She is No Beauty School Drop Out

Our third roommate left last week to head back to her hometown.  She was a Uyghur girl who had come up to the big city to study Uyghur wedding hair and makeup with the hope of opening he own beauty shop.  She ended up finding a school close to our home that specialized in  hair and makeup.  Every day the students would stand outside the school and try to entice women to come in and let them practice on them.  Both my roommate and I grab a friend and went on separate occasions to have our makeup done.  Wow, just getting done up gave me a lot of insight on what a Uyghur bride goes through.    

Traditionally at a wedding the bride is suppose to keep her eyes down and look a little sad at the thought of leaving her family.  I always marveled at the demure look of the girls here,  their shy upwards glances, and their straight faces .  At home the bride is normally smiling from ear to ear, greeting all of their guests in the eye.  Now I know it is not just culture that keep a Uyghur girl form acting this way… it is the ton of makeup that weighs he eye lids down.  

When I went in I told them I was going to a theater performance that night, they all agreed that meant I didn’t need the full out wedding look.  Instead I only got one set of extra long fake eyelashes with several coatings of mascara on them.    I also had scotch tape on my eye lids to help achieve the double eye lid fold – which is crazy since I am westerner and I naturally look like that.  Maybe some of you don’t know the Asian obsession with having a double eye lid.  Many people have surgery done to create this effect of having a small crease above their eyes.  For those who don’t want to go to such drastic measures a small piece of tape can be placed on you upper lid which causes the skin to fold over on itself.  People with my culture background are born with this added skin above the eye.  But even though I have a double lid, my beauty consultant student felt it necessary to accentuate it by sticking two pieces of tape on. The tape had to be covered over with several layers of foundation, eye shadow and glitter.  By the time all the eye makeup had been applied I could bear look up if I wanted to.  My eyes felt so caked and heavy that I had trouble fully enjoying the theater show.  No wonder brides look down, their eyes hurt too much to do anything else. 

In one afternoon I was wearing more makeup that I have cumulatively in my whole life, and they had gone easy on me since I was just to a performance.   No wonder when my roommate look at pictures from my brother’s wedding she asked me if the brides in my country don’t wear makeup.  The idea of a simple, natural look that still even vaguely resembles your original state is unheard of.  

After her classes finished our house began to take on the feel of bridal Barbie’s’ glittering paradise.  She was out daily shopping for wedding dresses (she bought eight or nine of them to rent out), bridesmaid's dresses, tiaras, necklaces, veils, fake flower bouquets, wedding car decoration,  and anything else that sparkled.  The office in our apartment became over run with supper huge hoop skirts- the type that doesn’t even fit through the door way and hair products.   Finally all of it got stuffed into several large bags and dragged to the bus station.  While I miss having my roommate around, I have to admit it is nice not to be finding glitter in sticking to every fiber of the carpets, or bobby pins and fake eye lashes lying abandoned on the coffee table.  

Autograph and a Picture... Sort of

My friend  recently posted the following on his blog and I thought it was best to capture the evening in his words.

The seats were low, hard, and uncomfortable.  I had long lost feeling in my buttocks.   My knees were squished into what was supposed to be leg-room.  The lights were low and the speakers were pumping out music at a level several hundred decibels too loud.  When the soprano singer in an elegant up-do and floor-length gown hit her climatic high-note, I literally plugged my ears.  She was talented; there just seemed little reason to put the volume up that high.  "Listening to music at this level is bad for your health", I thought to myself.  Before us now was a group of dancers in gaudy costumes with exaggerated smiles plastered on their faces.   Admittedly they were very good.  However, it seems little to separate one minority dance performance from another.   Though I did enjoy some of the numbers my mind was going through a list of things I could have done rather than come to this performance.

Reappearing on stage the emcee began his introduction of the next performance.   Looking at my watch I wondered just how many more performances there were before I could get out of this seat and let the feeling return to derrière.   "Next is one of our own.   Please welcome Arken!"  Arken?  Did he say Arken?  I looked at the lady next to me.   She had an equally surprised expression.   "Woah.   Arken is here?", I inquired.   "Apparently so", came the reply.   In the next instant, there he was on stage.   Now.   Most of you reading this are asking, "Who is Arken?"

