If Allah Wills...

“Where you from?” the bus driver asked.  It was almost midnight and our bus was stopped at some obscure spot along the desert highway.

I gave a curt reply as I continued to exercise the pent up kinks and knots out of my weary arms and legs.  

“Canada, huh…Do you have buses like this with beds on them?” He asked as he almost lovingly patted the beast of a vehicle in his care.

“Not that I know of” I said “I’ve certainly never been on a sleeper bus in Canada”

At this point you could almost see the wheels in his head spinning and turning and contriving a plan. 

 

“Are there roads longer than 500km in Canada?”

“Of course, land wise it is the second largest country in the world”  The second I said it I regretted my hasty words.  I could tell they had only fueled his wild dreams.  He was in full on scheming mode, making plans faster than the old plodding bus he drove could every dream of travelling.

“Someday, if Allah wills, I will open my own sleeper bus company in Canada and be rich”  This village man declared with resolve.

I translated from my travel companions as we climbed on the bus. “Ugh” we all struggled to keep a straight face and not scrunch up our noses in distant at the strong stench that greeted us upon embarking.  The smell came from to many people, stuffed in too small of a space, for way too many hours. “There is a few things he should improve before introducing this transportation to the west, like ventelation”.  The group had been joking for the last few hours that the only thing worse than B.O is ten people’s B.O. and the only thing worse than ten peoples B.O. was the twenty smelling feet that came with them.

 We ran into our next forward thinker a few days later at the museum.  The older security guard guy who was responsible for unlocking the doors and turning on and off the lights quickly learned I could speak his language.  He followed me around from one display to another peppering me with questions and distracting me form admiring the old coins, cloth and tools.  His line of questioning felt very familiar.  “Where are you from?” Is that a rich country? Is it easy to get there? Are there lots of jobs” He started pointing to traditional Uyghur elements around the museum.  “Do you have this or that in Canada?” 

He was literally taken aback when he learned that we didn’t have nan in Canada.  It seemed impossible for him to believe that a society could survive much less advance without a nan stand on every second street corner selling hot fresh bread.  That’s when he made his declaration “If Allah wills, I will open a nan stand in Canada and become rich!”

Later that day we stopped outside the bazaar for a refreshing cup of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice.  The man operating the booth stood proudly beside his juicer.  Drops of the bright red liquid liberally sprinkled all over his face and clothes, the whole effect made him look like he had been in a fight with blood stains on his clothes.  We all picked up our sticky glasses to toast our great day, when the mad started the familiar line of questioning.  He seemed pleased to learn that his particular line of work was unique in the west.  Before he could declare his intention of moving and getting rich I slammed the empty cup on the table and motioned for my guest to keep moving.  Turning around slightly I watched hi straighten up our used cups on the table and pour fresh juice into them, never even pausing to wash or rinse them between uses.  “No wonder they were so sticky” I thought to myself trying hard not to guess how many people had likely drank out of it before me.  Instead I laughed to myself  “If Allah wills he should move to Canada and learn how to wash dishes.” 

No New Business Partner

Several times last year while we were opening our business I used this blog to vent my frustration over the process.  In fact I’m sure it often felt like post after post was nothing but a retelling of our company woes.  Sadly a year and a half later the story hasn’t changed and the sage continues.

Last October the friend who had run the gauntlet of opening the company with me decided to move back to the states indefinitely.  This was a bit of a blow as I struggled with how I would be able to run the company on my own.  Thankful another good friend in town stepped up and said that after he and his wife returned from having their baby that they would love to buy out her half of the shares and join me in running the business.  I was thrilled with the offer… it was like a light at the end of the tunnel, if I could just hold down the fort for a few month I wouldn’t have to do this alone. 

Sure enough in March this couple came back and jumped right into the processes of formerly changing the paperwork to remove my original business pattern’s name and show that he was an investor in the company.  He had originally planned to bring in more money from the states and increase our companies overall invested capital… right now Fusion is only worth $5000 USD.   He was advised by one branch of the government, in an early step, not to bother investing more money, but to just buy my friends original half of the shares out from her.  He was told it would mean a lot less paperwork and hassle for everyone.  In this short of case it is always wise to trust the guy behind the desk, and so we started signing and stamping multiple copies of paperwork that allowed for the transfer of ownership.

After three months of his own running around from office to office adventure my new business partner was waiting outside of the country for us to send him a corrected visa invitation letter ( the first one had his middle name spelled wrong).  The invitation letter allowed him to go to a consulate and get a work visa to enter the country.  After obtaining the work visa there are still five office visits needed to switch it to a residence permit.  He flew through the first four offices with record speed, indicated that there seemed to be no complication with the process.  Ever sheet of paper was in order and handed in at the final location… they printed him off a slip and said “come back in two week to get your visa”.   As he left the office he breathed a huge sigh of relief, the effort, struggle and running of the last few months was soon going to be totally worth it.

