Saving Face

Ramadan is here again and like every year it means the rules for eating around town have totally changed.  Kabob guys no longer stand in the middle of the street during the day wafting the smell of barbequed meat at passerbyers, noodle carts are tucked into the corner allies out of the main line of vision.  Since fasting is suppose to last from sun up to sun down, the middle of the summer is the hardest time of the year to properly abide by the call to abstain from water or food.  Right now our sun is rising before  4am and setting after 7:30.

I have a few neighbors who are trying to be faithful in the fast, but the longer I am here the more I see the smoke and mirrors which is many peoples dedication to Ramadan.  Tonight my friends and I went to a nice Uyghur restaurant by her house… we wanted to sit outside on the patio under the bright stripped canopies.  The waitress’ first question was: “Are you  wanting to eat right now?”  When we said “Yes”- and answer that indicated we were not participating in the fast, she motioned us to move indoors.  “These seats are only for those eating after iptar  a word used to describe the evening breaking of the fast).”  We stepped into the restaurant only to be met by a wave of hot sticky air. The cool almost night air seemed much preferable to the stuffiness of indoors.  I checked my watch, iptar was only 20mins away.  “If we promised not to eat until afterwards can we sit out there?” I asked hopefully.  “Sure, no problem if you are willing to wait you can sit there.”

We sat outside enjoying the cool breeze, even though they knew none of us were fasting they still brought out the required nan and melon to eat first to help us digest our food.  The whole thing was just an act to save face.  Our waiting until the sky was dark, and starting with a piece of watermelon made the restaurant look like it only catered to the most devote.

Scrooged

"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.

11-11-11

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

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.

Halloween

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.

Home for Canada Day

It was nice to be in country to celebrate our nation’s birthday; but for such an important event I knew I should find a date. I always did have a thing for TALL , dark and handsome men in uniform. I got myself a Mountie!

Sparks are Flying

Growing up on the Canadian /US border I looked forward to the once a year huge fireworks demonstration that Windsor-Detroit is famous for. Every year in celebration of our two countries birthday we have an International Freedom Festival that culminates with three barges in the middle of the river entertaining over a million viewers. We all are mezmorized by the colours and lights exploding in the air for over half an hour. They burst into maples leaves and stars high above the skyline for all to see. This is fireworks as I have grown to know and love them.
Fireworks here are hardly the same. I was woken up this morning at 6am to the sound of firecrackers blasting, bursting and popping all around me. There has barely been a lull all day as almost every family around me hosts their own mini firework display. Some are the type that shoot like rockets and bounce off the windows above, others are long strips of red paper that send sparks shooting off in all directions, others are attached to a sting that you hang out your window, causing fire to rain down on the people walking below. After over 16 hours of nonstop explosions resonating around me I have been reminded that not all fireworks are as beautiful or colorful as the exceptional show I grew up watching. In fact some of them are just plain loud.

My friend recently posted the following on her blog regarding this erupting holiday of light and sound “There's the quantity ,we heard the average home here spends approximately 3,000 worth of local currancy($450 USD) on fireworks for this celebration. Not sure that could be correct though. (That's two months worth of rent for me!) and the incredible scariness/ foolishness of shooting them off: little kids running between huge piles of missile-type shooters and crackers thrown onto sidewalks bustling with pedestrians or inches from homes."

All of this excitement leaves the ground littered with red paper and the air heavy with the smell of ash and smoke. The constant cracking has the children running around screaming with glee , while the loud bagging often prompts car alarms to go off incessantly . A simple walk outside is like an overload to the senses.

The Christmas Countdown is On

It may only be three days left till Christmas, but I have hardly noticed the coming of the holiday. I did a lot more get ready for Korban a month or so ago, back than I was totally into the local holiday, but right now Christmas trees and trimmings seem very far away.

This week the opening-a-business-headache worsens:

1) 1) You can’t register for taxes without a local bank account opened in your company’s name, and you can’t open a company bank account without having a registered tax number.

2) 2) I flew all the way to the capital a month ago to prove I was me and that my passport was valid. This week I have been trying desperately to prove that my local name is also me. The problem is on the translated version of my passport they use a transliterated version of my English name. This name just sounds stupid and nothing at all like a real name, so instead I go by a name that a friend of mine gave me six years ago. I spent a few hours of my week at a notary service trying to make my local nickname seem more official and legal.

CRAZINESS – We have been so wrapped up in office visits that we haven't even taken the time to put up a tree or decorate the house. Oh well Christmas is coming, if we are ready or not. Hope you all have a Merry Christmas !!!