When I first came to here  in 2004, Arken was one of the first artists my friends introduced me to.   He's a Uyghur singer that sings a stylistic blend of pop with flamenco guitar and a more traditional Uyghur style.   He's famous for such tunes as Where is my girl?,  Balangzi, and a cover of Why is the rose so red?.   If honest I'd have to say I haven't enjoyed what has come out in his later albums, but much of his earlier music is still well known.    Needless to say, it was exciting to see Arken live.  Joining the rest of the crowd, I belted out "Heeeey giiiiiiiir.   I love you to death!"   It was a little disappointing that he was singing to a canned backup track and not live music.   But taking it for what it was worth, I thoroughly enjoyed his 3 songs.   I would have been happy if he'd kept going, but alas, others were waiting to blow out my eardrums with their soprano wailings.

"Thank you for coming!", the emcee shouted, marking the end of the show.  Extracting myself from the contraption they called a seat, I chatted with my friend.  "Let's get a picture with Arken", one of them blurted out.   "Why not?", I said.   Heading backstage we found Arken surrounded by a group of university students.   They were fairly orderly as they pressed in to get pictures and autographs.   Intimidated by the crowd we stood off the to the side waiting for these young enthusiasts to have their fill.   Looking over, Arken noticed us and smiled.  It seemed he was making his way over to greet us.   Then.   Things got ugly.

"He's over here!" came a high-pitched shriek of an unidentified teenage girl.   Suddenly the room erupted in giggles, gasps, and shrill exclamations of Arken's name. "Arken!  Arken!  Oh God!  ARKEN!!!!!!!"   Through the door and down the stairs came a seemingly unending stream of star-struck, adolescent female,  Arken-mania.   I remember growing up, seeing videos of Elvis concerts and girls literally fainting at the sight of him.  This was by far the closest I have ever seen to that kind of behavior.  The room had been active before but it suddenly erupted into mass chaos; pushing, shoving, grabbing, and shrieking.   I enjoy Arken's music but I was definitely not THAT committed to my picture and autograph.  Seeing our annoyance, Arken intentionally pushed past of few of his withering fans and made his way over to us.

We shook hands and exchanged greetings.   Next came the fatal mistake.   My friend handed the camera to one of the shriekers.  She was literally shaking with star-struck hysteria as she snapped a picture of the 5 of us.   Turning to Arken, I thrust my homework notebook into his hand.   I had casually opened to a page with a few common get-to-know-you phrases with a large blank space on the bottom.   This is where it got awkward.  Looking down to sign Arken paused as his eyes grew wide?  "Huh?", he puzzled as he looked up at me and then at the notebook again.  Glancing down I realized his confusion.   The first sentence written across the top of the page was "Are you married?"   Well crap.   "No, no no.  Don't pay attention to that", I blurted out as I covered up my sloppy scribbles.   "Just sign here!"  By this time the teenage angst had reached deadly levels as they squealed out Arken's name and pushed their pen/paper at him.    My friend who speaks more Uyghur assured Arken that he was just signing my homework notebook and that I wasn't actually interested in his marital status.  In the struggle for autographs one especially brazen girl tried to grab my pen.  She managed to get away with the cap.  "Ha! What are you gonna do with THAT?!"  I thought to myself.   Realizing death was imminent if we didn't escape, we began pushing our way through the coterie of girlish madness.   I was both annoyed at these obnoxious females and laughing about the awkward moment.

Setting my sites on the door, I elbowed and shoved my way through the throng of teenagers.   These girls were obnoxious but at least I had a picture with Arken and could show off my autograph.  From behind I heard one of my companions shout over the crowd.  "Oh no! Jesse!!!"   Turning around I saw my wide-eyed school mate holding up her camera.  "You're not in the picture!"   "WHAT?!"   I stood there for a second, shook my head, and motioned toward the door.  It wasn't worth the hassle.   Having finally made my way out of the madness I turned and waited for my friends.   Reaching for the camera I glanced at the screen.  Sure enough, there was Arken, the three girls, my shoulder and my ear.  Unbelievable.  "Stupid teenage girl", I thought as I headed for the door.   The older lady that took us to the concert asked how it went.   When we explained both the notebook debacle and the picture fiasco she literally had to stop, doubled over in laughter, right there on the sidewalk.   I couldn't help but laugh with her.   

