprisingly facilitates our communication. One café owner praised my Chinese writing; he had studied it since elementary school and admired those who could write with a brush. He mentioned that many people in Japan learn Chinese and find it easier to learn than English, noting that the structure of Chinese characters is aesthetically pleasing, something that Japanese writing cannot compare to.
Once, I saw someone selling what looked like pottery on the street and learned that it was a filter used for drip coffee. It was made from a type of stone, and processed into a multi-chambered filter for brewing coffee. The seller said that coffee made this way tastes completely different from coffee brewed with paper filters.
When I paid him and was about to leave, he suddenly spoke Mandarin, and I learned that he had studied in Tokyo and was involved in sales related to coffee products. Over the past eight years, this company in Tokyo had him selling coffee equipment, decorations, coffee beans, and grounds, which not only made him proficient in coffee but also allowed him to earn enough to buy a house. He mentioned that Japanese people are very fond of drinking coffee. Although tea is Japan’s traditional beverage, coffee has attracted the younger generation. The world’s top-quality coffee beans are purchased by Japanese companies, and the most expensive coffee shops are in Tokyo, with Japan having the largest coffee consumer base. I didn’t ask where the most expensive coffee shop was, knowing I wouldn’t go there even if I found out. He told me that he often returns to his home country, both for business and to visit his parents. Most coffee shops domestically are fashionable, and there are many more Starbucks than in Japan. The coffee consumer base is far less extensive than in Japan, especially among those who specifically enjoy and appreciate coffee.
While filming in Tokyo, I went to enjoy Kobe beef. I made a reservation two days in advance, and once seated, a middle-aged woman dressed in a kimono gracefully entered the private room to serve us. The meal took nearly three hours, and each dish felt like savoring exquisite coffee. The cafes I’ve visited also serve their guests through a series of meticulous steps. The barista carefully selects coffee beans, grinds them, prepares the coffee, and allows customers to choose their favorite cups, all done with utmost precision. Is it just a cup of coffee? Japanese people carry out such rituals with it. One time, a friend invited me to eat fish at a unique auction fish restaurant in Tokyo. All seats must be reserved a few days in advance, as the restaurant needs to order a specific type of fish. When the seats are full, the auction begins, with bids, paddles raised, and hammers dropped. Twin brothers auction off a giant fish in an instant, which is then cooked to perfection and served to the guests. I also managed to get a piece of the fish, a section behind the gills. Typically, I wouldn’t eat that part, as it would usually be thrown away, but after the chef’s preparation, it was aromatic and delightful.
After the meal, I naturally went for coffee at a street-side shop on the second floor near Ginza. Through the café’s large windows, I could see the bustling street below. I couldn’t help but ponder a question: why do the Japanese in Tokyo seem a bit aloof? The café was quiet, with many people silently looking down at their phones or books, savoring a cup of coffee for a long time without changing cups. How do cafes make money? There are indeed many who spend an entire day sipping a single cup of coffee. From the seemingly indifferent people, I found warmth in the café; they wouldn’t proactively ask customers for refills, nor would they rush anyone to leave.
I enjoy visiting Taipei in the winter to watch the rain, as the drizzles splash on the ground, with yellow leaves floating in the rainwater, conveying the winter atmosphere. The cooler weather, accompanied by rain, as I walk along Zhongxiao East Road, gives me a sense of desolation. Tokyo’s rain isn’t as dreary; the streets and subway exits are crowded with umbrellas of various colors and styles, all sheltering from the rain, with droplets casually falling onto the umbrella surface before quickly sliding down to the ground. No one noticed me constantly taking pictures with my camera, as I wanted to capture the people here, of course looking for warmer faces and smiles. It seems that the hurried passersby only find comfort and relaxation in the café. Tokyo’s coffee shops don’t seem to be profit-driven; rather, they are places where people escape the rain, allowing them to pause and rest. When I go to Europe, I like to sit by the window in cafés, continuously documenting the interesting pedestrians outside. Cafés usually have many people chatting; couples enjoy dating and talking there, occasionally kissing and expressing their affection, standing up to hug, before sitting down to continue sipping coffee. Their interest in dating and kissing surpasses their interest in coffee. In Tokyo’s cafés, you can hardly see couples on dates, let alone witness any kisses or affection. It seems that cafés are sacred places meant for people to seek solace, but they lack a sense of passion.
Tokyo’s rainy days are intriguing; when it rains, I can only sit in a café drinking coffee, halting my photography. Roughly speaking, I spend more time drinking coffee in Tokyo than taking pictures, and the rainy days in Tokyo have cultivated my habit of enjoying coffee there.
Published in Hong Kong’s “Chao You,” October 2018.
