Farming Life Starting in Africa

Africa, this magical place, is often associated with poverty, backwardness, a group of black men, naked savages making a raucous noise, and a boiling cauldron.

In reality, Africa, besides the standard deserts and grasslands, also features mountains, rainforests, river valleys and wetlands, and even—snow-capped mountains. The area is ridiculously large; you could easily fit the four major African countries (China, the US, Mexico, and India) into it and still have room to spare.

In recent years, El Niño has become increasingly unpredictable, with global temperatures soaring like they've been hit by a gunpowder, and Africa, which is crossed by the equator, has been particularly unlucky.

The surface temperature during the day is a comfortable 60 degrees Celsius.

If you drop an egg on the ground, it won't be long before you can enjoy a runny yolk. If the black guy is in a good mood, he can just sprinkle some salt on it and eat it without even washing the pot.

Rosen loaded his most valuable cargo into the bed of his Bigfoot-style pickup truck, whose wheels were ridiculously large and whose bed was nearly three meters high.

In this crappy place, if the truck bed is low enough, someone has to stand inside. Those black guys are quick; in the blink of an eye, they can leave you with a few packs of cigarettes or a case of liquor out of the truck bed.

Rosen shook his soaked white T-shirt, and the resulting breeze slightly lowered his body temperature.

A fat man carrying a folding fan walked over from not far away. He wore a green top hat with rolled brim and a floral shirt.

The man walked over to the pickup truck, climbed up the ladder, lifted a corner of the tarpaulin in the truck bed, and carefully inspected the pile of valuable goods.

Once he was sure everything was alright, he laboriously climbed down the ladder, went around behind Rosen, patted him on the shoulder with a folding fan, and handed him a bottle of Kangshifu mineral water.

"Drive slowly on the way back, watch your road conditions, and don't act impulsively if you encounter any problems."

Rosen casually took the water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and gulped down more than half of it before saying, "Okay, Uncle! Hey—I won't be coming over for dinner tonight, I have an urgent job."

The fat man glanced at him sideways, then opened the folding fan with a "whoosh" and fanned his sweaty, round face vigorously.

"Stop wasting your time in that junkyard. Those jobs won't make a difference in a little while. There's a bonfire party in the square tonight. Come with me to meet someone first, then we can go back to your work."

"Who are you meeting?" Rosen casually tossed the half-empty bottle of water into the carriage and glanced at the fat man. In this sweltering heat, the floral shirt clung to the fat man's body, outlining his bulging figure, making him look incredibly stuffy.

Feeling the cool breeze from the fat man's large folding fan, Rosen unconsciously moved his feet closer to him.

"She's the sister of the owner of Hanbang Steel Plant." The fat man increased the force of his fan. "She hasn't been here long, and she's about your age. I was thinking of introducing you to her."

Rosen curled his lip. "That effeminate rich kid's family? No way. That Zhuo guy is too stupid. How good can they be, born of the same mother? His sister is probably the same way too."

"Don't be so picky, kid." The fat man closed his fan and poked Rosen's chest with the fan rib. "I heard from Old Lin that the Zhuo family kids all have pretty good genes, and his sister is gorgeous. The main thing is, their family is incredibly rich. If you could hook up with them, you'd save twenty years of hard work!"

Rosen rolled his eyes and said with a look of disgust, "You believe what Old Lin says? That guy talks a lot of nonsense. It's been more than half a year, and he still owes me money for ten boxes of ammunition. Forget about blind dates. I'm earning a lot now, and I can't even spend all the money."

In this unfortunate place, it's indeed quite difficult to spend money unless you do something outrageous.

His uncle, through his old flame's connections, had a 20-foot container docked at the Port of Santa Matasava every month, filled to the brim with Chinese daily necessities like cigarettes, alcohol, and home appliances. Rosen also benefited from this, never spending a penny on cigarettes or alcohol, and could smoke and drink whenever he wanted.

What could possibly make him spend a lot of money in this godforsaken place? Filling up a tank of gas only costs a few dollars. The monster truck he drove today was modified to get over 30 liters per 100 kilometers, and Rosen didn't even feel the pinch.

The fruits and vegetables we eat? Most of them are grown by the local Chinese workers—tomatoes, cucumbers, chives, and the like. They might not look very appealing, but they taste much better than the artificially ripened ones in Chinese supermarkets. Meat isn't expensive either; beef and lamb are significantly cheaper than in China.

There's nothing here that would cost him a lot of money.

"What will you do with that little bit of money when you go back to China? Houses in Beijing are almost 70,000 or 80,000 yuan per square meter now. How much do you earn in a year? Huh? Enough to buy a few square meters? The Zhuo family mines and refines steel here; they make a living off resources. That's big business. Your little stunts can only last a couple of days in this godforsaken place. Can you still do this when you go back to China?"

As he spoke, the fat man patted Rosen's lower back, where a bulge was visible under his clothes, revealing a classic M1911 rifle.

Rosen was too lazy to argue with him. It's not like there's only Beijing in China. The poor relatives surrounding Beijing, while not exactly developed, are still in decent condition.

However, that area isn't exactly a suitable place for retirement. Putting aside everything else, every summer, with the poplar fluff so close and so beautiful, who could stand being choked by it?

"Isn't it fine here? Why do you have to go back?"

Qian Bida closed his folding fan, tapped Rosen's arm, and said, "Are you deaf or what?" His voice rose an octave. "You never go home. Are you going to stay in this poor, run-down place when you're old? Do you want to retire with those black guys? You should get married and have kids. Once you're settled, why would I need to worry about you?"

Rosen pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tossed one to his uncle, and said, "You're just as bad, aren't you? You're also the only son of the Qian family! When are you going to have a cousin for me to play with? Besides, there's no one left in our family, so it's fine staying here. I can still do some things I like."

Qian Bida habitually took the cigarette and glanced at it. "Damn, you're smoking my Huazi again? You can't even get the cheaper cigarettes in your mouth, can you?"

Rosen shrugged and smiled indifferently. He took out a lighter from his pocket, lit the money bottle first, and then lit his own spiritual sustenance.

He took a deep breath, letting the pungent smoke swirl in his lungs, then slowly exhaled. Sweat trickled down his chin again, and he casually wiped it away with the cuff of his T-shirt.

The heat was unbearable. The air was scorching, the wind was scorching, even the shadows were scorching. Yet, despite the sweltering heat, Rosen felt a strange sense of relief.