Living in the Rubble

The old city streets are filled with quaint allies, stone walkways and beautiful old wooden doors.  I have always loved strolling through these pathways and greeting the people who call them home, watching the women sit and chat and the children skip and hop down the lanes.

In the name of progress and advancement this country is busy tearing down over 250 year old traditional country homes and ‘improving’ the city.  This progress means that the streets are now reduced to piles of rubble and old discarded bricks.  This time in between the distruction and re-building leave this particular town in a rather sorry state.

The group I travelled with most recently was really struggling with the loss of the history represented by each pile of stones.  They mourned the ‘impoverished’ people who were having their family homes literally torn out from under them.

 

 One man strolled ahead of the group to get a picture and came back visibly shaken, “Karen, I heard voices back there.  I think some poor family is still being forced to live amidst the rubble”.

I rounded the corner he pointed at and followed the sound of a child’s chatter.  Sure enough a few walls were still standing and the front door of the house was slightly a jar.

The women heard us approached and stepped out.

“Happy Holiday,” I greeted her since the end of Ramadan had just been a few days before and most families were still in the midst of celebrating.

She invited us all to come in, and on her third earnest issuing of the invitation I told the group that we were going in for tea. 

My fellow travelers were awed by the elegance that awaited them.  After passing through the brightly light courtyard we were lead into the living room.  The coffee table, or dustahan as it is called here, was lavishly spread with bowls of dried fruit and nuts, candies and cookies.  We sat on plush thick cushions and admired the interact woodwork on the walls that shelved expensive looking china tea sets. 

The group's ideas of poor and impoverished minority people forced to live in desolated homes came crashing down.  In fact our hosts seemed to have a better overall attitude towards the change coming to her city than any of us did.  The visit in her home ended up being a highlight for many on the trip.

Laghmen

In case you want to try making some good Uyghur food tonight at home.  I got this receipt off a friend who spent hours watching her Uyghur friends cook.  Most locals don’t measure ingredients; it is all done by a general feeling of “that’s enough”.  She would then ask to take their handful or pinch of whatever and try to measure it according to our system of teaspoons and cups.  Hope you enjoy! 

Toppings:

3T. – ½ Cup of oil   
1 potato cut in thin cubes

150-300g. mutton cut in strips  
2 leaves of cabbage, cut in narrow strips

Ginger, diced or 1/8t. ginger powder 
½ large (very red) tomato, diced thinkly

1 small onion, cut thinkly  
3 hot gree peppers, seeds removed, cut in chunks

2t. salt       
1 dried hot red pepper, soaked 10min, sliced finely

2T. soy sauce* 
3-5 garlic cloves peeled and diced finely

Green beans, cut in 2 cm. pieces**      
Black or white pepper, optional

Dough:

1 heaping C. flour

1t.salt ( or a little less)

½ C. water

* Can substitute a combination of 1t. soy sauce and 1 T. black vinegar if desired

** Can substitute and/or add other vegetables such as 8-10 leaves of spinach or ½ an eggplant cut in chunks

Make the Dough:  Slowly mix water into flour.  When you push finger inot the dough and it leaves a small imprint it is ready.  Knead dough really well ( until it slowly rises back up when you push on it with your finger).  Let sit 10-15minutes.  More time makes it softer.  When you notice bubbles in the dough, it is ready ( but holes in the dough aren’t good and means it needs more time).  Flatten dough about 1 ½ inches think.  Put oil on each side and cut into strips 1 inch think. Stretch each trip a little by squeezing it in your hands.  With one hand holding the strip, rub your other hand back and forth across the other end of the strip moving down the strip, unitl it is long and approximately 1cm in diameter.  Oil the plate.  Before setting it aside coil each strip.  Coiling from the middle of the plate out.  Rub oil on each layer.  Cover and set while preparing vegetables.

