KSA Daily

Hatred on the Bus

2012-01-25T11:22:00.002-05:00

The bus is a great place to meet new friends, when you find yourself squished uncomfortably close to a stranger you are faced with two options, ignore them and hope the awkwardness goes away or strike up a conversation. The girl next to me was writing messages with her hand on the frosted over bus windows. She was very surprised when I could read what she had written. We struck up a conversation and I was excited by how pleasant and outgoing she was. I could judge by her appearance that she wasn't originally from the city, her clothing and demeanor screamed country side and sure enough she quickly started telling me about her home town. She was anxious to know what I thought of the Uyghur people and their culture. She seemed so kind and gentle that I knew I had found a new friend.

At the next stop two more girls from a different people group, one that has long lived in tension with the Uyghur people got on. They ended up standing packed tightly right behind us. My new friend picked up the edge of her headscarf and used it to cover her mouth and nose, the way you might if there was suddenly a foul smell. Her face suddenly took on a hard edge “What do you think of those people?” she asked with contempt. I looked at the girls as they stood giggling behind us, deep in their own conversation. I knew my new friend was a devout Muslim, so I decided to appeal to her religiosity “I think Allah created all people on the earth, Uyghur, Canadian and their people group. I think we must love and respect all that comes from His hand”. Almost as if I hadn’t spoken at all “I hate them, I hate all of them,” she spat out with distain.

I was confused and hurt. Where did the nice gentle girl I was speaking to just a few minutes ago go? How was she replaced with this prejudice, hate filled young women? I made a comment about how our hearts could never know peace and happiness if they were so filled with hate for other humans, but once again my words fell on deaf ears. Her face remained hard set and scornful. Thankfully it was my stop, and I gratefully escaped the tense situation. I was still contemplating the complete change in her personality and the way hatred overwhelms a person when she called me on my cell phone “did you make it home safely on the icy streets?” obviously the nice version of this young women had returned.

Bridesmaid Dress Nightmares

2012-01-22T05:08:00.003-05:00

During our girl’s weekend away, we also went wedding dress shopping for one of my friends. While she found a beautiful gown, we saw plenty of ugly, mainly in the form of some pretty hideous bridesmaid dresses. Just proving universal, cross cultural truth of what they guy said in 27 dresses “no bride wants to stand beside a bunch of girls that actually look nice."

Not the Spa We’re Looking For

2012-01-18T20:59:00.002-05:00

Recently my friends and I spent an evening at a five star hotel as part of a girl’s weekend. Earlier in the week we had called to check and see if the hotel had nice accommodations and fun services. Our chosen destination boasted a sauna, spa, and pool. Before going out to do some shopping we decided to stop by and see what time the different services were open until. The day spa was a little out of our price range with expensive salt water scrubs and such… but the sauna facilities seemed much more reasonable. There wasn’t really anyone there to help us the first time we stopped by, but we did see a price list that claimed the sauna plus a back and foot massage was only about 15USD. The sauna area said it was open until after midnight, so there was no rush to get back. With a tantalizing evening of relaxation ahead of us we headed out.

After dinner when we returned to our hotel I was pretty ready to just put up my feet and take it easy ( I am not a huge shopper and we had walked around quite a bit). The group voted to head down for our hour of pure pampering. This time there was staff at the front desk and we pointed to the package that we wanted. They said the sauna was only for men, but they could give us a foot message if we wanted. To demonstrate the woman slowed down her speech ( you know when talking to foreigners you just have to speak slower and louder and eventually they will understand) pointed on her own body and said “We will message from your knees down, ok?” We pointed again to their sign, “This one says it is foot AND back message”. She interrupted by repeating “this one is just for men” and she pointed to another deal that was just a foot treatment and was $8 more “this one good for you. We do your feet”.

None of us really wanted to pay more, nor did we like being spoken to like we were idiots, so we left. Eager to get out of there we jumped on the next elevator that came, it was going the wrong direction, and so we had to repass the sauna floor before getting back to our room. When the elevator stopped there again, one of the workers who had bore witness to our uncomfortable exchange got on the elevator with us… “Sorry about that. Most of our services are just for men, you know how they like to pay for sex ,” she said very bluntly .

We have all lived in this country long enough that we recognize and know the normal signs indicating this sadly booming service. We know to avoid the so called “Tea Houses” in the more expensive apartment complexes. We have all talked to girls who work the evening/night shift at the hair salon, not to mention the glaring read lights that shine in the night as we walk home. We know that this perverted business is alive and thriving all around us. Now we can add ‘sauna’ to our list of euphemisms.

And that is sadly how we spent some of our girl’s weekend trying to pick up a prostitute (a first ever as far as language acquisition goes). I guess it wasn’t quite as nice of a hotel as we thought. Not to mention how disturbed we all were with the realization that sex was that much cheaper than a nice real massage at a relaxing spa.

Perfect on a Cold Day

2012-01-15T03:33:00.006-05:00

There is nothing like a steaming hot bowl of noodles to warm you up when it is freezing outside.

TV on the Bus

2012-01-12T10:53:00.001-05:00

For the rest of the population (those who aren’t willing to get up and dance to their destination) the public transportation department has provided its own entertainment. All of the newer city buses have TVs on them, which tend to play the strangest loops of programming I have ever seen. There are of course commercials for stores and companies around town, but there are also reduce reuse and recycle suggestions as part of the governments green intuitive (most days this place seems anything but environmental, but at least this bus add campaign is a start).

While riding the bus I have learned how to rinse out my cooking oil container cut off the top and use it to store children’s toys. I have learned how to properly fold a bed sheet so that it takes up less room in the cupboard, how to make cute crafts out of toilet paper rolls and different ideas for reusing flour sacks after they are empty. Yesterday they had a 5 minute segment on how to use the rest of the powder/foundation in your compact after it is dried out and clumpy. Every ride is a new lesson; many of them leave me scratching my head asking “how is that Green?” But as traffic gets worse and worse in the city it is nice to have some sort of entertainment as we stand squished like sardines for over 30 minutes.

Dancing on the Bus

2012-01-08T21:45:00.005-05:00

Buses here are known for being over crowded. The running joke is: “How many more people can you fit on the bus?” The answer is always: “One more”. Some of you may remember a few summers ago when my foot almost got broken because of a crowded bus.

People were squished at the front of the bus so tightly that the driver told me to jump on the back. I passed my money in and ran around to the back door. There were already two people occupying the back bottom step, and the three of us hung on until the door was shut tightly behind us. When we arrived at the next stop the back door flew open with force right on my foot. This left me limping on a very swollen foot for the next few weeks. Overcrowded buses are just part of life here.

That’s what made our experience the other night seem even odder. My friend and I got on a bus and it was empty. Just us and the driver. We had the whole space to ourselves. We ended up tossing our purses on one of the nearby seats and dancing up and down the aisles like our life was a musical. This was unique in that there was no one else squished in next to us. When our bus pulled to a stop at the traffic light we could see that drivers in the cars next to us were craning their necks to see what was going on in the bus. That didn’t stop us, we kept dancing till we reached our destination. One other passenger eventually joined us, but you could tell was uncertain of what was going on. He timidly stayed seated in the chair right behind the driver as we continued to swing and sway our way down the street. When we got home we found this video on Youtube, a different part of the world, and a different mode of travel- but these guys get the joy of dancing on public transportation.

Baby Bird

2012-01-06T08:55:00.003-05:00

On one of my recent trips leading a tour group south we went to visit a Sufi mosque out in the middle of the desert. This sight is said to be the location of a great battle, where at the last minute a miracle took place overthrowing the enemy and giving great victory. I wish I could go into more detail about the actual event, but all the details are a little fuzzy (it is one of those stories that if you ask 12 people what happened, you get at least 20 different versions of the event). The reason this mosque has become a stop on the trips I lead is because it shows a much more folk Islamic side, with prayer flags waving in the wind, and people making the arduous journey through the desert in hopes of earning merit in their worship.

As I stood in the courtyard pointing out highlights for the group, I was reminded of my first trip back in 2005 to this supposed sacred spot. At the time I had just started studying the Uyghur language and was anxious to practice with anyone who would give me the time of day. This mosque not only severs as a place of worship for many on a spiritual quest, it is also home to those who want to dwell in its walls of safety. At the time they said upwards of 20 people actually called the mosque’s courtyard “home”. As my fellow travelers were lead into the kitchen area to hear the prepared speech, I broke away from the group to find someone to practice language with.

