Buying Jade

There is rive famous for its jade.  Everyday people wade out knee deep in the water searching the stony riverbed for jade and other precious stones.  The men then set up stalls after stall along the road bartering with tourists and selling their most recent find.  These men are known for working together day in and day out standing shoulder to shoulder arguing on each other’s behalf about how authentic the necklaces are with the untrained eye of the shopper.

My latest tour group and I stopped to admire the stones, without any real intention of buying anything.  In fact some of the group hadn’t even brought their money with them since shopping wasn’t on our agenda.  One of the women picked up a dark emerald green bracelet and with ease slipped it on her wrist.  After admiring it for a time she was disturbed to discover it took a little more work to get it off.  She pulled and tugged and twisted before their piece of jewelry finally popped off.  However, it did so with such force that it slipped through her fingers, bounced off the table and went crashing to the ground.  He husband retrieved it quickly, but there was a small scratch on the surface.

Seeing the damage done the husband bravely admitted that now they had to buy it.  I asked if they had found out the price before trying it one, which sadly they hadn’t… I don’t really know the price of Jade nor how to judge its quality.  Since the damage was already done the seller could name any price and I would have no idea how exaggerated it really was. 

He seemed to know it too.  “I would never sell that bracelet for less than $500 USD,” he said. 

I laughed.  There was no way we were paying that price.  I asked the cope how much money they had on them.  When all pockets were turned inside out the totally only added up to about 7 bucks.  I knew that was way too little to come with as a counter offer, so I checked my own wallet.  I had about $75.  (While to be honest I had a lot more.  In the front part of my wallet I had $75, hidden in the zippered pocket behind I had another couple of hundred that was already ear marked to buy our bus tickets home that night). 

 I showed him the seventy five in my hand “This is all I have, big brother” I said with a pitifully forced quiver in my voice.

He scoffed and complained that he could have sold it to some unsuspecting tourist for $700 dollars and that I was just out to cause troubles.  

At this point I had a decision to make.  I could match him angry word for angry word, letting my voice join his in rising to an emotional frenzy.  I often call this getting my fight face on.  Arguing with vengeance for what I see as my right.  If I had one this all his buddies would have taken his side and it would have escalated into an intense me verses them situation.  Or, I realized, I could become vulnerable and try to win him over.

Those of you who know me well know I am not much of a crier, I also don’t often resort to tears as a means to get my way.   But desperate times call for desperate measures.  I held out the $75 dollars a little further in my shaky hands and with a weak voice I entreated him again.  “This is as much as I can give you.  I don’t know what else to do.”

Other men started gathering around us to see what all the fuss was about.  They looked from my pale face and moist eyes to his stone cold stance.  Lying between us was the offending bracelet.  Some of them picked it up to examine the damage… I heard them muster under their breath that it was a good quality one.  “Oh dear,” I thought “now comes the time when they all gang up on me.”  My tears were getting to be a little more real by the minuet.  

The seller nodded that the damage and reported for all his friends in disgust that I was trying to pay $75 dollars for something he could easily sell for almost $1 000.

“There is nothing I can do”  I stated again weakly “I have no solution.”  To my surprise many of the on looking Uyghur men sided with me.  Some of them even put their fight faces on and jumped over the table so they could stare down the seller more intently.  Since I now knew that it was high quality jade I asked some of the others how in our group how much money they had.  Between all of us we collected $160USD, way more than I would ever spend on jewelry from a road side stand, but by this time I looked at it more as stopping a riot and avoiding being dragged to the police station. 

 The crowed had grown to over 50 men by this time.  They were taking sides against each other.  Thankfully the majority of them seemed sympathetic to my plight. They yelled at the seller:

“Look at her, you are making her cry”

“She is a good girl; she wears a head scarf and everything”

“She’s learned out language”

“She says that is more money that she makes at her job in a month”

“Have pity”

“And you call yourself a good Muslim; you ought to be ashamed of yourself”

They grabbed the money out of my hand and started forcing it into his.

“No,” he said, weakening slightly.  “I would have tried to sell it for $1 500.”

The next thing I knew men all around the circle started digging into their own wallets and pockets and adding money to the pile.

The hard hearted seller lost face in light of his coworker’s generosity to me.  I have no idea how large the total pay off sum was, but the seller was forced to accept the offering and reluctantly shake hands with my biggest advocate.  

One of the men laid the slightly damaged bracelet in the palm of my hand with a brotherly “Don’t cry, it’s all okay now.  You guys can go” 

As I backed away I put my hand over my heart and repeated again and agian " Thank you.  Thank you all.  Thank you big brother. Thank you God.  Thank you.  Thank you."

I Got Kissed

As I wandered through the aisles of the bazaar I could see the group of them strolling towards me.  Their tall embroidered hats set them apart from the rest of the shoppers.  These women were Tajiki.  Tajiki’s are another one of the many minority people groups that live out here.  Due to my coloring and rather large nose I am occasionally taken as a Tajiki.  Our eyes meet across the way and I was brave enough to call out a greeting to a totally stranger.  I wasn’t sure whether she could speak Uyhgur or not, but I thought it was worth a try.  Her face light up and she too started moving my direction to greet me. 