I entered Hong Kong, which was still under British rule at the time, through the Luohu border, spending nearly two hours to cross. The subway took me to Sheung Wan, where I took the tram to visit a friend’s company. On the tram around 8 a.m., everyone seemed fatigued; some were dozing off, some were resting with their eyes closed, and a few were reading newspapers. The scene on the tram in the evening was similar to that in the morning—exhaustion and dozing. The streets of Sheung Wan are narrow, and people walk briskly, with no one willing to slow down; it felt like a powerful force was pushing them forward. My first impression of Hong Kong was one of oppression, urgency, and fatigue.
從那以後的每一年，我都會去香港一段時間，拜訪我的客戶-他們中大部分是律師、會計師和銀行，還有些是上市公司的法務主管。我的腳步非常塊地適應香港節奏，毫不誇張地講是健步如飛，我突然意識到我很喜歡這樣的節奏。我在辦公室裡會面的每一個人都是聚精會神地商討事情，沒有廢話和客套，談完即告別。這讓我想起第一次到港在上環看到上下班的人們疲憊的狀態，我意識到了效率的實質，在香港完美體現出來。
在定居香港前，每年去港與客戶開會或拜訪他們都是提前幾個月或半年約好具體日期和時間，那時候普遍使用傳真確認。在與他們會面前無需再次確認，幾個月後按照約定日期時間不差份秒我會出現在他們面前，這讓我很差異，因為去歐洲、北美和南美跟客戶開會，約定時間後往往在會面臨近要再次電話確認。住在香港後，我與客戶依然延續這樣的方式，所以一年後的活動我都會始前安排好。我的秘書會很仔細地確認所有細節，列印日程並提前一周提醒我每個客戶的詳細位址、交通路線和門牌單雙號或寫字樓入口。因為，香港門牌單雙號也許在街對面，要走一段路找到斑馬線才能過街。
各個商會活動和一些商業社交活動一般都會安排在下午5點左右，雞尾酒會、商業社交派對、沙龍和專業研討會等等是香港商業精英聚集的場所，也是結交商業夥伴的最好時機。有客戶約我來公司拜會，也會按照一種習慣安排時間，就是排期，幾個月，一個月或者幾個星期以後的某一天的某個時間。這是一種守信的表現，也是商業社會必須具備的基本素質。在幾百次約會中，也發生過按照約定時間去了找不到人的，這種幾率很小，一般是因為客戶遷址我們沒有收到通知。偶爾約定的合夥人臨時無法出席，其他合夥人或負責人也會出席，所以我體會到了一種秩序。
Since then, every year I would spend some time in Hong Kong visiting my clients—most of whom are lawyers, accountants, and bankers, along with some legal heads of listed companies. I quickly adapted my pace to the rhythm of Hong Kong, and it’s no exaggeration to say that I moved at a brisk speed. I suddenly realized that I really enjoyed this pace. Everyone I met in the office was focused on discussing matters, with no small talk or pleasantries, and once the conversation ended, we would part ways. This reminded me of my first visit to Hong Kong, where I saw the weary faces of people commuting in Sheung Wan, and I realized the essence of efficiency, which is perfectly embodied in Hong Kong.
Before settling in Hong Kong, each year I would schedule meetings or visits with clients months or even half a year in advance, usually confirming through fax. There was no need to reconfirm before meeting them; months later, I would appear at the agreed date and time without fail. This was a stark contrast to my experiences in Europe, North America, and South America, where I often had to call to confirm as the meeting approached. After living in Hong Kong, I continued this practice with my clients, so I would plan activities a year in advance. My secretary would meticulously confirm all the details, print the schedule, and remind me a week in advance of each client’s address, transport routes, and whether the building was an odd or even-numbered entrance. This is important because in Hong Kong, odd and even-numbered addresses might be across the street, requiring a bit of walking to find the crosswalk.
Various chamber of commerce activities and some business social events are generally scheduled around 5 PM, with cocktail parties, business social gatherings, salons, and professional seminars being prime venues for business elites to gather, serving as the best opportunities to network. When clients invite me to their offices, there’s also a customary practice of scheduling a time, whether it’s a few months, a month, or a few weeks in the future. This is a demonstration of trustworthiness and is a fundamental quality necessary in the business community. Among the hundreds of appointments, there were instances when I arrived at the agreed time only to find no one there; this was rare and usually because the client had relocated without notifying us. Occasionally, if a scheduled partner could not attend, other partners or responsible persons would be present, so I have come to appreciate a sense of order.
After settling in Hong Kong, I quickly got used to the fast-paced lifestyle. When attending meetings at law firms, banks, listed companies, or accounting firms in Central, I would meticulously calculate my time. Walking from the Harbour City office to the Tsim Sha Tsui MTR station takes about five minutes, and the subway ride across the harbor to Central takes nine minutes. I wouldn’t allow for any delays, typically leaving an extra 15 to 20 minutes. Every minute in Hong Kong is crucial, as it can bring profit or loss, which reinforced my understanding of the saying that time is money.