In a room off to the side I found six women sitting on the floor eating lunch. They kindly invited me to come in and join them. As I sat on the floor running through my list of first year language learning question (aka, “What’s your name? How many people are in your family? and so on), one women kept persisting that I eat some of their food. Rations looked scarce in this remount desert location so I shied away from eating someone else’s portion. This same old lady next to me, took a heaping spoonful and chewed away intentionally on it. After a several minutes she spit the softened food back on to her spoon and insisted again that I eat. I opened my mouth to protest once more, my gag reflex was at a high just looking at her pre- chewed food waving on the spoon in front of me. The spoon moved closer to my mouth and I gaped in surprise as I realized for the first time she was offering me her very own, straight from her mouth food. My open mouth stare gave her just the opportunity she needed to shove the spoon in. At which point, gag reflexes or not, I had no choice but to chew and swallow the food she had so generously deposited in my mouth.

I had seen Uyghur women do this before for their babies, softening the food by pre-chewing it and spiting it directly into their young child’s anxiously awaiting mouth. I have no idea what convinced this older women to treat me like a baby bird, but in her tender expression of care for me, she saw fit to share her own dinner. This event still tops the list as one of my grossest and most culturally abrasive moments I have encountered in my seven year here.

2011 A Year In Review

2012-01-01T22:27:00.006-05:00

This last 12 months have seemed rather uneventful compared to 2010. When I did a review post last year one of my friends wished me that 2011 would bring more peace and rest. Thankfully it really did, but for my own sake of processing it is worth going over and reviewing some of the high lights and low lights

1. Fusion Translation and Consultation Station officially opened and I got a yearlong work visa as the boss of my own company.

2. On a trip to Thailand I had the chance to sit down with a counselor who after hearing the stresses of life, was surprised that I was not just a puddle on the floor. She was very encouraging.

3. Ate a grasshopper

4. Was proposed to, again :)

5. Got caught in a desert sand storm

6. Spent 3+ months at home in Canada . While there I got to attend a conference in Washington ( that place is beautiful ) and audited a free class.

7. Spent some good bonding time with my now sister-in-law and had the honor of standing up in their wedding as she married my brother

8. Got to hang out with all of my friends from college and got to rejoice in old friendships

9. I am still alive after having my appendix burst and getting an infection

10. Took four trips to the southern part of our province, most of them were for work acting as translator for tour groups. Thankfully no one got lost or died on any of these adventures, which is pretty amazing considering the bus fell off the highway, we took unknown medicine, I was asked if I was pregnant and we spent hours and hours on the sleeper bus

11. Watched a woman get hit in the head by a brick during a wind storm, learned later that she had died because of it.

12. Helped several people settle in to their new life here by sharing years of crazy stories

13. My roommate, business partner, and good friend (all the same girl) started dating a guy back in the states and decided to move home.

14. Improved my Uyghur dance skills while wearing leopard print and sparkles

15. Celebrated holiday with both local and foreign good friends

Birthday Fun

2011-12-29T10:44:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was another big happy birthday for my roommate and I. This year we out did ourselves rather than a toned down small group parties like past years we embraced the fun of a full on Uyghur dance party. We found a wedding to crash, went for the crazy hair, over the top makeup and sparkly outfits, invited all our friends and danced until we dropped. It was quite the way to ring in my 32^nd birthday.

Also worth mentioning is the fun pile of gifts that people brought; flowers that are individually wrapped, gold studded comb and brush set, miniature Uyghur instruments, scarves, scarves and more scarves and calcium supplements (I guess they think I am getting frail in my old age).

Scrooged

2011-12-26T21:13:00.005-05:00

"At this festive season of the year, Mr Scrooge, ... it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir."
"Are there no prisons?"

"Plenty of prisons..."
"And the Union workhouses." demanded Scrooge. "Are they still in operation?"
"Both very busy, sir..."
"Those who are badly off must go there."
"Many can't go there; and many would rather die."
"If they would rather die," said Scrooge, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population."

At this Christmas time of year we are all familiar with Charles Dickens classic piece of literature A Christmas Carol. The book, where the hard unfeeling Scrooge is taught the joy of the season through the visitation of three spirits. In fact we have all likely watched a version or two of it over the last few weeks (particularly the Muppet version – a long standing favorite of mine).

This year I felt like I have seen it playing out right in front of my eyes. As you walk into my apartment complex, the first sight that greets your eyes, are traditional one story homes. They are slightly old, and run down… but families still all live together in the one or two room structures and have for years. These households are part of the people that make up my neighborhood. They always stop and talk to me on my way in or out, they offer me fresh made bread from the tonur as they stand around baking, they always offer me to come in for a cup of tea and a quick visit, the children kick the ball in my direction and let me join the game.

But not anymore. Now their homes look like this.

Nothing but a pile of rubble. They are being torn down. Likely to put up another high rise. Yes the owners are offered a buyout plan for their properity (not always the best or very fair deal- but at least a new place). It is sad to see people kicked out of their homes over the Christmas season… it feels like a very scrooge-ish move. Of course to them the time of year had no relevance… many of my neighbors had no idea what Christmas was or that it was even a big deal. Oh they have heard about it before, and they have seen the decorations up in more western stores like KFC, but the actual reality of Christmas spirit, of love, joy, peace expressed at this time of the year is unknown. So they didn't understand why I thought it was so 'bahumbug' that they all moved out this week.

I am really going to miss some of these dear people.

Lending A Hand

2011-12-23T02:27:00.003-05:00

It is winter. My least favorite time of year. The skies get dark, the temperature drops and the roads and sidewalks get slippery and dangerous. Winter means I tend to stay indoors more often and play host, except for when I absolutely must face the ice. Yesterday I was given a hand in facing the ice… not just one hand actually but three.

On the way to the accountant’s office, I was not looking forward to crossing the slippery street without the help of a crosswalk in the midst of the constant game of frogger. As I got closer I noticed one of the street sweepers had fallen instep beside me. She kept looking at my white skin and foreign face before finally trying to engage me in conversation. We chatted lightly until I pointed to the place where I had to cross. She put down her shovel and broom and grabbed the whistle out of her pocket. She gently took my arm and led me across the street, all the while stopping the traffic at each lane as we went. On the other side of the road, this kind hearted stranger gave me a hug, told me to “go slowly and wear more clothing”

After leaving the accountants office I decided to take the bus home. The only bus that went that direction was an old dilapidated one with holes in the floor. The water underfoot on the bus was therefore freezing into a slippery mess. I stumbled from one pole to the next moving towards the back of the bus. One older man saw my obvious fear and offered up his seat. Totally not the way it is supposed to happen. Bus etiquette says young people must give up their seats for seniors. “Big brother” I said, “I am so embarrassed, I can’t take your seat”. But he insisted and for the second time in an hour a complete stranger helped me out. When we disembarked from the bus he too said “goodbye young girl, go slowly and wear more clothes”

Finally I was crossing my last street to make it home to safety. This street has an underground passage. I started down the stairs, but they too were coated in greasy grimy winter slush. I gripped the broken railing tightly. I soon felt a light tap on my shoulder. “Here let me help you, You’ll get your glove dirty holding on to that… and I am a lot sturdier” said the stranger as she took my arm and lead me slowly down the steps. As a way to thank her I told her “be careful on the road and wear more clothing”.

Morning sounds

2011-12-20T21:19:00.004-05:00

This morning, before my alarm went off, before I had opened my eyes or even fully woke up, I knew it had snowed last night. While I still lay all tight and snuggled in my blankets I could hear the all to familiar “crashing, clanging, and banging” sounds of snow being cleared from the school yard next door. It was barely 6:30 am, but already students were arriving and grabbing their brooms, shovels and pickaxes to attack the white layer that covered their play area. I hate the disturbance it caused to my morning sleeping plans, but at least by the time I head out much of the ground will be clear and safe to walk on.

Animal Bazaar

2011-12-15T23:43:00.006-05:00

The more I live in the capital city the more I see very modern Uyghur young people, wearing jeans and going to discos… but one quick trip down south reminds me of the millions of Uyghur people that still live a very traditional lifestyle. Last week we had the chance to visit the animal bazaar, a great place for farmers to sell their livestock.

We could tell our taxi was getting closer to the final destination as the road became more and more packed with donkey carts, motorized trucks with the kids and the big butt sheep sitting side by side, and huge trucks with cows shoved in the back.

The animal bazaar is a great meeting place for the community; men and women, young and old, cows and horses (dead and alive). We got some great pictures of traditional Uyghur countryside life. You can enjoy them from the comfort of home, without trying to step over animal poop or moving out of the way so you don’t have a donkey nibbling at your bum.

It’s the Principle of the Thing

2011-12-14T12:04:00.001-05:00

At 3:00 a.m. on what was meant to be an all night sleeper bus, pulled into the station. The driver obnoxiously flicked on the light and yelled for everyone to disembark. My fellow travel companions and I stumbled off the bus in a bit of a daze. The cold air of a December morning did a lot to bring us out of our slumber. Parked all around the gate of the bus station were waiting taxi cabs. As the group counted to make sure we had all our bags and belongings, I went over to one of the drivers and told him where we were headed. We couldn't all fit in one so I suggested my roommate take the first car and head out with some of the girls.

