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?

Roommate Bonding the Continuing Story

My new roommate had been living in the Southern part of the province before moving up here. One of her former local workmates offered to arrange to have her belonging shipped up by train. The train company was suppose to arrange for a driver to swing by her old apartment, load all the stuff on a truck, drive it to the train station, move it from the truck to the train and have it delivered right to our house here in the capital. The first part of the transaction went off without a hitch. However, the driver on this end of the move, pulled the truck up to the outside door of our apartment building dumped the whole load off the truck in a heaping pile at the door of our stair well and wanted us to sign that it had been delivered.

We argued with him that, we didn’t live outside and that he still hadn’t finished his job. We had paid to have these things taken right up to our third floor apartment. He told us the bags were heavy and he was only one man, that he couldn’t be expected to carry them up three flights of stairs. We tried arguing that we wouldn’t sign until they were inside our door. It was one of those ‘put on your fight face situations’ and we started yelling at him in the national language. He condescendingly told us we didn’t understand, and that he had done his job. So we called her former work mate , who confirmed our suspicion that the stuff was suppose to be dropped off inside the apartment. The workmate called the train company, the train company called me and agreed that the driver was not doing his job. I passed my phone over to the driver so that they could yell at him for a change. The driver just kept saying that he didn’t have time to take it all upstairs for us. We could follow his whole end of the conversation, but the story he told us when he got off the phone didn’t match.

Meanwhile a Uyghur guy who is on guard duty in our apartment complex had witnessed the whole thing. He said he was more than willing to find some guys that could move it for us… for a price of course. That price seemed to go up and up and up the longer we waited. At first he said about 15 dollars, by the end he said that was per person and that it would likely be closer to 100 dollars to get it up the stairs. The train company had admitted it was their fault and were willing to reimburse us about $ 35 if we could find someone to move it all for that price. But the gate guard wanted more. The longer he spoke the more I felt ripped off. Moving house is normally really cheap here. But the guy was asking more per hour than I can even make teaching English as a foreigner. I pointed that out and he just stood there almost proud of the fact I was stuck.

It was almost eight o’clock at night, we were standing outside in the freezing cold as two young women (both with bad legs) starring back and forth from her 500 kilo of luggage laying abandoned on the ground to the foreboding stairwell that led to our home. Meanwhile two able bodied men stood there grinning self satisfied smiles around their cigarette butts… knowing full well we would eventually have to pay them the extra money they wanted to solve our problem.

What they weren’t counting on was the fact that we have friends. I called some of the American guys who also live in town and they said they would grab a few people and come right over. The guys arrived and willingly lent a hand. The four of them took several trips up and down the stairs never complaining about having to leave their evening plans or heaviness of the bags (okay, they did make a few snide comments about the lack of chivalry in this country- where two guys could stand around and watch us suffering without offering to help. Within twenty minutes of their arrival, all the bags and boxes were safely in our apartment. Although some of them were covered in a weird smelling, sticky blood like substance - we think her boxes/bags were packed on the train next to a shipment of meat or animal skins, thankfully it didn’t soak through.

So since the train company is still willing to pay us as an apology for the lazy driver that dropped the stuff at the door, we have money to treat the guys to a nice thank you dinner.

A Heavy Load

Thanks to a new ruling by local officials, all foreign students need to move on campus. Officially this is said to be for our safety and protection (which is just funny).

The other day I helped friends of mine make the move. Moving here is actually one of the tasks that is surprisingly simple. I called the moving company the day before and told them about what time we wanted them to come. As long as you don't have a piano, a safe or an aquarium that need to be moved, the cost is only about $12 for the truck and another buck fifty for each floor. So for instance my friends were moving from a first floor apartment to a fourth floor one... five floors in total cost them about $7.50. Which means in theory one can move for less than $20 (Sadly my friends were deemed to have too much stuff to fit in one truck, so the guys had to make it two trips and it cost them double).

For that low price two or three guys will come with a truck and move everything you have with lightening speed. My job was to sit out with the truck and make sure everything made it in, and nothing was ripped off by passer-byers (it is a hard job sitting in the sunshine watching other people engage in heavy labour). It always amazes me that the guys they send seem to be the scrawniest, little movers you have ever met. Yet despite there size they can make a pack mule look lazy as they stack up their load for each trip and start climbing up to the fourth floor (remember no elevators).

My friend's new apartment building

The movers hard at work