Less then a week later they called him in and said “our company did have enough invested capital to host four expat visas”.  My workmate tried to argue that there weren’t four of us, only three they one girl had gone home to get married and never planned to work here again.  He also reminded them of his original intention to invest more money, but that a different level of government had advised against it.  The officer offered to consider his case a little longer.  On Monday he sent someone to stop by our office to make sure we were working.  I was leading a group on a culture walk about town, one of the services our company offers, and he was doing in person negoistating translation work between an American and their landlord.   We were both busy out making money, but in this country it is only appearances that matter and since no one was in the office it did not look like we were doing anything.  They called my work mate and demanded that he come back to their office the next day.

The next morning my business partner wasn’t alone as we traipsed into the office ready with our fight faces on.  It had been a stressful night worrying about what they would say, practicing our answers.  We had enlisted the help of two local friends to come with us… one of them even had good connection with officers who worked at their level of the police station.  The women behind the desk looked at us blankly, “we didn’t call you to come in.  Maybe you should try this other office”.  While we were sure the phone call had come from them, if they didn’t have our application red flagged for some reason we didn’t want to be the ones to draw unnecessary attention to it.  Instead we all jumped on the bus, hurried across to town to the office she had mentioned.  They seemed equally as surprised by our visit and insisted they didn’t have a problem either.  In fact they tried to send us back to the first place again.  We were ready to give up for the day, while our friend kept making phone calls on our behalf.  

Day two saw us bright and early once again up at the office ready to plead our case.  The top officer called us into his office.  He didn’t seem interested in talking to my business partner… instead he began to focus his questioning on me. When he found I wasn’t great at speaking the national language, he quickly sent for a Uyghur translator and continued to question me on the company’s activities and why we weren’t making loads of money (Which was rather unnecessary considering I could understand what he was saying in the first place).  After ten minutes we were told rather briskly that we could leave, our questioning was over. 

We exited the police station and found a patch of shade to stand and debate how the mini interrogation had gone.  We didn’t have to wait long before the police guy called us back and confirmed they were going to turn down his application.  My friend was not being given permission to work for his own company.  The labor department agreed, the foreign investment bureau had given their stamp of approval, the local police station for both his home and our office building seemed fine with him coming on staff. All along right up to the very last step the answer had been a resounding ‘yes’… and suddenly he was saying “NO” load and clear.  

A merida of emotions swept over all of us, anger, frustration, resentment, sadness, disappointment and more. It have been an indescribably long week and  I am still not sure what sort of effect this visa rejection will have on me or my company long term… but we will continue to work hard and do our best. 

Cutie!!!

You take one look at this adorable face and you can’t help but want to hold this little girl and kiss those cheeks.  I was so excited last week when I got to to travel with one of my good friends and her precious daughter.  Two days hanging out with them gave me quite a window into the reality of life for expat families with small children. 

I couldn’t count the number of people that came up to my friend just to comment on the baby.  They would tug on my friends arm to get her to stop so they could pull out their cell phones and try to snap a picture.  Other people would outright grab the child out of her arms so they could not only hold her, but carry her back to where their family was sitting to show off the little ‘doll’.  My friend lives in another part of the country and she says this happens all the time.  Everyone wants to stroke her kids blond hair, they want pictures of the bright blue eyes.  People are always tugging on her kids arms, pointing, giggling,  giving them food and candy and even making suggestions on how my friend should raise her children differently.   

All this stopping, touching, grabbing, nagging and picture taking wears on my friend’s nerves.  After only two days of watching all this 24/7 attention I wanted to yell, “STOP IT, all of you… she is not an animal at the zoo or a circus freak… she is a little girl. Leave her alone”. 

Watch What You Say

My roommate and I were walking home the other day when we took notice of the cute outfit the women in front of us was wearing.  We started walking faster in hopes of over taking her.  Soon we were casting a causal glace over our shoulder looking to see what the front of her dress looked like.  “Oh,” my roommate said “not nearly as cute from the front.”  “Yeah,” I agreed, “the sash of lace down the front really ruins the look”.

 

That’s when it hit us… we were having this less than complementary conversation about her outfit right in front of her.  I am so use to the fact that most people around here don’t speak English, it’s like our own secrete language,  that I have gotten in to the habit of not biting tongue or holding in the unneeded commentary on those around me.  Even though we spent the rest of our walk home not only acknowledging and scolding ourselves for this problem,  I found myself falling back into the same unhealthy pattern again today.

