Getting Paid

I had just sat down in the local ice cream shop to enjoy a treat and answer any question that the group I had just taken on a culture walk might have, when the guy who works at the ice cream parlor interrupted me.  “There is someone waiting outside to talk to you” he said.  I looked towards the window where customers can place orders as they walk by on the street and sure enough a Uyghur women stood there craning her head to see me.

I excused myself and step out to see what she needed.  She smiled warmly and greeted me by name, which sadly I could do in return.  I didn’t even recognize her, and yet it was obvious that I was suppose to know.  She noticed my confusion and graciously said “You don’t remember me, do you?  You taught my daughter English a few years ago.”  That didn’t narrow it down to much, but I faked a smile of understanding and said “Oh right, right”

She continued “I never paid you for the last few weeks of teaching and it has bothered me ever since, so how much do I owe you?”  She had already pulled out her wallet and was ruffling through the bills. 

I still had no memory of this women, or her daughter, or being owed any money.  I stalled.  “How is your daughter?  How old is she now a days?” Her answers to my question slowly started to draw the memory of who she was to mind.  I remember teacher for this family… I had only said ‘yes’ as a favor to another friend.  After one or two months of teaching I had cancelled on them with the lame excuse that my classes and work load were just getting too busy to keep  teaching.  

“So, how much?” she asked again.

“Don’t worry about it”  I had always felt kind of bad for the way I had dropped their daughters class so suddenly.  “That was a long time ago you don’t need to pay me”

“No,” she said very insistently.  “It has bugged me for four years.  I must pay what I owe.  I lost my phone and didn’t have your phone number or else I would have called you a long time ago.  I was so glad when I saw you out walking this afternoon.  I tried to call you name, but you didn’t hear me.  So I followed you for the last few blocks and chased you down to this ice cream shop.”

“Oh let me give you my number now,”  In truth I was still stalling over the whole money issue.  I felt weird that this woman I barely remembered had her wallet open under my nose and was asking me how much I wanted.  I recited my number and she immediately called it back so that I could save her number.  But I didn’t need to the second my phone ranger this woman’s name popped up on the screen.  I still had her number saved in my phone from 4 years ago.  I try to clean out unknown number ever year or so, since my phone log quickly gets filled up with the names and numbers of random people I meet on the street once and never hear from again.  But despite regular discards of unused numbers, this women’s name was still saved in speed dial.  She laughed when she saw it and said “Oh, you still have my number.  You should have just called me and asked for your money”

“I had totally forgotten about it.  Please don’t feel like you have to pay me now”

“No,”  she insisted, “It was like 250 ($40)”

As she handed me the ‘outstanding debt’ we chatted a little more and realized that we were practically neighbors living only a couple of blocks away.  Getting paid lead to making plans to be in touch and hang out some time. 

Hospitality

Uyhgur people pride themselves on their hospitality.  They will invite you in, even when they are on their way out the door.  It is the polite thing to do… but you don’t actually have to accept unless they offer more than three times.  Often a simple “Thank
you, see you later” will suffice to get you out of this sort of invitation. 

While we were down south, my travel companions were taking pictures and I stopped to play with a small child.  Soon enough his grandparents appeared at the door of a nearby home- peeking out to see who was talking to the child.  When they saw us, they invited us in.  We politely declined.  They asked again… this time citing how tired we must be after walking around all morning.  Once again we refused to impose on them.  Finally a third time they entreated us to enter their home saying we should sit for a while.  The wife looked a little stressed, but the husband was so insistent, already holding the white lace curtain back from the doorway and motioning us to cross the threshold.

The courtyard of the home was brightly lite with the morning sun streaming in.  Several young women bustled about cutting pieces of meat, chopping potatoes and stirring the great smelling concoction that was boiling away on the stove.  The house a furry of excitement and we sat down right in the middle of it on the raised platform.  Some of the family stopped to nod in our direction or engage us in mindless chitchat, but for the most part they industriously kept working on food preparation.    We soon came to find out they were in the midst of preparing to host a party that night for over 30 guests.  No wonder the wife had looked stressed.  This was one of those time that the family really hadn’t wanted guests, but we had taken them at their word and were now adding to their hospitality work load of the day.  Even after eight years here I still can’t always read these situations correctly.  