Important cultural note:  Tajiki women customarily greet each other with a short peck on the lips.  While I had learned this fact about their people in the past, and had even seen photographs at the Museum and in local guide books, it completely slipped my mind.  Uyhgur women, on the other hand, greet by kissing each other for a second longer on both cheeks.  So as I held her hand affectionately I puckered up and moved my head ever so slightly to one side… she however didn’t veer at all and went straight for my mouth.  The resulting kiss was a little awkward as the corners of our lips meet and I remembered in a flash why she didn’t offer her cheek.  

One more cultural milestone accomplished.  I have now kissed a total stranger on the lips in the most respectful way possible.  

 Spotting them in the Bazaar

 Still friends after our akward kiss

 A Group shot to print off and take when I go and visit their home town latter this summer.

 Me, trying to be Tajiki

Bazaar Baldy

The following post was written by one of my travel companions.

“Try to look local", I said as we stumbled off the crowded bus. We had arrived at our destination. The weekly village bazaar. From our hotel we took a long-distance taxi, then walked through the little town to an unmarked stop, jumped on a flat-bed motor taxi to the outskirts of town where we switched to a bus and road several kilometers into the countryside. We knew we were getting close to our destination by the lines of horse carts filled with village farmers on their way to the weekly bazaar. This wasn’t a bazaar as you might think...crocheted doll toilet paper covers and hand painted ‘Welcome to the Lake” signs. This was Central-Asian-style village bazaar. Here we found pavilion after pavilion stocked with everything from hats to socks, horse tack to cooking utensils, grilled kabobs to boiled sheep lung and feet, sweet walnut toffee to fried bread. The small lanes were teeming, shoulder to shoulder with people, ladies in full hijab, farmers in knee high boots and white skull caps, people chatting over a kabob or fried bread. The smell of animals, grill smoke, popcorn, and body odor mingled together with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares, animal noises, the thud of meat being cut on wooden cutting boards and beeping horns of motorcycles. Needless to say, our best attempts to ‘blend in’ with the crowd were a miserable failure. My friends and I were the cause of numerous double takes and more than once I saw a small child start at my boots with his eyes and begin the long crane upward, ending in a wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of surprise at the gigantic foreigner standing before him.

We decided to split up in an attempt to lessen the stares. My classmate and I headed off to see what we could see. Coming around the corner, we found men selling vegetables and behind them, the weekly open-air barber shop. This barber shop consisted of two rows of men, probably farmers on every day except bazaar day, each standing in front of the chair or stool they’d brought with them. Their tools were the aforementioned chair, a piece of drape cloth, a carafe of water, a tin can with lather, a paint brush to apply the lather and a straight-edged razor. Only one style is offered, that being the classic bald look.

As we stood there watching these men skillfully shave their customers heads, beard, and neck I was surprised to hear my buddy say, “Let’s do it!” Wide-eyed I turned to him and agreed. This must be done! “You go first. I’ll take pictures”, I said. As you can imagine there was no small amount of interest taken at the two foreigners plopping down to get a shave. The process started with a vigorous head rub, followed by a lathering, and finished with a shave with the sharpest straight edge I’ve ever seen (or felt). My labors in local language were useless here as almost no one only spoke Uyghur. I was able to answer a few questions in Uyghur as to where we were from, etc., but mostly we commented with nods and smiles. Finally one man, curious as to why I was taking pictures so intently, asked me in broken version of our one common tongue , “Don’t you have barbers in your country?

Soon it was my turn and I took my spot. I have to admit, my barber had both skill and an extremely sharp knife. It was a relatively comfortable shave. In a matter of minutes, I was beautifully bald and with no cuts. Thanking our man, we handed over our money. Total cost? less than $1. Heading back toward the front of the bazaar, we decided the best way to head back into town was horse cart. So, for quarter per person we jumped on for our slow journey back into town.

Animal Bazaar

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.

Have You Ever Seen A Shopping Centre?

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.

Finding Fabric

Back in January I was in the Uyghur material market shopping for fabric to have a dress made. I had a basic idea of what I was looking for, but as I started to wonder through booths waiting for something to jump out at me, I was accosted by many eager sales people. In good local tradition some of the sellers grabbed bolts of fabric and actually intersect my path as they loudly called out to me and waved the material in front of my face: “Miss you like this one, very cheap for you, I give you good price”. Normally the items they chose to show off to me are about the last thing I would ever consider buying. I remember on this particular occasion one man was determined to show off one particular pattern. He stood there lovely running his figures over this brightly colored fabric. “This would look very pretty against your white skin miss” he said as he held the end of the roll up to my face. The hideous material looked like it had fireworks exploding all over it in multiple shocking colors. These bright bursts were in a shocking pink, and electric yellow and even and an over the top green. My tastes have changed greatly since living overseas (my family use to be known for our love of a lackluster navy color wardrobe and now I proudly don atlas for any formal event), but this rainbow explosion seemed to me they type of pattern only a Uyghur person could truly appreciate the beauty of. I politely shook my head to indicate it wasn’t quite what I was looking for, but he insisted again that it looked great on me.