There I was on the bus talking to another expat friend about how painful one woman’s feet looked squished into her high heeled shoes.  We couldn’t help but feel sorry for her poor toes that had to be screaming regret over her footwear choice.  In the real world you can’t have open conversations like this about people right in front of them.  It’s rude and I totally realize that because Uyghur people do it to me all the time.  They figure I’m the dumb foreigner and can’t understand a word of what they are saying.  I never appreciate overhearing these have inappropriate comments directed towards me and some day if I can't learn to hold my tongue I am going to equally hurt one exceptional English student by speaking so freely. 

No Look You

Our bus had been bumping its way over the desert highway for almost two hours when we were forced to come to a sudden halt.  An impromptu police check point had been set up and we were all commanded to climb off the bus and stand in a long line so that our identification and paperwork could be checked.

The sun blazed hot above our heads and groggy passengers, who had been contentedly sleeping moments before on the bus, now grumbled as they awaited their turn to talk to the officer.  I could hear them muttering “this is a waste of time’, or ‘why all the hassle’.  Both statements may be true… but these sorts of interruptions are all part of travelling in this part of the country.

Traffic heading in both directions was being stopped.  On both sides of the street makeshift shacks were set up for the officers to sit in comfort as they did their job.  The center of the road had barricades supporting large shade giving umbrellas.  Several guards stood at attention under them, wearing bullet proof vests and holding semi automatic weapons.  The intended intimidation factor wasn’t lost on any of us. 

 

I looked back at my travel companions; we were all dressed in very traditional Uyghur outfits.  The boys had on doppas ( an Uyghur man’s hat) and us girls were sporting long skirts, long sleeves and headscarves.  We were going for the ‘when in Rome’ mentality… but I also knew that was not really the mindset of the government or of the guys holding the big guns.  My mind started whirling with plausible explanations for our country bumpkin appearance.  

The man with the large gun broke rank and started strolling towards us “ Where are you from?” He asked our group in pretty fluent English.  As we chatted pleasantly I soon discovered this guy had studied at the same university I had done my language schooling at.  We were schoolmates, a bond that can count for a lot in this country.  He chuckled merrily and I knew there was at least one friendly face in the group.

Soon one man stepped out from the booth and said “Foreigners over here”.  His English was not nearly as clear, but to give him face in front of his colleagues we kept it the language of our questioning.  One by one he took our passport, “You what name?” “Birthdate when?” “Country of home where?”  “Where you go?” Sometimes we had to mutter under our breath an interpretation of what he was trying to ask each of us. 

 

He stopped one of the guys “picture no look you”  He declared.  “Oh I grew a beard,” he responded, stroking his facial hair with pride.   The officer smirked and waved him back on the bus.

He made a similar comment regarding my passport photo.  “This you no like!” 

I  know,” I said “It is a really bad picture.”

“He tried again more insistently “No you… picture like a black man”  

For the first time since getting off the bus I switched to speaking Uyghur , “Now big brother don’t be mean.  I was sick when the picture was taken… but it is not THAT bad.  Now I’m all embarrassed.”  His smirk broke into a full on smile and he laughed heartily as he passed my passport back and allowed me to go through.

I can’t wait till I get a new passport next year. 

Public Restrooms

The building had become even more run down since I was in town five years ago, but it was the only public washroom in the vicinity of where we were walking.  As we drew closer to the cracking walls, the smell assaulted our noses .  The door marked ‘women’ was boarded up, so we all crept towards the men’s side.  The guys offered to go first to check out the situation… which was definitely the chivalrous thing to do. 

They came out having scouted the situation and reported back, “It’s pretty nasty in there.  Many of the boards are rotting out to the point they are no longer strong enough to hold a persons weight as they balance over the hole.  People have given up even trying to use some of the stalls… so you have to watch out for piles of waste as you go, and it gets darker the further back you go.  Avoid the first three stalls, since there is no stable place to stand… try the second and third ones from the end."

 

Their wives looked a little shaken at the prospect, only having been in county for a week, they were still not use to the whole squatty potty concept, which, based on the primitive nature of where we were standing, increased in grossness by a factor of 100.  The ladies retied their headscarves so that their mouths and noses could be better covered from the stench that lay before them. 

Minutes later they came out gasping for fresh air and visibly shaken by the crude washroom they had just been forced to endure.  As they squirted tons of flowery smelling hand sanitizer out, in hopes of washing away the memory, a Tajik man giggled  from where he had sat watching the whole scene.  