Guess Who is Coming to Town?

Christmas is right around the corner and hints of it are starting to pop up all around town. I know our simple displays here are nothing compared to the Malls decked out with lights and glitter, bells and tinsel in theWest, but they do tend to have their own unique spin to the holiday. Whether it is the English corner kids telling me that Christmas is great because it is Santa’s birthday.

OrNasreddin Ependy Santa who travels around bringing Christmas cheer on his faithful donkey,

Even Finding Nemo underwater Santa, who swims around with his snorkeling mask on and wish all the fish a Merry Christmas.

This year a new Central Asian Christmas mistake was added to the unusual ways that this place understands one of our biggest holidays. I was at our local version of Wal-Mart, listening to them play Christmas Carols over the loud speaker when I started to pay attention to the lyrics. The song “Santa Clause is coming To Town started into its little known second verse with a triumphal declaration that:

“You better watch out, you better not cry,
You better not pout I’m telling you why
Jesus Christ is coming to town.
He’s making a list and checking it twice,
Go’na find out who’s naughty and nice
Oh Jesus Christ is coming to town.”

Finally something to really get me into the Christmas mood.

Proving My Point

I may not be American, but I did get this text message this morning from one of my close friends. It is over the top cheesy.

"I open my wallet, find no money.
I open my pocket, find no coin.
I open my life, find you,
then I know how rich I am!
Forever My Dear Friend
Happy Thanks- Giving Day! :-) "

Celebrate Good Times

In the past I have been quick to publish all the gruesome and bloody pictures from Korban festival (the yearly Muslim celebration remembering Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son, by once again offering a lamb). It might sounds like a gross holiday, but when you live here it is easy to get caught up in the excitement and joy of it all.

Days before the actual holiday I was walking through the bazaar buying dried fruit and candy for our table, greeting neighbors and talking to sellers about the meaning behind the holiday. There was electricity in the air rivaling that of a mall in North America the week before Christmas. Everyone was talking about the holiday and their plans; everyone was preparing their home for guests and generally enjoying the idea of something to celebrate. I was so caught up in the fun of it all I didn’t even mind having to step through the piles of sheep poop that are everywhere as the streets are flooded with these wooly creatures.

On the morning of Korban my roommate and I headed outside to interact with our neighbors and participate in all the activity. As we step out of our stairwell the kids came running toward us.

“Big Sister, Big Sister, come see my sheep”

“That one over there is ours” said one boy as he ran after his sheep and swatted it on the bottom, laughing when the lamb complained in a loud voice.
The next day these same kids talked the parents into coming to visit at our house. Everyone celebrates the holiday here by going from one home to another visiting family and friends and helping them eat their freshly slaughtered lamb. The kids dragged their parents up to our apartment, even before they made it to their real aunt and uncle’s place. We pulled out our leg of lamb to serve them meat, and gladly told them the story of the three sacrifices. They kids even borrowed our Uyghur copy of the Prince of Egypt movie. Other than the stomach ache from overeating it has been a great week.

2:30 is a Great Time for Noodles

The human body is truly an amazing organism. I’ve heard stories of people who have lost their ability to see, but whose bodies adapted by becoming more sensitive to the small noises, smells, and textures that would have otherwise gone by unnoticed.

As foreigners living in a Muslim city, our senses have adapted in other ways.

From up to two rooms away, I can identify the thwack of freshly pulled noodles slapping against a countertop. The thunk of a knife chopping a cantaloupe in half. The scraaape of a cooking pot being taken out of a cupboard.

Recognizing these sounds is crucial to our survival here. Guests in local homes are expected to be able to eat on command. And while there are ways of avoiding eating a full portion (only eating when the host is in the room, putting part of your own meal on someone else’s plate, etc.), there is no getting around the fact that sooner or later, you have to eat something.

Normally this isn’t a big problem – after all, there is no need to visit more than a couple of houses in one day. But this week is the end of Ramadan. Our Muslim friends have spent the last month fasting from food and drink during daylight hours, and now it’s time to party! During the next few days, anyone can knock on anyone else’s door and expect a warm welcome, complete with tea, snacks, and a hot meal.

Since K and I just moved into a new house, we decided that this would be a great time to meet our new neighbors. Knowing that there are at least 7 or 8 Uyghur families in our apartment building, we decided to plan carefully. We had a light snack instead of breakfast and lunch, and planned on visiting neighbors between 1 and 4 p.m. in order to avoid mealtimes. That way, we could just drink tea and pick at snacks on the tables, visiting a lot of new houses without having to eat too much or stay too long.

