Farming Life Starting in Africa

It's a real challenge to my taste buds. This wine tastes like someone threw star anise and licorice into industrial alcohol and soaked it for three years, then mixed it with a whole bottle of Tiger Balm. It's strong, pungent, and strange.

Rosen put down his glass, pulled a ten-dollar bill from his pocket, and slammed it on the table. He picked up the cloth bag containing his suit jacket, stood up, and walked out.

As he stepped out of the teahouse, he took a deep breath of the fresh air. Although the bonfire smoke in the square was quite pungent, it was nothing compared to the refreshing mountain breeze from that glass of yarlim.

Rosen secretly vowed never to touch Arab drinks again in his life. Those strange flavors were simply too much for his palate.

He just couldn't understand it. Shouldn't fennel be used for stewing meat? How could anyone use it to brew alcohol? And a strong liquor at that? What's the difference between that and soaking star anise in Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor)?

Not far from the teahouse, Rosen suddenly felt someone watching him from behind.

Rosen didn't turn around or look around. His pace remained unchanged, swaying as he walked, just like any ordinary person strolling down the street.

There was a corner ahead, with several walls blocking the lights from the square, making it pitch black. Only a few stars overhead shone down, and pink lights shone from the distant tenement buildings. Anyone who didn't know better would think that there were quite a few people out there.

Rosen went inside, and in the darkness, he stuffed the suit jacket from the cloth bag into the capsule space, and then stuffed the old newspapers he had read that morning into the cloth bag.

He casually tossed the cloth bag on the ground, walked out from the other end of the corner, and slowly merged into the crowd in the square.

The bonfire was burning brightly in the middle, the drumbeats were getting faster and faster, and the cheers of the crowd were like the incessant cries of monkeys on both banks of the river, with all sorts of people screaming.

They swayed their bodies to the beat of the drums, their sweat glistening in the firelight. Rosen weaved through the crowd, trying to remain inconspicuous.

Just before he left that blind spot, two figures wearing headscarves stealthily crept over.

The two crouched down in the darkness, picked up the cloth bag, and excitedly opened it. Inside, there was nothing but a pile of English newspapers, and Rosen had disappeared.

One of them angrily threw the newspaper on the ground, while the other swore at something Rosen couldn't quite hear. The two of them circled the area a couple more times before finally disappearing into the depths of the alley in a huff.

Rosen followed the general direction that Lao Zhou had left in; he was definitely not the only one being watched.

When Old Zhou left, he was carrying a bulging cloth bag, which was quite conspicuous. There are many gangs in Uller; they hide in the refugee area during the day and rush out as soon as it gets dark.

The more lively the scene, the more they like to come out and "earn extra money." In their eyes, Old Zhou's bag is just a mobile ATM.

Rosen walked along that street for about four or five hundred meters. The further he went, the darker it got, as there were no streetlights.

In the darkness, he smelled blood. Turning into the alley, he saw a human figure leaning against the wall in front of him, its body twitching slightly.

Only when you get closer can you see clearly that Old Zhou is supporting a person's shoulder and slowly laying that person down on the roadside.

There was already a person lying on the ground, leaning against the wall at an unnatural angle, with their legs unconsciously kicking the ground.

Rosen glanced down and, with the faint light coming from the distant square, could see the dark clothes on the person's body. Dark skin has a built-in invisibility skill at night, and it is not easy to find them without careful observation.

Rosen looked Old Zhou up and down, and seeing that he was not injured and his clothes were clean, he was relieved.

"I told you not to meet in crowded places, look, it attracted flies."

Old Zhou shrugged, his expression unclear in the darkness, but the gesture conveyed a calm acceptance of being "used to it."

Only then did Rosen notice that a dagger, more than ten centimeters long, was hidden in his right sleeve. The blade was slender and reflected a cold, sharp white light in the dim starlight, and something was dripping from it. It seemed that he had just used this to solve the problem.

Old Zhou glanced at Rosen, nodded in thanks, and without saying much, wiped the dagger on the black man's body a couple of times, put it away, straightened his clothes, and disappeared into the depths of the alley.

Rosen did not follow.

He returned to the edge of the square, stood at the very edge of the crowd, and looked at the crackling bonfire.

The drumbeats were rapid, so fast that it made your heart race. The crowd surged, a dark mass of figures swaying in the firelight, like some ancient ritual.

Several small vendors, carrying goods such as peanuts, chewing gum, and lighters, weaved through the crowd, shouting as they tried to make a few dollars from the revelry.

Occasionally, you can see a few white faces mixed in, swaying their bodies to the rhythm with a "I'm experiencing life in Africa" ​​smile on their faces. Their dance steps are stiff like robots, but they dance with great enthusiasm and carefree attitude. I wonder if they will see the sun rise tomorrow.

Rosen sighed.

He had absolutely no interest in such a lively scene. The crowd was filled with all sorts of exotic and curious atmospheres, which he found very off-putting, so he turned around and headed home.

He had only one thought in his mind: to get back quickly, put the suit on the all-powerful platform for careful scanning and analysis, and figure out its material composition.

Less than 200 meters from the garbage station, a gunshot pierced the night sky.

"Bang--!"

The sound wasn't loud, as if it were coming from an alley. Rosen's ears twitched; it was a small-caliber pistol. Judging from the direction, it should be near the main road, not far away.

Rosen didn't stop walking, but he slowed his pace.

He had no intention of going to watch the spectacle. In this place, people with too much curiosity are long gone, their graves overgrown with weeds.

You never know who that shot is aimed at, or if the shooter might accidentally shoot you, who's just passing by. It's better to avoid trouble and just go about your business.

But it seems that fate has no intention of making things easy for him.

Less than half a minute later, a woman's voice rang out, filled with obvious panic and urgency: "Help—! Is anyone there—!"

It is written in Chinese.

Rosen suddenly stopped, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then strode over.

It wasn't that he gave women any special treatment, but in this godforsaken place, a Chinese-speaking woman was screaming for help, and it would be too cold-blooded of him to ignore it.

After running less than 300 meters, Rosen saw a woman waving a wicker basket under a GG sign on the side of the road. She was leaning against the door of a shop next to the corner of the wall. The woman was wearing a full black windbreaker and her hair was loose.

Surrounded in a corner by five identically poorly dressed black men, each armed with various homemade sharp weapons,

Behind us was a shop with its metal roller shutter door pulled all the way down, and walls on both sides, like being trapped in a jar with nowhere to retreat.