With renewed energy we took off walking and turned the corner of the street.  There gleaming in front of us in all it's freshly built cleanliness was a brand spanking new public washroom.  No wonder the Tajik guy was laughing so hard, he had watched these young ladies struggle and chock, knowing full well that if we all took ten steps to the left, our eyes would have alighted on a much more palatable solution. 

If This Was America...

This was the repeated refrain of one of the young women on the tour group I lead last week.  Every where she looked she saw violations, law suits waiting to happen, and people that should be being fined for their behavior... if they were in America, of course. 

• Family of five all sitting on the same motor bike, no seatbelts, no helmets, no child safety seats.
• Smoking in every restaurant and taxi 
• Jay walking across the street and dodging between cars
• Parking and driving cars in the middle of the sidewalk 
• Selling non prepackaged food to children
• Hotels that don't have keys for your room and expect you to leave your door ajar when you go out
• Letting kids wander unattended down the street
• Children wearing split pants and flashing the world- indecent exposure
• Children and animals using the side of the road as a restroom, not using a pooper scooper to pick up the mess.
• Racism as police repeatedly stopped the white western group for just walking down the street
• Not marking crater sized holes in the sidewalk, potentially causing others to trip and fall
• Honking car horns so loud and often that is disturbs the peace
• The bus leaving an hour and a half before the time printed on the ticket

Maybe in America these are crimes... but here they're just part of everyday life.

The Type of Questions We’re Asked

As foreigners people are naturally curious and want to ask a lot of questions about our life… but the tone of the question can take on a very different feel depending what people want out of the relationship.  Some people are openly interested in getting to know us better and wanting to be a friend they ask questions like: “How long have you been here?”  “How old are you?”  “Are you married?” “Where did you learn to speak our language?”  “How long do you plan on living in this country?”  I gladly answer each one of these questions and in turn reciprocate and find out more about the person sitting next to me.  I go away feeling like I am really part of life here and connecting with my neighbors and friends. 

 Other people look at me and only see a white face and what they suppose is a big western bank account.  These people also have an array of questions:  “What is your job here?” “How much money do you make each month?” “Can you teach my child English for free?”  “How can you help me get a passport to your country?”  I try to remain polite as I explain that in our culture asking someone their salary or financial information is a very rude thing since we consider this a private matter.  I tell them that it is so private I don’t even know what my parents or my brother make each month, but somehow that does nothing to stop the on slaughter of the rest of their questions.  I go away from these interactions feeling dirty and used and less than human. 

Late Night Kabobs

One of my former classmates and friends posted the following on his blog.  I loved his vivid description of a cool spring night on the town. So I asked permission to post it here so you could all enjoy.
 
I remember chatting with a guy from Central Asia when I lived in the States.  He talked about how quiet the U.S. was and how it felt lonely at times due to the lack of people on the streets at any given time.  Only after moving here have I fully comprehended what he must have been experiencing.  Especially with summer just around the corner, I have fully enjoyed cool evenings here and the chance to get outside after a long winter.  Sidewalks are bustling with people late into the evening.   Walking home from a friend's place tonight I was savoring a few minutes to myself.  People leaving a wedding party stood outside a banquet hall.  Men stood in a circle outside a mechanic shop chatting about the VW Santana they were working on, cigerettes glowing in the low streetlights.  New beds of flowers appeared on the curbs tonight; the workers delivering these flowers were eating a late dinner squatting in circles or on ledges along the street.  The strange sounds of dialects I do not speak or understand rose from the midst  migrant workers while just a few feet further I heard a group of men chatting in Kazak, two plump old women in loose fitting head scarves gossiping in Uyghur, and some university students yelled back and forth, bottles of beer in hand as they headed off for  a night of carousing.   Couples strolled by enjoying a leisurely evening walk. Store clerks squatted on the stoops of their shops aimlessly watching traffic as it rolled by, horns blaring occasionally at fearless jaywalkers.  Old men sat on street-side benches chattering away about whatever old men chat about.   Fruit sellers crowded corners of one intersection in particular with their flatbed carts, hawking the last of their day's supply of mangos, bananas, pineapples, and apples.   The smell of fresh, hot nan came from the guys baking bread in open-topped clay ovens.  Smoke from kabob grills wafted the aroma of spiced lamb skewers across my path.  Here it was 10:30pm and my street was more active than any street where I lived in Columbia, SC might have been at noon on any given week day.