Our plan started off well – we were in and out of our first house in just fifteen minutes, with only a few mouthfuls of melon and a cup of tea. But the second house wasn’t quite so easy. Our hostess was excited to tell us that they had only just finished eating, and immediately brought us two bowls of noodles so we wouldn’t miss out on the meal.

I should probably mention that Uyghur noodles are basically like homemade spaghetti, with a little bit of sautéed lamb and green pepper thrown on top in place of sauce. The noodles – a fairly tasteless tangle of starch – are the main event, and the more the better.

Luckily, bowl number one wasn’t too big (about half of an American portion), so we polished them off with no problem and headed to our next house. A few quick introductions and melon slices later and we were on our way again. The next house we hit another snag; the woman who answered the door was alone, and dressed very conservatively, which is usually the sign of a big feeder. Sure enough, within a few minutes of being seated in the living room, we hear the telltale thwack, thunk, and scraaape coming from the kitchen – noodles and melons. K and I did our best to wolf down a full-sized portion of noodles, plus a couple of slices of melon and several cups of tea, thanked our hostess profusely, and headed out again.

Our last stop was a big family gathering. Almost immediately upon entering, the grandma of the family brought out plates heaped with dumplings, rice, and fruit. K and I didn’t budge. So she brought out a second plate – more fruit, meat pancakes, and bread. Full teacups were pushed into our hands. “Eat, eat,” urged the family members.

We eat our share from the edges of the rice and sipped our tea slowly. The grandma reappeared, this time with two bowls of noodles. “Here, I made these for you,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. We both did our best to smile as we took the bowls, which were full to the brim. “You eat so slowly!” one of the girls remarked, watching us mechanically shoveling noodles into our mouths. “Don’t you like it?”

Eventually we excused ourselves, narrowly missing another round of dumplings and rice, and went home to rest. In just three hours, we had each eaten three helpings of noodles and half a melon. I decided to skip dinner.

10 Baskets in 1 Night

This year my friends and I decided to celebrate Christmas like we did last year, trying to outdo Santa himself by delivering baskets of goodies to friends and neighbours. Last year we were set on the people we wanted to deliver to. We went to homes and if people weren't there we tracked them down at restaurants or offices to deliver our gifts.

This year we were a little more flexible. While we had developed pictures of us with our friends and framed them, we were willing to grab out the picture and change who the basket went to at the last minute. We gave them to our vegetable lady, the lady who owns the photo copy shop, the young girl who works at the convenience store near our house, the wait staff at our favorite restaurants and more. Only one of the homes we went to was a repeat from last year's basket delivery extravaganza. At each stop we sang one stanza of a Christmas carol in both our native tongue and theirs. We also included a letter that we had written in both the local languages that told the reason for the season. It was a great night, but once again we were totally exhausted.

No Two Snowflakes are Ever the Same

When we started to get into the Christmas mood out here my roommate and I decided to throw a party and invite some of our friends over to help us decorate. We got out the paper, markers, and scissors and decided we could have our friends help us make paper chains for the tree and cut out snowflakes for the window.
I had already make a few snowflakes before the guests arrived (ever since elementary school I have loved cutting out snowflakes and trying to make them as delicate as I can). Several of our friends saw the samples and decided they wanted to make them, but no one knew how. We had a group of over ten local college aged friends and none of them had ever cut out a snowflake before. I explained how to fold the paper, where to cut and where not to cut, I even made a new one as I explained. They all folded the paper, picked up one of my finished one and used it as a tracer. I tried to explain that no two snowflakes are the same and they they should use their own imagination to make their own. At that suggestion some of them gave up and went to make paper chains or to help hang the lights.

The whole situation made me think of what my American friends had commented about when they sent their kids to a local school. The education system here is based solely on rote memory and following examples to the letter. Creativity and imagination are not encouraged in school. They tell the story of when the teacher called them in because their son's picture of a cow was not the same. The teacher had been teaching an art lesson on how to draw a cow. Their son had changed his picture by making the cows head down and having him eat grass. The little boy had even added the grass to the picture. The teacher saw this as a child not able to follow directions and called his parents in for a meeting. The parents saw their son's picture as creative and fun, and praised him for thinking outside the imposed box.

Thinking back on this story reminded me why none of these young adults had never made a snowflake before. We cut them in school as an expression of our individuality, not a strict lesson in following rules. My friends still wanted a sample and so they cut out ones that were identical to mine. Now in our window there are more than 'two snowflakes that are the same'.