As soon as I saw their cab start to drive down the road in the right direction I began to find a second car that could take us. The driver knew the location, but insisted that I pay him 10 kuai. Now granted 10 kuai is really only equal to less than a $1.50, but I have been to this city many times, and I know for a fact that you can drive anywhere in town for under 5 kuai. It was outrageous… the whole lot of drivers were ganging up of the weary travelers and over charging them. Well not me I wouldn’t put up with it.

I grabbed my bags, yelled over my shoulder for the others to follow and we started walking down the street. Sure it was 3 a.m., sure it was pitch black out, sure the temperature was below freezing, and sure I had no idea how long we would have to walk before another taxi would come along, but there was no way I was letting a gaggle of taxi drivers take advantage of me and steal 75 cents. It is the principle of the thing. I know the right price, he knows the right price, I know he knows the right price and he knows I know, and yet we still ended up walking in the cold.

We got to the corner and looked across the street, there standing at the side of the road was my roommate and those who had driven off in the first car with her. After going less than a block, her driver had also refused to use the meter. He too demanded the same rip off price of double what it should be. And so she had boldly opened her door and declared they were done. We saw them and waved. I knew she was just as upset about the lack of justice as I was. 50 cents is not a lot of money, but it was the fact they weren’t playing by the rules.

We only had to wait about a minute before a couple of empty taxis drove by, with drivers that were so desperate for any fare in the middle of the night that they were more than willing to use the meter .

Carpets

2011-12-11T22:10:00.006-05:00

I am totally addicted to carpets. I mentioned a few posts ago that I have a friend at the bazaar who sales carpets. He has been giving me a bit of an education on how to decipher the quality of a carpet you’re looking at. He has been teaching me how to tell when they are handmade or done on a machine, whether it is real silk or synthetic. He has even been giving me an idea about what the price should be based on these discrepancies.

All of this foreknowledge made my trip to the carpet factory a few days ago that much sweeter. The factory itself, is a large room filled with huge carpet looms that stretch from floor to ceiling. Depending on the size of the carpet they are working on, each loom has two to seven ladies sitting in front of it working away. Their fingers move so fast you can barely see how they are tying the knots. They have a pattern to work from tucked in behind the loom that they can check for reference when they need it.

I had fun moving from loom to loom and talking to the women and asking them their story. One lady started working at the factory when she was 12, she has now been making carpets for over 40 years. Every day she works tying knot after bright colorful knot eight hours a day, six days a week for a total pay of about $125 US a month. Sitting right next to her is her daughter who also started working at the factory when she was about 12. The daughter was proud to announce to me that she has two children who are both able to go to school.

An average carpet takes 2-3 months to make. I look at that and I think of the handmade carpet in my living room. I bought it 5 years ago before the price of carpets went up so much. It likely would have taken three ladies three months to finish which for their labor cost alone should be a total of about $1,125 US, but I know for a fact I only paid $325 US for it. Doing the math the women sitting at the loom would have been paid less than $36 US a month for all their hard work on the masterpiece that is our living room carpet. As much as I would choke at shelling out the amount of money needed for today’s pricing, I am glad it has gone up if means the third generation of carpet makers can stay in school and get an education.

Here are some of the carpets around our house. The cheap machine made one in the office

The tightly woven handmade wool one in my bedroom

The real silk machine one hanging on the wall in our living room

The big beautiful handmade wool one in our living room.

Pick Up your Stuff and GO

2011-12-06T09:41:00.003-05:00

There is a walking underpass at the street between our home and office. Every day on my way to work I descend the stairs uncertain of what awaits me at the bottom. Sometimes this underground walk way is nothing but an empty corridor where the click of my boots seems to vibrate off the walls, at other times is a lively market place, is packed with vendors. There are the women selling table clothes, earrings, and compact mirrors and the men with their DVD, religious books and packs of kleenexes. Some of them have their little songs to try to attract customers, like the guy selling toy birds who calls out “they don’t need food, they don’t need water, they just bring you fun” . I hardly ever buy anything as I pass by ( I guess I have gotten a few pairs of socks and a hair clip), but I love the energy of the crowd, and the challenge of getting through without stepping on anyone’s stuff.

Since none of them actually have vendor permits, every couple of hours the police take a lap under the street and force them to “close up shop” so to speak. This literally involves picking up the four corners of the blanket their merchandise is being displayed on, tossing it over their back like Santa’s sac, while they dash up the stairs and try to blend in with the crowd. If you happen to walk that same stretch just moments after a police flush out, it is an empty cavernous hallway.

So why is this important enough to have a blog post written about it… because I was caught earlier this week in the stampede of ‘stores’ and their owners on the move. It was kind of scary , all the men in blue came down the stairs at one end of the tunnel and all of those hocking their wares made a mad dash towards the other end. My foot got squished in the process of trying to press myself tightly against the wall to get out of the way. My toes will heal, but I will be a little leery about heading down there if the police seem to be walking that way too.

You're Uyghur too

2011-12-01T22:09:00.005-05:00

I have learned that if Uyghur people like you they show it by proving that you are one of them or at least closely related to their people group. My carpet guy is the best at this (I have made friends with several different vendors at the local market, so that when other foreigners are looking for goods I can help prevent them from getting ripped off).

When the man in the carpet shop first learned I was from Canada he went on to tell me in detail about all the Uyghurs living in Canada, including his wife’s cousin’s son. He seems so pleased that we had this common bond. I mean his wife’s cousin’s son living in the same country I'm from… that makes us practically family.

When I took a Hungarian friend to his shop and she bought a carpet, he went on for about 20 minutes about how similar their two cultures were and how Uyghurs are much more European in ethnicity than they are Asian.

The real test came when I brought in one friend from a people group that has long lived in tension with the Uyghur people. My friend made the carpet guy's day, by buying three expensive carpets with little to no fuss. He basically bought the first ones he saw, instead of forcing the seller to rearrange all his stock, stacking carpet after carpet on the floor, moving around the bulky weight so he could look again at the one on the bottom of the pile. I knew my friend had been an ideal customer, but because of the long standing history of their two people I really wondered how the vendor would do his post sale "you are also Uyghur" conversation. He looked intently at my friend. "You look very Uyghur" he said "your facial structure is more like ours. You put on a doppa and I would have assumed you were a good Uyghur man" He then stretched out his hand for a firm handshake. It was good for me to know that even enemies can be friends - if you spend enough on carpets.

Old Classmates

2011-11-27T05:52:00.006-05:00

Recently my former classmate from out here posted the following statement on his blog:

I have to admit, though they drank way too much, there was lots to be enjoyed there. Here was a group of classmates approaching sixty years old. They still get together once or twice a month. They laugh, reminisce about old times, and continue to share life together. There is something special in longevity of relationships like that. Though I have thoroughly enjoyed life until now, I've often missed the familiarity that comes from being in one place and having continuity of friendship.

He was referring to the local woman who he calls ‘mom’ and all of her classmates. The entire class still gets together regularly for lunch and renewing their relationships. They are not the only classmates in this country that keep in community 50 years later. I have a Uyghur grandmother in her 70s, who invited me to join her chai (Uyghur women’s party were money is exchanged), ever month she meets with 12 of the women she went to elementary school with. I don’t even think I could name 12 kids from my grade school days, much less see them regularly and still be part of their life.

When we step back and look at social structures in the life of the Uyghur community, the classmate network is very influential. In North America we talk about looking out for our “friends and family” (interesting enough in that order)… my Uyghur friends often talk about “family, neighbours and classmates” – it is assumed that their friendships have grown out of those close relationships.

As my friend mentioned our culture is very mobile, moving from place to place and influencing structures to friendships. This flux allows us clean starts and the opportunity to hear the different opinion of new people. My Uyghur Grandmother has complained about the longevity of relationships, people who have known you all your life “know everything dumb thing you have ever done… and they still gossip about it 3 decades later”. At her chai she says they sit around and retell the same stories that haven't been news in years. The way she sees it doesn't have the same idealistic slant that my classmate perceived the situation to have.

Great Curry Cook-off

2011-11-23T20:35:00.004-05:00

Last weekend my friends and I planned a ‘The Great Curry Cook-off and Bollywood Night”. The plan was simple everyone make a pot of curry, dress in Indian apparel and watch “Bride and Prejudice” (Bollywood made accessible for Westerners) . For most of the week building up to the big event it looked like only two of us were actually going to brave making food ( I say brave since I have never before in my life made curry – but I figured how hard can it be, you look at a few recipes online and then improvise).

Upon arrival it seemed that many of the guest figured the dressing up part was just a joke ( I, however, was looking most forward to this aspect. Ever since I was hospitalized days before our Christmas concert in grade four where I was supposed to be the little girl from India. I was always sad I didn’t get to dress up and wear a sari, so I saw this as my chance –finally).