As you might guess one of my favorite things about such a scene is the food.  Somehow dinner eluded me tonight.   Lost in thought as I headed home it occurred to me that I was hungry.   Just yesterday I came across a Turkish donar kabob cart that sells a sort of Turkish gyro wrap sort of thing.  Spiced lamb and beef roasted on a spit, then shaved onto a very thin flat bread and topped with slices of cucumber, spicy cabbage, onion, and a yet to be identified sauce.   "Turkish gyro!", I thought.  It was only a few minutes past my house up the street.  With this goal in mind I headed in that direction.  To my great disappointment the cart was not there.  This is the problem with mobile food service.  It's never where you want it to be.  I mean, can we get an app for iPhone that tracks the worldwide movement of mobile food carts? Or maybe I just need to get the number of the guy that owns the cart.  Regardless, my dreams of the prized Turkish gyro came to a swift end.   The story wasn't over, however.

Just a few feet away stood a mobile kabob station.  Unlike that flaky Turkish gyro cart, you can set your clock by this kabob guy.  Night after night he appears sometime after dinner in the same spot.   His business consists of a kabob grill, a table spread with skewers of meat, kidneys, liver, lung, tendon, and a few items I've yet to identify, a fan to blow the smoke off to the side, and a table with stools for his customers to sit at.  Saved by the kabob guy!  Ordering 5 kabobs I sat down and watched with great anticipation as my kabobs got grilled up.  First the skewers went on the grill.  Then salt, cumin, and chili powder were added.  "Do you like it spicy?", the guy asked.  "Yes.  Please add extra spice", I replied.   After a slight pause, having noticed I'd been coughing, the guy kindly added, "You've got a cough.  You had better not eat too much spice.  I'll put less spice."    Though I don't yet completely understand Asian logic about health and what should be eaten when I have to admit I appreciated this complete stranger's gesture of concern.   But enough of that.  Let's get back to my kabobs.  After adding spice, he grabbed a piece of nan in one hand and my kabobs in the other.   Then he wrapped the nan around the kabobs, letting the grease and spice soak into the bread after which he added a bit more cumin and chili.  This was repeated several  times until finally, my late night snack was served up on a metal tray covered in a plastic bag (easier to cover the tray and then dispose of the bag since there is no way to wash dishes).   There are few late night snacks that compare.   Paying for my kabobs I headed back up my street past fruit sellers, kabob grills, and late night strollers.  I see why my friend missed home if his neighborhood was like this one.   This is definitely one scene I'll miss when the time comes for me to head back to the States.

I Don’t Think We Moved

703…704…705…717…707..huh? Wait a second something isn’t right, “since when did 717 fit in there sequentialy?” I ask myself as I walk down the hallway to my office. The number on the door next to mine has been changed, which seems to be a current and frustrating trend in my world. I asked the women across the hall if she knows anything about the renumbering system. She said that the people in office 706 decided to rent a bigger office space down the hall, but didn’t want to go through all the hassle of re-registering their business to a new address, so the simple switched the number on the door.

Switching numbers…has brought a lot of headache to my life of late. The building I live in has three stairwells. Each stairwell has a number. This is the case for most apartments in this country. For instance in our apartment complex I live in building number 3, doorway/stairwell number 1, apartment 303, at least that is what the contract with the landlord says. I have use this information to register with the police, have the bottled water company deliver drinking water to my door and receive my international mail. Up until a few weeks ago it was a good system. Sure the number above our stairwell had worn off, but since two and three were still clearly labeled, everyone could use their advanced powers of deduction to realize that we must be number 1. A few weeks ago the apartment complex paid to have new numbers printed and hung above each door. Shortly after that the hassle started. The water guys called to say he was at our door but no one seemed to be home. I went to the door, but there was no water guy in sight. My friend got an invitation to a mutual friend’s wedding, but mine never got delivered. Friends started to call from outside to clarify where we lived.

One day as I was heading through the door, I happened to look up and notice a big bold number 3 gracing the top of our door frame. No wonder no one could find our apartment anymore, they had mounted the numbers in the wrong order. I grabbed a photo copy of our landlord’s deed to the property and headed to the apartment complex managers office. I explained the problem as patiently as I could in two languages and all I got for a response was “huh, that’s funny”.

‘Funny’ is hardly the word I would use for it. We are registered with the police at our address, we sometime get mail that is coming from overseas. So if any of you have been sending me care packages full of vanilla coffee or microwave popcorn (hint, hint) and you wonder why I have written a letter of thanks… it might be because you sent it to the wrong… or is it really the right… address. This mix up isn’t funny.

We waited until late one night and then snuck down stairs with flashlights and tools, only to realize they don’t come off as easily as we were hoping. We have talked about an elaborate art project involving super glue and number cut outs, but since we have been the only ones to complain, we are sure the intentional “vandalism” to the new signs could be traced back to us. But we do need it back to normal, before the police decide to fine us for having incorrect paperwork. Real Funny, huh?