The husband seemed to know it was his ‘fault’ we had come in, and it was left to him to serve us.  This is a very anti cultural thing.  It is always the youngest woman in the family’s job to run around like a slave and serve the guests… but she was still busy cutting veggies, she had moved on from potatoes and was tackling the large pile of carrots that sat washed and scrubbed in front of her.  The husband was not use to the job and entertaining, he forgot to give us tea… but he did get us each a bowl of ‘langpong’ a clear glassy starch noodle served in a mixture of black vinegar and red pepper spice.  My friend has nicked named it ‘man jello’ for its consistence and the kick in it taste.

We eat rather quickly, played with the little boy for a few more minutes, complimented their home and prepared to take our leave.  We didn’t want to bring the family more trouble than we already had and tried to excuse ourselves from their home.  “No stay,” they all chimed in.  Even though the same command was repeated several more times, we took our leave, grateful for the snack and a place to rest out of the hot sun. 

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.

The Right Dirt Road

On our last trip south my roommate decided she wanted to visit a friend who lived in a small hamlet , near a small village, outside a small town.  We tried calling her number as soon as we got into town.  We took a bus out to the village and tried to look her up at her place of employment.  Sadly she no longer worked at the Uyghur wedding hair studio.  My roommate had been to her house twice (once in the dark) but we were up to the challenge of trying to locate the correct dirt road somewhere outside of a tiny little hamlet that know one has ever even heard of.  

We found a taxi driver willing to drive us and before we knew it he was stopping the car in the middle of two intersecting streets and announcing we had arrived.  From our seats in the car we could swing our heads from side to side and take in the five store fronts that made up the entirety of our destination ( I mean this place made Tawakkul seem like a booming metropolis).  The drivers followed our glace as we looked over our surroundings.  “How long are you ladies planning on staying out here?  I can wait and give you are ride back into the village if you want?”  We stepped out of the car, paid him his money and assured him, we were fine and didn’t need a ride back.  Before he drove off we did ask him to point out which road would at least get us in the right direction.

It was a beautiful spring day, the sun was shining, the breeze was blowing , the leaves on the popular trees were dancing in the wind.  We had been walking for almost ten minutes when we heard a car rumbling up the road behind us.  As it slowed down we saw the familiar face of our driving leaning out the front window “Now do you guys want a ride?”  We waved him passed and kept ambling down the street.  We didn’t really want to mention we were looking for someone, since in an area this size having a foreigner come to visit you normally means the next guest through your door will be the police asking a bunch of questions.   Twenty minutes later the same, now familiar voice could be heard from the car driving by “Are you guys sure you don’t want to hop in?”  

Finally the straight country road started to bend towards the left and my roommates got excited.  “I think this is it” She said.  I looked at the row of small homes and one side and the plots of land with small green heads of crop pushing through the soil on the other and wondered to myself  “ how this dirt lane looked any different than the last six we had passed”.   “Yes this is it, look” she started pointing out minuscule landmarks that assured her we had reached our destination.  It took us another ten minutes to reach the last house on the lane and as she peeked in the front door that was slightly ajar she whispered back “The layout of the house looks right, but I don’t recognize anyone sitting inside”  She pulled her head back out and asked what we should do.  “While we have come this far… even if it is the wrong house Uyghur people are so friendly they will likely invite us in for a drink before we have to keep walking.” 

But they weren’t all strangers, and it wasn’t the wrong house.  Out of all the hamlets, near all the villages in all the parts of this province… my roommate had lead us to the right house at the end of the correct dirt road, to the very living room of her friends family.  We spent the rest of the afternoon catching up and having a great dance party with the whole family.

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?