I was ready to defend the weak attempt of cicken curry as they best of the two, but there was a last minute entry that blew us out of the water. One of our friends who is actually from India came and of course his food blew the rest of ours out of the water. But thankfully he was willing to share his cooking tips.

EFL Gone Wild…

2011-11-19T11:01:00.002-05:00

Today, I had the students talk about hobbies. I started by having them brainstorm what activities they enjoyed, and wrote their answers up on the board so everyone could see. Most of them were normal – swimming, biking, dancing, etc. A lot of students said “sleeping,” which apparently is a luxury in the high-pressure student world. One guy in the back even yelled out “kissing,” which I decided to ignore.

After that, the students were supposed to get into groups of 4-6 and talk about their favorite hobbies. I put up some questions on the board to keep the conversations going: Is your hobby difficult? Is it expensive? Why do you like it? Is it a group activity or something you do alone? Would you recommend it to others? etc. I could tell by the buzz in the room that the conversations were going well.

At the end of their small group discussions, I called on students representing different groups to share what they had talked about with everyone else. Again, most of the answers were nothing to write home about. “I like listening to music because it makes me feel relaxed. And I think Lady Gaga is the best!” “I like sleeping because then I don’t have to sleep in class.” But then we got to a small, quiet guy in the back of the class. This is what he said (other than correcting the grammar, I promise I am not making this up!)

“I like kissing. Maybe for some people it is difficult, but for me it is not. I am good at it! It is not an individual hobby; it is something I do with someone else” [to which the class responded – “Who? Who?” and he just smiled] “It is not an expensive hobby, but it is a nice hobby. It gives me energy. I recommend it to others!”

My Favorite Phenomenon

2011-11-15T06:04:00.003-05:00

Winter is officially here! Today the sky has been dishing forth a generous helping of rain, sleet, and snow. All of which have spent the better part of the day vying for their opportunity to fall on the heads of ill prepared pedestrians. My grade three teacher would have labeled it : A dark, damp, drizzly, dreary, depressing, dismal day. The chilliness in the air, and the ensuing soggy clothing would normally sever to put a damper on my mood – but not today. Today on my way home I was greeted repeatedly by one of my all time favorite sights. It is a phenomenon that really only comes out on wet days.

I know I have blogged about this before, but I just can’t help myself. As I left my office building I had to avert my eyes, choke back a laugh, and try to hide my silly stupid grin as I passed a well dressed older Uyghur man. He was in his suit and appeared to be heading to some sort of important meeting. Most of him looked rather distinguished and dignified, until you got to the top of his head that is. There preached for the entire world to see was a plastic shopping bag, the name of a local store printed in bright red letters leading the way. He was a man without an umbrella , caught outside on a bad day, trying to do the best he could with what he had.

But he wasn’t the only one. As the first few drops of snowy sludge plummeted downward, all the men seemed to instantly transform into bag heads. They were protecting their dearly loved doppas ( a Uyghur man’s traditional hat - staple part of their wardrobe). I was so thankful this summer while we were traveling my friend was brave enough to snap a picture of this man rainy-day ready. I hope it makes you smile too.

11-11-11

2011-11-11T12:28:00.002-05:00

In Canada November 11 is Remembrance Day, a time set aside to look back at the end of World war 1 and other battles were brave Canadian men and women have given their lives for our freedom. School children pin bright red plastic poppies on to their coats, similar to those that grow between the cross’ in the soldiers grave yard.

But here this same date has a totally different meaning. Locals look at the repetition of the digit 1 and have named November 11 Single day. It’s a time to go out with your girl friends and celebrate the fact that you are not in a relationship. People send each other text messages back and forth like this one ( but only to their friends who are not yet married):

Today is 2011.11.11. Here singles day falls on every November 11^th. And as the name indicates this relatively for people who are still living the single life. Maybe we are only country in the world that has set aside a special day for singles to celebrate their lives. So Happy singles day to my dear friend.

In the Air There's a Feeling of Korban

2011-11-08T01:54:00.001-05:00

Blogging seems to take on ebb and flow as the years pass. Time is marked by the celebration of each major holiday and after a while what once felt like a new and unique experience fades into an everyday aspect of life. This week is Korban hyate. The holiday that all the foreigners love to hate because of all the blood that lays splattered on the ground, or because of all the lamb fat that they eat. In past years I have posted way too many pictures of this gross affair that I won’t burden you for another year.

Yesterday I left the house in hopes of joining in the joy and community environment of my neighbours celebrating outside. For the first year ever the weather was fairly nice and no snow was falling to cover up the blood. Instead the wind was whipping around forcing the still unfallen leaves to detach from the trees and swirl around in an excited flurry of activity. The children, dressed in their new fancy holiday clothing, ran around outside from one sheep to another taunting them with sticks. Older women in their aprons traded each other sheep organs and intestine with their bare hands and a cheerful “thank you” as they now had more of the pieces they needed to cook their feast. Men gathered up the sheep skins and loaded them on the carts to be donated to the Mosque as part of their alms of generosity.

As much as all of that is part of the annual Korban hayte adventure, my day was different than expected. Sadly I witnessed the shedding of more than just sheep’s blood. As I walked down one street I saw a huge camel being tied up by several strong young men. These neighbours had worked together to get a lager animal to sacrifice. The camel protested loudly as the man wrestled him to the ground and prepared him for his fate. I got the attention of one of the women standing next to me “I thought his holiday was in memory of when Abraham sacrificed a ram in the place of his son?” “It is,” she said with a smile. “Then is it okay to offer up another type of animal in remembrance?” I asked since this was the first time I had seen anything like this. As it often happens to me in this culture, I start by appropriately talking to a woman or two in the corner, but soon the men over hear the foreigner using Uyghur to having a deep conversation and push their way into the center. The women have been taught their place and silently move aside letting the “white bearded” or wise men of the community discuss theology with me.

In a different apartment complex I visited, the wind picked up with such ferocity that a brick was sent airborne from a 6^th floor window ledge. It fell smashing the back window of a nearby vehicle causing glass to shatter and spry into the air. The echoing sound of the car alarm covered the sound of terror and it was few seconds before we all realized an elderly women had also been hit (whether by the brick or the glass I am not sure), but she was out cold laying on the ground, her blood trickled and mixed in with that of the sheep. The neighbour men came to their senses and dropped their butcher knives to the ground. Several of them gently lifted the women onto their shoulders and moved as swiftly as her weight would allow to the hospital that was only a block away. I still don’t know how she is. I hope to go back and visit one of her neighbours tomorrow. I will post an update as soon as I know something, but until then, if you are a praying person please remember this women and her family… what an awful event to happen right in the midst of the year’s biggest celebration.

That Guy

2011-11-05T11:16:00.004-04:00

Okay, so I flat out stole this post from my friend's blog... but considering part of it is my story too I felt justified in sharing it here.

Yahximusiz!", came the high-pitched greeting from the young woman walking toward us. I was walking with my former classmate. Since we studied in the same class several years ago, she has gone on to study Uyghur and opened a translation business here. After they exchanged the obligatory hug and kisses, they shared a few pleasantries and parted ways. "Who was that?", I asked as soon as we were out of ear shot. "I HAVE NO IDEA! But she asked why I haven't stopped by in so long and told me to come by soon." As it turns out, my friend is a bit of a celebrity. She has appeared on TV several times and met lots of people through studies, english corners, and her business. "I wouldn't know where to go even if I wanted to stop by", she said. She did feel a bit awkward for not knowing who the girl was but didn't have the heart to admit it in light of the very warm and excited greeting she received. She felt awkward. I felt relieved that it wasn't me.

Then, it happened. I ran into the convenience store outside the front gate of my school. Turning from the cash register to the door I came face to face with a big smile. "Jesse!", said the young man standing in front of me. "How are you! It's been a long time." There was a momentary blank stare. I have to confess that I have a rule in studying language: Fake it til you make it. If I don't understand, I just pretend and usually I can get the jist and move on without admitting defeat. Whether right or wrong my fake-it-til-you-make-it conditioning kicked in. "Hey you! How are you?", came out before I could even think. We exchanged a few pleasantries about being busy and classes and then I excused myself. Keeping with local custom I added an obligatory, "If you have free time, give me a call", thinking that would be the end of it. People often invite you to come by or call without always meaning it. Alas. He grabbed his phone and said, "Jesse, I don't have your number." I told him my number and he immediately called my phone. What could I do? I saved him in my contact list as 'That Guy'. He probably won't call anyway, I thought.