Considering my strong revolution to the material he had suggested, you can imagine my surprise when shopping at the mall this week in Canada to see a dress made out of the exact same fabric. I had gone into the store and the woman at the counter had greeted me upon my entrance telling me to feel free to look around. As I searched through the racks of summer dresses I saw a section filled with outrageous patterns. Sure enough right in their midst was the explosive fireworks of color that I had turned my nose up to on the other side of the world. The dress was a shot, tub top style (something no Uyghur women would ever wear for the sake of modestly), even in light of its lack of material it was still the most flashy one hanging there. I guess I should have listened better to my local Uyghur sales man; it would have looked great on my skin and allowed me to be in fashion on both sides of the world.

I Can’t Tell a Lie

Aforementioned Ramadan is once again upon us, but the fast is more than just abstaining from food and drink while the sun is in the sky, it is a month that calls all Muslims back to a holier way of life. There are more beggars on the street, and I am sure they make more than double the money this month, since it seems everyone is stopping to give them loose change. A gift of alms during the month of Ramadan is considered to be even more generous.

Last week I learned another aspect of life that is affected by holiness rehaul of Ramadan. My friend and I were souvenir shopping for her at the market. While we were bargaining, one of my favourite sellers said. “That is the real price I paid for it. I can’t lie to you because it is Ramadan right now.” Wow, honesty is the policy only when you are not eating. I guess now is the time to go shopping.

(Yes, this picture was taken in 2005 when my family came to visit. I often use file footage instead of running around all day with camera in hand)

Things I miss

So I have only been home a week, but as I was watching my pictures flash by on my screen saver this afternoon I realized there were already a number of things I miss. I think what it really boils down to is that I miss a world where the most usual sights seem like they should be normal. It really is a wonderful world where the following do not seem strange:

A big load on a little bike

A donkey cart at the front gate of a major university

A bird carried on the bus

A little lamb following Mary through the department store.

Who Needs a Cart or a Booth When the Ground Works Just as Well

Today in class we were asking our teacher how much we should expect to pay for certain things around town. So much of the art of shopping here depends on your bargaining skills. If you don’t know what sort of price to aim for on a product… you may never know how badly you are being cheated. Some of the more major department type stores or even some of the chain stores have fixed prices… but anywhere else it is everyman for himself. The best rule of thumb, as a foreigner, is to take the price they give you and offer them 1/3 of it. Work you way up to half… if they still haven’t agreed then just start to walk away.

When we told our teacher that we did not bargain at home, she was amazed. Her first question was “not even on the street?”. Both my roommate and I had to stop and think about it for a minute… “How do we buy things from street dealers at home?” The answer is we don’t have them at home, at least not the type of thing she is referring too.


As you walk around town you will see any number of sellers with their things spread out on the ground. Some of them have carts that are loaded down with all their wares. Others, however, don’t see the need for a cart when the ground works just fine. From the ground you can buy everything from meat to fruit, clothing to toys. You can always tell when someone gets wind of the fact that the police are coming by. In a matter of seconds everyone with a cart is in on the run, and people whose things are just on the ground pick up the corners of the blanket and go.

My shopping habits will never be the same again. I wonder how the Walmart sales lady will respond to my finely tuned bargaining skills.

That makes Christmas shopping seem tame

I use to hate going Christmas shopping. All of the malls in Canada seemed to become a zoo throughout the month of December. The pushing, the crowds, the noise, the sites, the sounds… all of it together overwhelmed my senses. But Tuesday Bazaar in the village made me long for the mall even on Christmas eve.

My first sight upon arriving at the village market last week during my trip south was the donkey cart parking lot. As far as the eye could see were lined up donkeys and carts. I have no idea how at the end of the day one family can find their matching set and drive home (although maybe a Uyghur lady would think the same thing if she saw a picture of a mall parking lot).

After you have walked though the material market, the metal and tool market, the food market (where you can buy any part of the sheep including lungs, intestine and heart cooked the way you like) you come to my favourite section of the market: the animal section. Where sheep, cows, donkeys and horses are being sold and traded as fast as you can imagine. New purchases are then dragged away by their back legs, kicking and complaining the whole way. It really is a site to see a man drive away with four sheep and himself loaded on his motorcycle.

Last week was not my first trip to a village bazaar but each time I am overwhelmed from every angle. The smell of cooking meat and too many people crowed into one space, sight of sheep’s blood being spilt on the ground and stuff strewed on the ground for sale,. the sound of prices being called out in a foreign language combined with the animal grunts, yelps and squeals. I now understand the quote in Anne of Green Gables part two “this is not a Turkish bazaar girls” In deed it is not, Miss Brook for nothing can quite compare to the craziness of a Turkic/Uyghur bazaar. As overwhelming as it is I love it. This is Uyghur culture at its best… just be careful not to get run over.