Prepare the Topping:  Put 3 T oil in the pot and heat.  Fry meat and then add chopped ginger and onions.  Cook briefly and add salt and soy sauce.  Add green beans, potatoes, eggplant if using, red pepper, cabbage, and tomatoes ( stirring a minute between each).  When potatoes are almost cooked, add green peppers, garlic, pepper, and black vinegar.  Add spinach , if using and water.  Bring to boil.  Taste.  Take out and cover while preparing the noddles.

Make and cook the Noodles:  Boil water.  Stretch the noodles ( run through one hand and the other, roll to keep it round as also stretch).  For stiff dough do this 2 times; do only once if soft.  Wrap around hands ( one under, one over until hands are covered and dough is used up).  Stretch and slap several times.  Boil 2-3 minutes.  Lift the noodles form the pot and dip first into a basin of cold water.  If your guests want their noodles hot, dip them back into the hot water before serving.

 

To Serve:  Put noodles on a plate and then pour topping over the noodles.  Make sure there are at least a couple of pieces of meat in each dish. 

A Good Thwacking

The Uyghur girl who is staying with us for a few weeks cooked dinner the other night.  It was really good.  As we praised her skilled hand in the kitchen she started to open up and tell us a bit more about her past.  “For the first two years after I got married my husband and I ran our own restaurant.  I spent all day I the kitchen cooking.”  That explained how she had in recorded time cut and fried up all the toppings.  If I had been the one cooking, I would have still been standing at the counter trying to peel the potato.  

Truth be told I am not that great in the kitchen when preparing common north American food, I am even worse when it comes to making Uyghur food.  I have had the knife taken out of my hand by an old women, who when she saw how slowly I was working, kicked me out of her work space with the lame excuse of “Your wrists are too weak for this, go rest”.   Having skilled hands for cooking is an important trait for a good wife in Uyghur culture.  One more than one occasion when a person finds out if that I am over thirty and still single I get asked if I can cook Uyghur food.  I try hard to turn the question into a light hearted joke. 

In traditional Uyghur cuisine  80% of the diet is made up of just two main dishes:   Polu and Laghmen.  In order to make Laghman properly there is a complex process of stretching, wrapping and thwacking the noodles to make them thin and long.  My noodles inevitably break on the first pull.  So when asked how I fair in the kitchen I explain my noodle pulling frustration and then with a light Scarlet O’Hare shrug to my should and a chuckle in my voice I say “I end up just giving up and making saomian instead” .  (Saomian has all the same ingredients as laghmen,  but it is just refried with small square noodles).  The older Uyghur ladies laugh at my light hearted joke, but behind their eyes I see a sadness reflecting displeasure at my incompetence.  

The real reason behind my singleness is finally out, if only I could learn to give the noodles a good thwacking I might have a chance of getting married.

Night Market

Having guest come through does a lot to help me  remember what is unusual and different about where I live.  After almost eight years here I no longer blink an eye at many of the sights and sounds around me.  But going through the photos visitors leave me with after their trips stirs my memory for interesting blog post. 

 

Right next to my house is a great food night market.  Starting at about four in the afternoon all the sellers wheel their carts into one big open area, they lay down cheap plastic flooring, assemble tables and places stools beside them.  Next they start to prepare their food.  Each cart has something different there are guys selling the standard bbq kabobs, women with piles of cold starch noodles that they drench in hot sauce and top with a few veggies.  There is the booth with “everything on a stick”, from tofu to mushrooms or fried eggs to leafy greens; they all get a stick pocked through them.  The person ordering chooses what they want on a stick and then can watch them get deep fried in the hot vat of spicy oil sitting right next to the cart.  After a few hours the oil starts to take on a mixed flavor of all the ingredients that have been soaking in it.  Further down you can find another guy selling full roasted lambs, but if you are not up for that much meat you can stop by and just grab food from the person selling lamb heads and hooves, or there is stuffed lung and intestine.  All of these food can be toped off with a glass of honey beer (Uyghur still argue whether or not it is actually alcoholic) and some freshly cut melon that has just been shipped in from the country side. 

I end up strolling through this bustling markets several nights a week, but very rarely to I stop to enjoy its fine cuisine… I guess I have got over the joy of nibbling on sheep cheek and calling it dinner.