Just now my phone rang. 'That Guy' came up on the caller id. "Hey! You! Hello!", I said. By the end of the call we had a plan to have lunch. I'm debating whether I should just confess I don't know his name or play it cool and see how it goes. It seems there is an episode of Seinfeld where Jerry forgets the name of some woman he keeps running into. Maybe I should watch that for some ideas. Or maybe you have a better idea...?

Halloween

2011-11-01T11:12:00.003-04:00

Someone mentioned to me that my last point sounded bitter and unlike me (Thanks for calling me on it guys). That was not my intention. To show you all that I am still happy, healthy and well adjusted I thought I could join the masses and post some Halloween pictures. This is my roommate’s favorite holiday (hence our birthday party last year). We had a simple night at home, decorating our front entrance, wearing our cool socks while watching “Nightmare before Christmas”, carving pumpkins and waiting for our two annual trick-or-treaters.

Hospitality is Selfishness

2011-10-30T11:49:00.003-04:00

Hospitality as selfishness may seem a contradiction to many people’s views on manors and propriety, but there are some days I can’t help but think it is the reason why people really open their home and invite others to join them. Sure there are several stresses that go into the role of hostess, from planning a meal to making sure the house is clean. But these tasks can all be done from the quietness of home with soft relaxing music playing in the background enhancing the pleasure of the task.

The guest, however, must brave the outside world in order to fight their way to the predetermined location. At times these travels can seem arduous for all involved. You must find the right bus stop, stand and wait, run with the crowd to board the proper bus, push your way aboard, stand packed like sardines for more stops than you can count, listening to the garbled sound of the intercom system announcing each stop at a decibel that breaks the acceptable noise levels of public places, guard your belonging from pick-pockets and the like, walk in extreme temperatures from the place where the bus stops to where your friend actually lives, buy fruit or some sort of appropriate hostess gift by haggling over the price, toting said purchase of several kilos up numerous flights of stairs, all the while trying to look pleasant and put together in order to smile your greeting to the host.

The longer the visit lasts the more one’s mind becomes distracted with thoughts of returning home. Will the buses still be running? Will I be able to get a taxi? How many blocks will I have to walk before some form of transportation will become availed? This nervous preoccupation with the return journey can often start to sour the end of the evening.

The host merely puts on music, whips down the table, washes a few dishes and heads to bed, selfishly enjoying the fact that they never had to leave the comforts of their own home.

Okay, so today was the first snowfall of the year and I might be a little bitter at having had to go outside and face the snow and ice covered streets.

Wedding Crashers

2011-10-25T12:37:00.004-04:00

Today was one of my old classmate’s birthday…his one wish was for a crazy dance party with all of his friends. In total our group was comprised of seven different nationalities. Planning a party for that many people takes way too much time and energy, so we decided to just crash a random wedding. Actually this is considered totally acceptable. Most weddings take place at huge restaurants and there are almost always empty tables around the edge of the party. If you are willing to eat the same food as the wedding guests you can buy a table of your own and join in the dancing.

Some of us went shopping and found good Uyghur party outfits. This season’s fashion expands beyond just sparkle and glimmer to include leopard and fishnet (it’s considered trendy not trashy – this year in Uyghur shopping leopard is ‘in’ for every age).

The scene that greeted us at the door was much like any wedding a man in a suite, a women in white, even the bridesmaid. But this was no wedding…

This time we crashed a circumcision party. In Uyghur culture boys are circumcised when they are about 7 or 8 years old. The party and the actual event take place several weeks apart, which means last night was more of a big overblown birthday party for this kid too (hence the reason Mickey and Mini mouse showed up part way through the evening).

At these parties the mom and dad dress up like it's their wedding, the kids stand around singing songs and playing little game, all the relatives eat until they are stuffed, and we foreigners awkwardly swing our arms around and call it Uyghur dancing. But I think both of the boys would tell you: "It was the best birthday ever!"

I've Seen that Look Before

2011-10-20T02:00:00.004-04:00

This afternoon an expat came by our house to get advice on opening a business. Thankfully we had kept detailed notes last year throughout our painful process. We spelled out to her the need to first find an office, name your company, write a business proposal in a different language, apply for barcodes, wire in money, ect.ect.ect. We showed her sample documents of everything we got approved and stamped by the government. We told her stories about the officers who only wanted bribes and try to make your life harder so that you will pay them, we told her at what offices she might meet a helpful person. We filled her in on the rules that we know have already changed.

The more we shared of our rather painful experience the better we felt about our ability to thrive out here in many awkward situations. The more crazy stories she heard the more the colour drained from her cheeks and the more she took on this rather freaked out facial expression. I’ve seen that face before, in fact I think my roommate/business partner reflected it back at each other for months last year. Scared, intimidated, overwhelmed, drowning, ready to run, or throw-up, or throw in the towel, or forget the whole plan ( a face can really reflect all of those negative emotions in a few seconds).

Reviewing the process made me so thankful to be where we are today.

Should We Stay or Should We Go?

2011-10-15T12:22:00.000-04:00

A newly arrived American couple invited us over for dinner to show off their apartment and update my roommate and I on how they were doing at settling in. The wife had been at our home earlier in the week learning all the ropes of hosting and being hosted in a local Uyghur family. We taught her the rules of what to say at the door, how to pour the tea, when and where to wear slippers the hints to watch for about when it’s time to leave, and how to accompany someone out. She spent time trying on our headscarves and tying them in different and trending ways.

We told her our visit wasn’t meant to be a test on what we had taught, it was just an informal time to hang out. Even in light of our telling her to relax, we could see the wheels in her head spinning as she tried to remember which seat was the one of honor and who should be the furthest from the door.

As the evening wore on we took our bowls of ice cream into the living room and kept chatting. Once everyone had used their spoons to scrap the bottom of the bowls clean, her husband stood and started to clear the dishes and take them back into the kitchen. My roommate and I got the hint at once and both figured it must be time to go… we casually checked our watches and started rubbing our hands together while looking at the other person for confirmation. As we were still going over our pre-leaving ritual, the husband returned from his task in kitchen, threw a cushion on the floor, and flopped down to join in the conversation with a story of his own. My roommate and I were confused by the clearly contrasting cultural signs…’should we stay or should we go?’. We glanced and each other briefly and could tell we were sharing a mutually awkward moment of forgetting how to be a guest in our own culture. It suddenly clicked that the clearing of the dishes was a kindhearted act of servanthood on the part of the husband and not a bold hint saying “get out of my house”.

I burst out laughing at our mutual misunderstanding… but as many of you know, my laugh is not one of those subtle easy to hide behind your hand or disguise as a cough type of laughs. When I laugh people start making hyena comparisons… others grab their cell phone and offer to call 911. This poor couple had no idea what had hit them.

Body Language

2011-10-11T23:45:00.005-04:00

My roommate has been teaching English part time at t local Middle School (The school’s English slogan, which is printed on every student’s school jacket is: swifter, higher, stranger). Despite the misprint on their clothing, she was pleasantly surprised to find how high of a language level they really have.

One day in class she was doing a warm up activity with them. Yelling out things like “Stand up if you are an only child”. “Stand up if you have ever traveled to another country” “Stand up if ….”

One of her question was “Stand up if you can speak three or more languages”. Three students jumped out of their chairs. She decided to inquire further. Looking at the first student she asked “What three languages do you speak?”

“Uyghur, English, …” then he proceeded to name some other local language that is rather popular out here.

The second student was able to sit down with a simple “The same three”

Turning to the last student, “and you?” she asked.

“I speak English, Uyghur, and…” with a smug, smarty pants look on his face “body language” he said in an elaborate voice.

The class burst into giggles and my roommate groaned inwardly, 'that's they type of day it is going to be.'

Why You Have Stomach Issues

2011-10-08T23:16:00.001-04:00

As I have mentioned many times… living here overseas means living with stomach issues, namely diarrhea. Our local friends have a lot of reasons to explain away our discomfort. My top two I heard recounted from fellow expats this week are:

1. You drink cold water from the fridge – no wonder you have diarrhea, drinking cold things will make you sick.

2. Your underwear is too low. If you wore ones that were higher cut they would keep your stomach warm and you wouldn’t have this problem.

Sound logic on their part since they would never do either of these things and don’t seem to have the same problem, but they forget that I spent more than 20 year of my life in Canada drinking ice water and not wearing granny panties tucked up under my armpits. Sadly I have learned there is no point in arguing with their statements of concern… instead I say “Thank you, I will have to try that next time, maybe it will help.”

Long Distant Dating

2011-10-05T00:44:00.005-04:00

My roommate is dating a guy back in the states which equals a lot of phone calls, Skype chats and such, but they are also trying to be creative in their dates. This weekend my roommate's best friend, who use to live out here and is now back in the states put together a scavenger hunt for them do simultaneously from both sides of the world. They were allowed to work in teams of three and had two hours to take pictures of as many things on the list as they could. In the end I think I got more together time with my roommate out of the activity than her boyfriend did, but we had fun running around the city making fools of ourselves.

