Cursed Culture

Marsha’s country is younger than the invention of sliced white bread. A tiny nation that embraced modernity with all its bones; bones that were once bleached in the sun of war and colonialisation. Her family carved a comfortable life with questionable work-life balance and plenty of holidays. It was the reign of boomers and working hard always got you somewhere.

That’s exactly what Marsha thought her parents did. Mr Hong might have been small in stature, but every ounce of flesh on him was working muscle. His neatly combed side part jet black hair was the most definitive image her of father since childhood. Here in the tropics, monsoons might come and go, but that single line atop his head was always cleanly split like Moses parted it himself. Mrs Hong contrasted in both spirit and appearance. Her hair loose with dark umber curls, and skin as soft as her touch. Her tame demeanour lulled most into a false sense of security until confronted with her unbridled intellect and sharp words. Nothing less than you would expect for a typist.

An engineer of sorts, Mr Hong was always tinkering away in his studio. A studio made in a bedroom; a bedroom fit for a second child. Children was never part of the plan. But mistakes happen and that’s what the M in Marsha’s name came to stand for. Marsha had a fortunate life nonetheless, her parents did the best they could in spite of the lack of love they had. Marsha never suspected a thing.

The Hongs’ image of domestic bliss was solidified by yearly family vacations. Mr Hong was particularly fond of Europe while Mrs Hong always pushed for North America. This year however, they both made their peace with Egypt. Where they went didn’t matter to Marsha. She knew the final destination was always going to be a place soaked in the depths of rich history. That will always be non-negotiable.

December came around and the small family started planning and packing as they usually do. “It’s the longest school holiday you’ve got.” Her mom responded stoically when asked why they only ever travel during the year end. It was logic she didn’t need to question. Yet year after year, a little tugging in her instinct told her the entire year was building up to their trips in December. “It’s just the buzzing energy from looking forward to a break away”, she convinced herself.

One stopover and twelve hours later, they stepped out onto a perfect cool and sunny day. After checking in and a quick shower, their vacation was in motion. Bread was always the first meal. By this point, it had become a family tradition. Only the best the knowledge of the internet had to offer. And Mr Hong was always on top of it.

Warm with the aroma of wheat and yeast, Marsha tore into her first eish baladi. She began with a small piece on its own, unadulterated. Soft, chewy, and comforting, she hungrily tore into more, loading each piece with a generous scoop of spiced fava beans. In all its forms, bread is comfort. Bread is fuel. Bread is the safety that we find in familiarity.

A big meal for a big sleep. Struggling to keep her eyes open past 8pm, Marsha gave in to the beckoning call of slumber. After bidding her goodnight, Mr and Mrs Hong retreated back into the neighbouring hotel room.

“I’m beyond exhausted but it’s best if we go for it now” muttered Mrs Hong. “It is just the first night if you need the rest. We can’t afford to mess this up. We’re so close to the end of this lunacy.” But there was not going to be another night with Marsha so peacefully untethered to them, and Mr Hong conceded that it was too advantageous of an opportunity to not seize.

In the tiny ceramic pores of ancient Egyptian beer and bread making pots lay dormant yeast from a glorious past civilisation. Yeast so magnificent it overpowers once activated, and feeds indiscriminately. Ancient powerful yeast that was harvested far from its supposed final resting place, and cultivated into a starter by a bread enthusiast across the Atlantic ocean. The little glob was merely a baby when the Hongs took it out. It was wily and tenacious with an insatiable hunger for things, air, water, food… and people. It wasn’t an assassination more than it was a battle. Twelve months later, it was time for its mother to be found.

There was a rumour that amongst the bakeries along the Nile river, one housed an original bread making ceramic pot. Although it was said to be purely decorative, being so close life-giving nutrients posed too much of a threat for it to go unhandled. Unfortunately, the café was open 24 hours and did not afford the Hongs the cover of unoccupied darkness. Lucky for them, killing is always easier as a team.

With a small pillow under her shirt, Mrs Hong entered. She was the meek pregnant tourist who needed help in identifying her craving in this foreign country. Manned by just two employees forced into too much quality time with each other, they were overjoyed to assist the curious lady. As their conversation swayed between broken Arabic and English, Mr Hong glided in through the back door. Leaving the door unlocked was common practice here; if you ever have to steal bread, you will be earnestly given bread.

Sat on the top shelf in the doorway between the kitchen and café was their target. An unassuming ceramic pot, colours muted from longevity. As he steadily retrieved it, a barely audible “zzz…” followed. Clutching the rough ceramic pot in his hands, he sensed unmistakable vibration. The porous wall within were fizzing.

More than 1,500 strains of yeast exist but only one self-activates when it senses the presence of a former living self. Only a strain so powerful that it clings onto human skin, stewing in revenge while it masks itself as common candida only to return to savagery when the time is right.

As the froth multiplied, small fizzing bubbles burst into tiny solid particles, merging into a free-forming mass of goo. Within seconds, the liquid gooey residue began solidifying into a dense amorphous form. As the grasped pot now shook and overflowed, Mr Hong reflexively reached into his holster to grab his insulated water gun. Aiming at the unidentifiable mass, he continually fired scalding salt water. Laughter escaped him as it merely trickled down the now smooth and shiny surface. Unaware his arm had been engulfed by the growing blob, he only registered stinging pain after catching sight of the severity of his circumstance. The pain was short lived. And that careless laugh his last word. In his attempt to call out for help, his open mouth offered defenceless entry to his insides which the feeding starter ferociously overtook. Feeding on him as they doubled in size each passing second, his demise was quick and gruesome, but almost painless.

The regenerated monstrous new-born was not content with just being a starter, making bread and sustaining life of others. It was going to create life, and with creation came hunger.

As planned, Mrs Hong left the bakery at the fixed 35 minute mark, but not without a little treat in hand. Fully expecting the deed to be done, she strolled to the back of the shop nibbling on her doughy snack only to find a small puddle of pale yellow wet goo on the kitchen floor. Not thinking much of it and assuming Mr Hong must have already left to avoid suspicion, she spun around and started the journey back.

Fizzing from the cervices of the kitchen floor, slime and bubbles seeped forming grisly chunks that merged together bigger and stronger than before. It rolled itself out of the kitchen and spread towards the oblivious back-facing Mrs Hong. Freestanding and towering over her, the macabre form edged forward in an embrace, instantly consuming her.

As extremists of modernity, Mr and Mrs Hong sought to destroy tradition. To evolve was to abandon archaic practices. They refuted the beneficial relationship between tradition and modernity. One could not exist in the presence of the other. Annihilation was progress. There was much to do, and they started with the cornerstone of civilisation; bread making.

After taking out countless sourdough cultures – from the centenarian in Montana, to the 400 year old Bavarian, and the Welsh that survived a millennia, their crusade finally ended in a quiet defeat.

It’s 8 am and a beautiful 17°C. Marsha sits bright and early at hotel café, slathering butter on a slice of toasted crispy sourdough. She’s used to her parents waking up late. They’ve been night owls her whole life, and what’s the point of a holiday if you can’t sleep in?

The waiter asks if her family will be joining her for breakfast, “They’ll show up,” she says.