Road to Nowhere

Have you ever looked at a map and saw a road that just ended? While we were down south last time we saw just such a place on our map. An hour and a half outside side of the city we were visiting, deep in the desert there was a road, that just suddenly seem to stop at this small town. We decided to go exploring and see what was there. We actually found that the bus station had vehicles that made regular daily trips out to Tawakkul.

We chatted some with the other passengers and tried to figure out what we should see or do in their town. I asked one lady “So what is there in Tawakkul?” She looked kind of confused by the question and finally answered “Our home”.

She was right… that really was all there was. The town or village or hamlet was nothing more than two intersecting streets. They had two restaurants, a place to buy clothes and furniture, a school, a mosque and a cell phone store. We had walked the whole length of the place in a few minutes and wondered what we should do next (our adventure for the day was looking rather lame).

We ended up heading out of town (the direction where the once paved road turned into gravel and desert sand). The fine dust kicked up about our feet as we passed small homes. At several places you could hear the sound of a sheep or a cow greeting us as we strode by. Finally we came upon one home where the husband and wife were standing out front their door. In good Uyghur hospitality style they invited us in, even though we were perfect strangers.

Over a simple afternoon snack of oranges, eggs, sunflower seeds, and bread served with tea we learned a little more about their lives. The wife had lived her whole life in this small cross-roads town in the desert. She had never even made the 1 ½ journey to the city we were staying in. She was 34 and had been married since she was 16. Her oldest daughter, now 17 is currently expecting their first grandchild. As one of 10 kids she still sees her family all the time since most of them live in the surrounding farms. The bread she served us was a testament of how she spends her time and what daily life is really like. They had grown the wheat themselves and harvested it from their own farm. They had also used it to make their own flour and dough. The bread was traditional Uyghur nan that they had baked in a tunur night in their courtyard of their home.

Each bit of bread only served to remind me how large the culture gap was between the two of us. Her rough worked hands showed that she had never ripped open a bag of wonder bread and spread on heaps of Pb and J. I was sitting in her home half way around the world from where I grew up, her parents home was just down the narrow street. Even though we are basically the same age, she is a soon to be grandma, and I am single. Despite these contrasts we had a wonderful afternoon chatting and laughing.

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.

Lending A Hand

It is winter. My least favorite time of year. The skies get dark, the temperature drops and the roads and sidewalks get slippery and dangerous. Winter means I tend to stay indoors more often and play host, except for when I absolutely must face the ice. Yesterday I was given a hand in facing the ice… not just one hand actually but three.

On the way to the accountant’s office, I was not looking forward to crossing the slippery street without the help of a crosswalk in the midst of the constant game of frogger. As I got closer I noticed one of the street sweepers had fallen instep beside me. She kept looking at my white skin and foreign face before finally trying to engage me in conversation. We chatted lightly until I pointed to the place where I had to cross. She put down her shovel and broom and grabbed the whistle out of her pocket. She gently took my arm and led me across the street, all the while stopping the traffic at each lane as we went. On the other side of the road, this kind hearted stranger gave me a hug, told me to “go slowly and wear more clothing”

After leaving the accountants office I decided to take the bus home. The only bus that went that direction was an old dilapidated one with holes in the floor. The water underfoot on the bus was therefore freezing into a slippery mess. I stumbled from one pole to the next moving towards the back of the bus. One older man saw my obvious fear and offered up his seat. Totally not the way it is supposed to happen. Bus etiquette says young people must give up their seats for seniors. “Big brother” I said, “I am so embarrassed, I can’t take your seat”. But he insisted and for the second time in an hour a complete stranger helped me out. When we disembarked from the bus he too said “goodbye young girl, go slowly and wear more clothes”

Finally I was crossing my last street to make it home to safety. This street has an underground passage. I started down the stairs, but they too were coated in greasy grimy winter slush. I gripped the broken railing tightly. I soon felt a light tap on my shoulder. “Here let me help you, You’ll get your glove dirty holding on to that… and I am a lot sturdier” said the stranger as she took my arm and lead me slowly down the steps. As a way to thank her I told her “be careful on the road and wear more clothing”.

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.