Speaking Spanish to random strangers – We kept asking these cute little Uyghur girls were their shoes were. The poor moms had no idea what was going on, but since we seemed nice and unthreatening they assumed we weren’t casting some type of evil curse and let us keep talking to the kids.

We spoke over a loud speaker as my roommate tried to help the ladies dressed in bright yellow stretch clothing sell their Jasmine ice tea drink, by yelling out in the local language that "American’s like drinking it too".

With a desperate look on her face, and no words my roommate tried to ask where the bathroom was (it’s harder than you think playing the dumb foreigner card, when you understand exactly what they are saying to you).

We rode animals,

Drank coffee,

And squished as many people as we could on a park bench.

Our opposing team had more fun re-interpreting the instruction and not taking things as literally as we did.

Us- eating street food

Them- eating street food

Us- Writing a message in the sand

Them writing a message in the sand

Us- a couple on a date

Them- A couple on a date (it is an old picture of my roommate riding a donkey cart down south, with her boyfriend’s face imposed over the drive)

Fun times guys. Thanks for including me on your long distance dating.

Even After You’re Opened Everything Is A Hassel

2011-10-02T22:35:00.004-04:00

My roommate is the hero of story to come. She conquered the following situation on her own, in a second language on little to no sleep. She deserves your comments of praise.

We have been trying to figure out how to do our end of the month finance, accounting and tax stuff. Trust me when I say that grade 11 accounting in no way prepared me for being a business women overseas in a country that presumes the need to keep two sets of books, (which sounds ober sketchy – but it is the only way to get things done). We have done more than 10 jobs this month, but we were only given 5 registered receipts and couldn’t apply for anymore until next month. Even our accountant told us “only print this type of receipt when absolutely necessary, don’t waste them on little $20 jobs you do”.

Why? Because for every official government receipt a company issues they have to pay taxes. That same amount has to be directly deposited into your company account. In order to take out money from our account we have to have an official receipt that has been issued for our company expenses incurred, but of course no other business wants to give us receipts because than they would have to pay tax (vicious loop).

To this point most of our clients have been fellow expats, who, as long as they are not running their own business, don’t really care what the receipt looks like. We could print them out a nice invoice in English and sign it and they would be just as happy as if they had gotten an official registered receipt stamped with our company's red chop. While this works it is less than honest on the tax front and also makes us look like we are not really busy working.

While we have a great brand new printer, copier, scanner deal that we bought for our business, it sadly cannot meet the needs of a business in this country. In order to issue proper government honoured registered receipts, you must print them on old school tractor feed paper – the type that only works with an ancient dot matrix printer. My roommate went to the computer market, learned the word for dot matrix, bought a second hand printed (forced the guy to give her a real receipt) and than lugged the 50 pound thing all the way home.

My roommate is a smart girl, and knows her ways around computers. She tried installing the printer software on her old computer with XP, didn’t work. She tried installing it on her new computer with windows 7, it also didn’t work. She tried trouble shooting and down loading what she needed off line, but none of that worked.

She dragged the whole unit and her lap top back to the market and demanded “I can’t install your printed, I want my money back”. This, in a country were returns are unheard of, and once the money is in your hands you NEVER give it back. The guys at the shop figured she was just a dumb foreign girl who knew nothing about computers so they offered to help her out and install it for her. Two of them spent over twenty minutes apiece trying before announcing “Oh, it’s because your computer is way too old”

“It says it is compatible with XP and this unit has XP, I tried it on my one with Windows 7… but that didn’t work either”.

“Oh of course not, that operating system is too new”. These guys were starting to sound like Goldie Locks now all my roommate need was to find one that was “just right”. They kept trying, their boss came and tried and in the end their conclusion was “Your Computer speaks English, this printer doesn’t. You need to get a new computer”

“Yeah right” thought my roommate “I am going to buy a whole new, none English speaking computer, keep your cheap chunky second hand printer, just so I can owe the government more money. I don’t think so”. She left the shop, free of the burdensome printer’s weight and headed to the opposite end of the market, hoping to find a seller who could help her.

But the guy from the first shop, who was still put out about having to give her money back, followed her down the hall “Don’t sell to her. Her computer only speaks English and all she will do is hassle you with her problems” he yelled behind her.

Resolution: our accountants promised to print our receipts for us each month, but they couldn't help this month since their own out-dated dot matrix printer had broken down.

That's Not Why They're Staring

2011-09-29T22:01:00.004-04:00

It is common practice for Muslim women in our province to trade in their headscarves and long skirts for more revealing clothes when they come into the city. So when my friend, who was dressed like a western college student, told me that her mom was faithful in doing the five-times-a-day prayers and wearing very traditional Muslim clothes, I wasn’t at all surprised.

“But I’m sure when you go back to the countryside, you dress more conservatively, right?” I asked, eyeing her skin-tight jeans.

My friend nodded. “Yes, of course. But I still don’t wear the scarf; it makes my head itch.”

“You don’t wear a headscarf?” I couldn’t keep the shock out of my voice. “Everyone in the countryside wears a scarf! That’s just what you do. Even I wear a scarf when I go there, and I’m a foreigner.”

Now is was my friend’s turn to be surprised. “You wear a scarf? Why?”

“Because that’s just what you do. I mean, I wouldn’t run around the city without a bra on; it would be totally inappropriate. Everyone would stare at me. The same with not wearing a scarf in the countryside.”

She tilted her head to the side slightly. “They would be staring at you because you’re a foreigner, not because you’re missing an item of clothing,” she said, finally.

In the city you see jeans and t-shirts, arms, legs and faces. Trendy Modern Uyghur women

In the country side it's all about long skirts, long sleeves, head scarves, and no skin

Sounds Just Like Me

2011-09-25T10:23:00.003-04:00

The following was recently posted by my roommate… making me the personality changing roommate in the story

More recently, my roommate and I had several groups of friends come by our apartment in quick succession. Again, we found ourselves switching from one language to another, depending on the needs of the group. I was amused to see my roommate’s personality go through several drastic variations as we switched languages – she became more playful, childlike, or sarcastic depending on the language being spoken. She was more than happy to point out the same kinds of variations in my communication styles.

After everyone had gone home, we thought about the possible reasons for our communication schizophrenia – was it that each language has a preferred style of communication? Were we mimicking our favorite teachers? Were our own insecurities leading us to act or speak in ways we wouldn’t in our native language?

It’s something that I continue to ponder as I tutor several local students in English. It’s possible that the tone and style of English that I teach them will reflect my personality more than theirs – that they will come across as shy, or cautious, or indirect because of my style of communication, when in their own language, they wouldn’t choose to speak that way at all. And of course, it’s also quite possible that the person I think I’m getting to know in English isn’t the real person at all; just layers and layers of learned vocabulary and grammar habits.

Pick Pocket on the Bus

2011-09-21T03:37:00.001-04:00

What would you do if you saw the guy next to you on the bus have things stolen right out of his pocket? Do you turn a blind eye? Scream? Slap the hand of the thief? Make a scene? Play Robinhood and try to steal the money back when he is not looking, so that you can be the hero and give it to the first guy?

This is a question all of us expats have had to ask ourselves at one time or another. My friend uses his imposing six foot stature to step into the middle of the proceeding. He will actually become a wall between the crook and his target. While glaring down at the robber with such a menacing stare he will try to connive them of their sinfully ways and call them to repeat all in one look.

Considering most of the pickpockets carry knives in their pockets I try to be carefully doing anything that will draw attention to them or make them angry. My favorite trick is to stomp on the foot of the person who is in the midst of having their belongings taken. Sometimes as they squirm around in pain, from a good foot tramping, they move in such a way as to make their pocket unreachable to the eager hand.

Parsley and Tomato Cake

2011-09-17T23:25:00.001-04:00

My Uyghur friend treated me to a piece of cake at a local bakery the other day. This friend works at one of the American owned restaurants. Her place of employment has the best cake in town, (so good it would have your grandmother re-evaluating her family recipe). After working there for a while I was sure my friend had good taste in cake.

But the sweet set in front of me had more icing in the whole creation than there was any really cake. The icing was decorated all fancy will colourful swirls and such. The top of the creation displayed a thoughtfully placed piece of parsley and half of a cherry tomato.

My friend split the treats by eating the tomato and insisting that I enjoy the Parsley. I grew up being taught you are never supposed to eat the garnish. But the real question was: What was parsley doing on my cake in the first place?

Just Take it and Let’s Get out of here!

2011-09-13T01:02:00.002-04:00

Our bus pulled into the station after a wearisome 11 and half hour journey it was dark and late and well past my bedtime. My travelling companion and I grabbed our bags and headed for the gate to find a taxi. Behind us came an explosion of people yelling in a variety of languages:

“Stop!”

