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 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. 

Same Bus, Same Lady

During the summer of 2010 a friend and I took a crazy trip south, we spent 55 hours in 5 days on the bus travelling.  On one of our many rides we meet up with this sweet older woman who was traveling with her granddaughter.  We had a sweet time chatting and sharing our food with them.   We even ran into the on the street twice over the next few days.   During my most recent trip south I was at the bus station again planning on travelling between those same two cities when I once again ran into this same women.  We had quite a joyful reunion.  When Older Uyghur women get excited the pitch of their voice tends to go up several notches hitting high notes almost unknown to the human ear. A skill that I have learned to imitate quite well.  The squeals and shrieks of delight let the rest of our bus mates know the excitement of seeing each other again.  Soon all were in agreement that Allah had planned for us to meet up and be friends.  We sat next to each other for the next eight hours holding hands or her sleeping with her head in my lap.
  

My friend and the women on the bus two years ago

It’s the Principle of the Thing

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 .

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

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

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.

SOLD!

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

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.

Ode to the Sleeper Bus – The Continuing Story

In honor of reaching the big 300 post mark I thought I would fulfill a promise made in one of my first posts. Ahhh, the sleeper bus, really is an experience that is hard to capture with words. This past week I once again found myself enduring long hours of this mode of transportation. In five days my friend and I figured we spent a total of 55 hours riding the bus.

The friend travelling with me had just come from the US and so much of what we saw and experience was new to her, especially the bathroom situation. So like I promised way back in 2006 the following is a description the rest stops along the highways of Central Asia.

(Warning the following is not for the faint of heart, or for the germiphobe )

Most sleeper buses do not come equipped with a bathroom per say, some drivers will stick a bucket on the stairs by the door to handle emergencies if someone just cannot hold it the six hours between stops. When the bus does actually pull into a rest stop it is often just a shack with one side labeled men and the other women. Inside are half wall dividers between each stall, none of them have doors on the front. In each section there is a big hole in the floor that you are meant to straddle and squat over. (If you have seen the movie “Slum Dog Millionaire” than you have a fair idea of what can be clearly seen and smelled from each hole and I can save us both the disgusting details). That’s it. There is nothing else in this washroom. No flushing toilets, not sinks to wash your hands, no toilet paper or hand dryers. All there is, is a row of about 4 holes, and a smell that tells you no one has cleaned up in a long time. Sadly some ladies can’t seem to wait for a hole to become free, so you do have to pay close attention as you walk across the floor.

Because of my legs I can’t really squat all that well which, trust me, all of the locals notice. Since there are no doors I have had many of them gather around the front of my hole (as I am relieving myself) and comment to each other “she’s doing it wrong” or “doesn’t she know how to go the bathroom”. Since I speak enough language I have one of two choices, try to ignore the growing group of women who want to watch me go, or try to explain why I can’t do it right. Once, when choosing the latter, I had a woman who was so excited that I could interact with her that she asked on the spot if we could be friends. I have to admit that I was tempted to yell “I’m going poo here, can you just give me a little privacy, you are already seeing me in a much more intimate situation than most of my friends”, but I bit back my sharp retort and gave her my phone number.

The best thing about last week’s trip was that my travel companion had brought that anti bacterial hand sanitizer stuff which she willingly shared. I can’t tell you how great Bath and Body Works products smell in contrast to a stinky Central Asian roadside washroom.

Ode to the Sleeper Bus Reprise

One of the first blog posts I ever wrote was an ode to the sleeper bus, and after our trip last week in which we spent more than 50 hours over six days not sleeping on the sleeper bus, it felt only fitting to reprise the Ode. Every trip on the bus seems to add to the story.
They do show movies on the bus, and as you can see this time I got one of the four coveted TV beds. The upper bed took up most of the space above my head making it hard to sit up in my bed. The screen was only inches from my face, in fact I think the imagine of Keanuo Reeves, and Sandra Bullock racing through town will forever remain burned into my retina (Yes, for all of you who are concerned with what has been translated into the Uyghur language, you can rest assured that the movie Speed is availed).

On one of our over night trips last week, the driver seemed intent on speed through the desert all night. The consistent swaying of the bus, and jerking stops ( for who knows what reason), kept me awake most of the time. Other times when I have travelled when the bus trip was less than a full night, the driver would pull into the arrival station and let us all stay sleeping on the bus until 7 a.m. I figured this guy must be rushing so that he could get some sleep too. Only when we pulled into our destination the driver flipped on the lights and started yelling at all of us to grab our stuff and get off. It was still dark outside, and I looked at my watch, only to discover it wasn’t even 5 a.m. yet. Everything was closed, even the bus station itself. There wasn’t enough taxis available for all of the weary travellers that stood staring blurred eyed at each other in the parking lot. It was too late into the night to make it worth paying for a hotel, but to early in the day to do anything.

Oh sleeper bus, the good thing is every trip seems to provide its own interesting story.

Ode to the Sleeper Bus

I remember back when I was in college one weekend my roommate and I decided to make an unexpected trip to London, just to get away. Before hitting the highway we stopped in at the corner store to buy road food. There was no way we could survive the whole hour long drive without fuelling up our own systems on junk food.

Oh for the day when driving an hour was considered a road trip. Last week was a national holiday. With our week off my classmate and I decide to hit the road and go travelling. She had never visited the southern part of our region. I wanted to take her to my favourite little town in the area. The only draw back is that it is a twenty hour bus ride. You read that right 20 hours on the bus. But not just any bus… the dreaded sleeper bus. The first time I rode a sleeper bus out here I swore to myself I would never do it again. Unfortunately it is the only means of transportation to many of the surrounding towns and therefore I have broken my promise to myself at least 15 times.


Why do I write an “ode to the sleeper Bus” you might ask. I mean in does sound more comfortable than sitting upright for that long of a time. But Oh those sleeper buses, are anything but comfortable. I am a fairly small sized adult and even still I just fit onto the bed. My head brushes the top; my toes are painfully jamming into the end. If I put my purse on the bed beside me (which is necessary if you want to leave with all of your money and documents) I feel like it is hogging half of the space. It is not just the minisculeness of my sleeping space that sparked the Ode… but rather the whole experience. In a regular sized bus they cram in three rows of double stacked beds. In the middle of the night they pick up travelers on the highway and sell them cheap seats. These people end up sleeping in the aisles, so that when you wake up there is a stranger sleeping only inches from your face. The whole bus smells of feet odour since everyone takes off their shoes. To reduce the smell the driver will sometimes come through and spray air freshener until you can’t breath and wind up gasping at the sealed shut windows.

So in our one week holiday my classmate and I spent over 40 some odd hours enjoying this cultural experience. You will have to wait till the next blog to hear about bathroom stops along the way.