Living in Hong Kong, every cell in my body felt like it was in a state of high tension, akin to an engine running at full throttle. Even when dining, drinking at bars, or hiking, I would arrange to meet clients to casually discuss business. Compared to my experiences in Latin America, North America, and Europe, the pace of life there cannot compare to Hong Kong. In Italy and Spain, business activities unfold leisurely; one should not expect to conclude matters in a single day, and a meal can stretch over several hours, often accompanied by a mandatory siesta. In Latin America, business meetings require multiple confirmations days or hours in advance, and it’s not uncommon to start a meeting half an hour late. Unlike Hong Kong, where I can schedule a meeting every hour and sometimes have eight in a day, in Latin America, three to four meetings in a day is already quite good. Some appointments may get canceled last minute, as I cannot wait indefinitely. It’s not a matter of disrespect; the reasons for missing appointments are usually valid. I understand that clients who miss appointments will often visit my office later to explain and apologize. Of course, I might also keep them waiting for at least half an hour, sometimes even going missing myself, to make them realize how unprofessional it is to miss appointments.
In Europe, after meetings, we would either have a meal or find a place for drinks or coffee. Conversations in the office often focus on business, while outside, we rarely discuss work, instead talking about life, family, education, and experiences. Over the years, these business partners become friends, and even if they leave the business, we still meet as friends in Hong Kong or Europe. However, despite this, I still cannot calm my mind or find a place to feel at peace.
In Hong Kong, business is strictly business. During a one-hour meeting, when we reach the 50-minute mark, we would immediately check the time and wrap up the meeting without discussing anything outside of business. Even when dining or drinking, the conversation inevitably circles back to business. Outdoor activities like hiking, attending parties, or going out to sea might allow for some casual talk about life, but what we refer to as “life” in Hong Kong is not the same as in Europe, Latin America, or China. One could argue that there is no real life in Hong Kong. Of course, this description may be biased; my understanding of life is one that is free from business entanglements, not one where life is mixed with commercial interests.
Some say that Hong Kong people do not enjoy life, which may not be entirely accurate but does reflect the reality of Hong Kong; it’s challenging to find a cozy café in a quiet alley like in Taipei, or a small tea house where one can read, think, or daydream peacefully. It’s hard to find a village or place like Dali or Hulunbuir, where you can enjoy the mountains and grasslands, sitting in a courtyard or garden of a guesthouse to relax and rejuvenate. Everything here is saturated with commerce, and time equates to money. Even if I manage to find a café or bar in the outlying islands or Stanley to sit quietly and read or think for half a day, I would still be disrupted by the chaotic information displayed on the television hanging from the ceiling. There is a lack of leisure culture and tranquility here; the mission of the people living in Hong Kong revolves around business and making money.
In 1995, I visited Taipei once, but my short stay left me with little impression of the city. After settling in Hong Kong and having Taiwanese clients, I found myself visiting Taipei from time to time, gradually discovering that the atmosphere there suited me. The pace of life is not as hectic as in Hong Kong; people go about their tasks methodically, but it is not slow. I feel a sense of calm. Sometimes, I meet clients at cafes or tea houses, most of whom are lawyers or bank executives. While we discuss business, we also spend a lot of time talking about life and culture.
In the small alleys of Taipei, many cafes and tea houses are quite small but full of character, allowing for a peaceful day spent sitting there. I often ask friends if such places can make money. The tranquility and serenity of Taipei create an atmosphere where people appear composed from within. I don’t believe Taipei is not a commercial society in this state; on the contrary, my business continues to grow there, and I have developed a deeper connection with my clients.
Comparing Hong Kong and Taipei, the seemingly old and low buildings endow Taipei with a vibrant cultural depth. In those inconspicuous little shops beneath the buildings, I find vinyl records, German-style clocks, casual clothing, and old cameras that I love. I also spend more time in bookstores searching for books on culture and history. Taipei offers a wide variety of publications, and many authors present fresh perspectives that are truly enlightening. Culture characterizes Taipei; I don’t care about the age of the districts and buildings, but rather whether a city has its own culture. In relative terms, I prefer wandering through the small alleys of Taipei, sampling street food, and chatting with friendly shop owners. Usually, if they’re not busy, they enjoy talking with me, and I take the opportunity to photograph them and document life.
I enjoy winter in Taipei. “Come to Taipei to see the rain in winter” is the theme song in my heart every time I arrive in winter. Everything in the rain seems to transport me into a fairy tale, as I sit half-awake in a street corner cafe watching pedestrians pass by. Yellow and brown leaves drift down with the wind onto the rain-soaked pavement, appearing desolate yet enjoyable. Why not allow oneself to be in a state of melancholy? It’s like savoring solitude, calming the heart.
Published in Taiwan’s “Dream Sharing” in October 2019.