“Come back here.”

“You can’t leave yet”

“What about your medicine?”

One of the guards came running forward to block the gate and keep us from exiting , while another man in a while lab coat, presumably a doctor, started waving papers under my nose and pointing to the line. That was when I noticed that every one of our fellow passengers had dutifully disembarked the bus and were standing in line to receive whatever medical treatment the local physician deemed necessary.

Since I am on a regular regiment of medications that are prone to side effects and adverse interactions with unknown drugs I am weary of taking something that I don’t know. I haven’t studied enough medical words, so I didn’t know what disease they were saying had broken out in their area, but I tried valiantly to convince them that I was sure I had been inoculated for it in Canada and that I couldn’t pop their mysterious pill. My arguments fell on deaf ears and were to no avail. The group of one doctor, three nurses and two gate guards ganged up on me and scolded saying “You can’t leave the bus station until you take this”, “No hotel in our city will permit you to stay if you have not had your medicine” “You may get very ill, if you do not listen to us”.

Against my better judgment I blindly grabbed their white tablet and swallowed it, signing my name on the dotted line, and accepting the slip with the red stamp calming that I had received the need medical treatment. I kept that sheet of paper close to me, and sure enough needed to show it again at the airport in order to board a plane and leave the area.

It wasn’t until after I returned to my home that I learned that part of our province was facing an outbreak of polio. My doctor friend was kind enough to reassure me, that while a person on immune suppressant, like myself, should not take a live vaccine she did say that I should be fine since I would have taken a vaccination years ago for the same disease. Her confidence did put my heart at ease.

Just Getting on Long Distant Bus is a Story

2011-09-11T07:51:00.002-04:00

A trip that has taken as little as 6 hours in the past dragged on to the 11 and half hour mark before we hit our destination. The main delay occurred when our bus had to leave the paved high and take a detour through small, narrow, village, dirt roads. These roads are barely wide enough for two donkey carts to pass each other without incident. Therefore, when our wide bus tried to squeeze by a five tone truck loaded down with goods travelling the other direction, the inevitable happened. With no shoulder to this laneway, the two side wheels of our vehicle slipped on the soft sand and the bus started to tilt precariously off the side.Our driver quickly came to a halt and encouraged us all too quickly disembark and move off to the side, to stand in the fields with those who were picking cotton. The next two hours were spent trying to get our bus balanced on the road and ready to continue our travels. As we stood around watching them dig out the wheels (which only caused the bus to lean more drastically) and try pilling up rocks to added traction of the inverse side, our group was passed by many other travelers including wagons, other buses and a whole caravan of government SUVs, all of which paused for a moment to chuckle at our plight and drove off without even stopping to offer assistance.

At one point all of the men on our bus decided that maybe if they worked together they could push the bus and force it back on to the road. I couldn’t watched as they rocked the huge metal contraption back and forth, hoping to bounce it into place. I was sure they would topple it over on themselves and I would be left standing there watching several men get squished to death. Instead I turned my back on the whole affair just in time to see a man get run over by a motorcycle. Both the pedestrian and the cyclist were so preoccupied by the bus’s movement they didn’t notice each other. From one horrifying scene to another I stood hoping we would soon be back on our way.

The speed with which they had us going again in under two hours, proved this was not a first for the driver or his crew and that while a bus falling off the road seemed like a mad adventure to me, it was a daily part of their job travelling in the southern part of our province.

A Little Girl's Hair

2011-09-06T11:25:00.003-04:00

When I use to babysit I loved to play with the little girls hair, brushing out long curls, forming complicated braids, tying ribbons and making her feel pretty. This doesn’t work as a way to reach out to the little kids in my neighbourhood. Most young Uyghur girls have no hair. Their parents shave their heads all through childhood in hopes that will grow in darker and thicker.

My Kazak friend was telling me in her culture they not only shave off all the girls hair, they also believe that the saliva of a cow will further stimulate hair growth. She told me the story of having her head covered in moistened cow feed so that the animal would be enticed to lick her entire bald little head. She still trembled 20 years latter as she told the story and admits that she hates cows.

Even without being cow feed, you can tell the custom of head shaving does lead to thick wonderfully dark long hair.

Father's Love

2011-09-03T09:01:00.006-04:00

Some of the tourists that went travelling with me this summer took some great photos of Uyghur men hanging out with and showing love to their children/grandchildren. I love these pictures. Enjoy!

That's No Tooth Under her Pillow

2011-09-01T06:06:00.005-04:00

I love watching Uyghur movies, I am always picking up little cultural things I didn’t know or seeing something unusual that I want to ask my friends about later. The heroin of one of my favourite stories was awakened in the middle of the night with a nightmare. Her mother was quick to come to her comfort by grabbing a knife ( a big sharp one) from the kitchen and placing it under her daughter's pillow.

I asked around and found out this is more of a normal practice than I figured. Some said it was to cut the power the evil spirits had over her sleep. Others said it cut the bad images to pieces and let her sleep in peace. One person even told me it was so that she could protect herself in case the dream came true.

You're Too Old to Not Be Married

2011-08-29T08:01:00.003-04:00

I left the tour group I was translating for to play basketball and I slowly moved over to some steps that I could sit down on. I was stiff and tired after a long day of wandering around and bargaining, my weariness showed as I lowered myself onto the stair. Before finally dropping all my weight I did nod at the family who was already occupying the steps and quietly muttered a question asking to join them. They nodded their accent and I gladly took a break for a minute. I could overhear the family discussing me, but lacked the energy to engage them or even correct their preconceived notions.

"Do you think she is a foreigner?"

"She can't be, she asked in Uyghur if we would mind if she sat down."

"No. she didn't say anything when she sat down."

"Yes she did, she looked right t me and asked to sit down."

"Then she must be Uzbek because she doesn't look like she is from here."

After a few minutes one of them finally got brave enough to just ask me, at that point even my tiredness won't let me be rude enough to fake lack of understanding when asked a direct question. After setting them straight on where I was from, what I was doing here, and where I learned their language, the mother asked me the most surprising question.

"When are you due?"

I stared at her blankly not really understanding the question, at least not understanding how it related to me.

"You are expecting aren't you?" she asked again.... only this time she used a euphemism that literally means to have heavy feet. (which didn't seem to fit seeing as I barely weigh 95 pounds right now).

She tried one more time "aren't you pregnant?"

"No" I said with a bit of a nervous laugh, "I'm not even married".

"Not married?! How old are you?"

"31"

"We're the same age" announced the mother as her 13 year old son slid closer to hear my response. He wasn't the only one drawing closer, I noticed the crowd had grown from the original family to include may curious passerbyers.

I tried to defend myself a little. "Well in my culture a lot of people don't get married until they are 30-35. In fact my older brother just got married for the first time a couple of months ago. So I still have plenty of time."

Everyone in the crowd started shaking their heads at me, I am still not sure whether it was out of pity or shame. "Not here," said a voice from behind me. "girls get married when they are 17-19".

"I got married when I was 15" said the mom "I have a son older than this one."

"You'll be too old to have kids."

"There won't be any men left to marry."

"Don't your parents want grandchildren, I was a grandmother by the time I was 36".

The comments kept coming at me. I tried to laugh them off and enjoy the fact that a group of 30 some odd people where that anxious to offer an opinion on my life choices. I did notice a police or two eavesdropping at the back of the crowd, but they did nothing to break up the ever increasing amount of people who seemed to disapprove of my life.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Have you ever been married?"

"Do you at least have a boyfriend?" The calls were coming from further back, and I could only imagine the story that was being circulated through the mass of people for the benefit of those who came late. The next thing I saw was the throng of people dispersing very suddenly. I looked up and noticed that the riot police armed with their wooden bats had marched right up to the crowd and was attempting to force people to move along. I looked them in the eye and sincerely apologized. "I am sorry officer, we were all just chatting. They were asking me about my life in Canada". I could tell once the police had seen what was in the middle of the large group, they too were interested in stopping to ask questions, but their sense of duty prevailed and before you know it I was able to slip out of the park and head back to my hotel for a real rest. The group of tourist had mainly watched from the outside. They said they had been worried when they saw the riot police enter the park and march with purpose right over to where people had been mulling around me. Talk about things to be thankful for, I am so glad that I was not dragged down to the station for another long conversation about my marital status, insulted and told I look fat like a pregnant lady or even worse.

Are We Close?

2011-08-26T06:48:00.003-04:00

Traveling in the southern part of our province is exciting for about the first hour or so and then it all becomes a repetition of much the same. Looking at the mountains on one side and the vast desert on the other. Every once in a while there will be small sprouts of green grass popping and slowly multiplying until there are bushes and trees until you realize you are in the midst of a lush oasis. Ten minutes of green beauty with a small village and farmer inhabitance is all you’re allotted until the same progress starts fading away in reverse. The trees disappear, the bushes shrink in size and suddenly you realize there aren’t even any slivers of grass to be seen poking up through the sand.

Recently a group and I were driving along this vast desert highway, almost bored by the hours of mountains, sand, and occasional grass. When we could tell that we were drawing close to yet another oasis town. One of the guys in the vehicle planned on meeting up with a friend in an upcoming oasis. We had no idea exactly how far we had traveled or how many small villages still lay between us and our final destination.

In a moment of inspiration he asked to use my phone to call his friend. The friend of course inquires about how close we were to his home town. My travel companion with total honesty responded “ Well looking out the window I see the desert, a few trees and a couple of donkey carts. So do you think we’re almost there?”

SOLD!

2011-08-22T22:18:00.004-04:00

Speaking of spontaneous travel stories… here is one that my former language classmate from out here posted on his blog the other day.

Have you had one of those moments recently when something so outrageous happens all you can do is laugh? I did. And now I'll tell you about it.

It was a short trip east and a bit south of here. By short trip, I mean 30 hours by train. Meeting up with a friend, we headed to the bus station. We had a few small cities we planned to visit and bus seemed the best option. It's cheap and reliable, though I've yet to see a bus here with anything close to resembling what I like to call 'leg room'.

For whatever reason, we were told that foreigners could not take the bus we wanted to take. Not completely understanding we quickly resorted to Plan B. The infamous yet wonderful Santana, or long distance taxi. Santanas derive their name from the Volkswagen Santana, the model of choice for the majority of these taxis. After a quick phone call which involved haggling over a price we waited for our driver who never showed. We finally resorted to flagging down a random Santana which immediately agreed to the price we were told was fair. Great! We jumped in. AND. This driver didn't cram a fourth person in the back. I'm a large man. 4 people in the back of a mid-sized sedan just doesn't work for me.

My rejoicing was short-lived. About an hour into the trip, the driver suddenly pulled over and in hopped a ragged looking migrant worker. Now I was sqished up against the front seat, my friend laughing at me one side and a farmer rattling off about Obama in a local dialect I could barely understand on the other. Off we went again. This time we only got another twenty minutes down the road. After answering a few phone calls (in a dialect, of course, I could not understand) the driver suddenly pulled over. No explanation other than, "Wait a little." Soon, another car full of men in white skull caps pulled up. The hood of our car was opened and all ten or so men hunched over inspecting the underworkings of our vehicle. "Is the car broken?", I asked my new Obama-loving friend. No clear answer was given. Silly me. Thinking the car was broken. Pfff.

Meanwhile cars and bikes are slowing down for a better look at the two whities. One got the feeling they didn't get a lot of foreigners in those parts. Finally, while chatting about what might become of us, the driver turned toward us. Admittedly what came out of his mouth was actually nothing I could have ever expected. "I just sold my car. Now you will take the public bus." So many thoughts passed through my mind. "You ARE selling it? You WILL sell it?" My language skills aren’tt great, but I was sure he just said 'sold'... as in the past tense of 'sell'.

Next my thought was to reason with him. Surely he understood that we had an unspoken agreement; he was under a certain obligation to drive me to my destination, right? SURELY you can't sell your car out from under your passengers?! Silly me. In the next minute our driver flagged down a public bus heading to our destination, he paid our fare, and we were bustled on. Since we were late comers, the only seats available were little plastic stools in the aisle. Strangely, our fellow Santana passengers seemed unphased as they climbed on the bus, like it was normal for their taxi to be sold mid-way through a trip.

ON YOUR MARK, GET SET, GO

2011-08-19T04:22:00.004-04:00

Travelling locally takes my personal flexibility and need for spontaneity to a whole new level. A few weeks ago I took a small group travelling down south, as the only one who spoke Uyghur I was responsible for planning out route and buying our bus tickets.

I went to the bus station the day before we hoped to leave, but was told I couldn’t buy tickets this early. I had to get them within twenty four hours of the bus’ departure time. Sadly when I went back the next day our original destination was sold out, and we ended up heading to a completely different city, leaving three hours earlier than planned.

A few days later we were leaving one city to head further south. I sent the girls I was travelling with to the local English training school to teach an English corner while I went to buy our tickets. I wanted to be leaving in about two hours, I figured that gave them an hour to teach class and another to make it to the bus station and buy snacks for the road. But once again I was told I was too early to buy those tickets. They filled up one bus, as soon as it left the station they would start to sell tickets for the next one.

My favourite one from the trip was when we bought tickets first thing in the morning and according to the time printed on them we still had an hour and a half or so before we were suppose to leave. I was just about to suggest we go shopping at the bazaar around the corner from the bus station, when someone yelled out the name of the city we were heading to. Only to learn they had sold out all the seats and were ready to go… the time printed was nothing but a mere suggestion, an approximation of when they might leave.

Locals are much better at this ‘travel whenever’ mentality than I am. They are ready to go on a moment’s notice. Like the woman that had, by our definition, essentially been hitchhiking and waiting for a bus that had room to pick them up. It was 1:30 in the morning when they climbed on our bus from some desert village in the middle of nowhere to spend the night sleeping on the floor between the bunks. They didn’t seem fazed at all by the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements or the odd hour at which their travels began.

When the driver says ‘Go’ you better be ready.

That's Not Very Old Lady Like Behaviour

2011-08-13T07:54:00.004-04:00

After walking around a new town with no real place to rest or even put our bags down, we found a nan seller that had a raised platform out front his shop. We asked if we could sit down to enjoy our snack. Uyghurs being the hospitable people that they are, quickly brought us tea to drink as we sat and rested.

The family in charge of the bread shop continued to work away at baking up a fresh batch and allowed us our peace and quiet for our little tea party. Sitting just outside of the shops front door was the family grandmother. She looked very old, like most days all she did was occupy this perch out front and people watch, as those from town wondered by on their various tasks. She sat with a fan in hand alliteratively using it as either a fly swatter, or moving just enough to create a small breeze to cool herself from the oppressive afternoon heat.

One of our group was really getting annoyed by the bugs that kept buzzing around her head. The old grandmother saw her flailing her arms around in an effort to ward off the unwanted guests. The old woman made a grunting sound to get our attention and thrust the fan towards us. My friend thanked her for offering to share, but turned her back to let the women keep up her daily routine.

The woman would not be easily dismissed and tried again to get my friend's attention to offer her fan. This time she was more persistent, she picked up a rock and threw it at my friend's back. Talk about unlady-like behavior. We all saw her do it, and still couldn’t believe that such a sweet woman was a stone thrower.

Medicine Coffee- Coming to a Coffee Shop Near You

2011-08-10T12:20:00.005-04:00

Uyghurs have a unique tea flavor that they call medicine tea. It is a black tea with cinnamon, cardamom and other spices ( I haven’t asked what those other spices are, because I am very scared they will tell me it is dried snake).

We climbed off the sleeper bus at a small stop along the way. I grabbed a pack of instant coffee to help keep me going. I figured I could just get some boiling water and enjoy a break. I asked around, but all the tea pots were filled with medicine tea.

How bad can it be? I’ve heard of cinnamon coffee… and cardamom is good. I had high hopes that it would taste so good that Starbucks would be knocking down my door for the recipe. Boy was I wrong.

Coffee- good.

Medicine tea – good

Mix the two together = waste of a perfectly good coffee package and an overall bad start to a long day.

Have You Ever Seen A Shopping Centre?

2011-08-07T10:48:00.004-04:00

An American girl was recently visiting on one of her first trips to Central Asia. While she was here she made friends with one of the waitresses at my favorite restaurants.

The three of us made plans to hang out on her day off. We meet up at the front of the international bazaar, a place filled with unique sights and sounds around every corner. The bazaar is filled with dried fruit, bedazzled clothing, musical instruments and other Uyghur trappings.

My Uyghur friend excitedly asked my American what she would like to do, since we had a little time before dinner. Without really even giving her time to respond, she asked us if we had ever been to Carrefour, a French version of Wal-Mart. She grabbed our arms and proudly marched us passed all the colourful hats and other expressions of a foreign culture, right to the front door of the cheep take off of an everyday standard retail store.

Hello "Big Plate of Chicken"

2011-08-04T08:34:00.003-04:00

I was walking down the street the other day when I heard a familiar greeting tentatively whispered by my side. "Yakshmusiz Da pan Ji". I looked around expecting to see a small child behind me (after I appeared on a Uyghur game show over a year ago many of the neighborhood children gave me the nickname of my favorite food. 'big plate of chicken'). Only this time there was no little ones to be seen. Instead I realized I had just passed a traditional, fully veiled, Muslim woman. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she gazed out at me from the small slit in her head covering. She might have forgotten my name, but I was glad she was brave enough to find some way to greet me.