I've Been Through the Desert on a Camel With No Name It Didn't Feel Good to be Out In the Rain

One of our adventures on the trip was riding camels in the desert. We got up early in the morning, layered our skin with sunscreen in preparation for a long hot desert journey under the scorching sun. We then took a two hour bus ride to the middle of nowhere.

While on the bus we were the entertainment. Since we were travelling cheaply we took the local bus, which was filled with farmers and such, many of whom had never seen a white skinned person outside of the TV. They stared at us like we were aliens until some of the other girls started to feel uncomfortable under their intense gaze. I always figure in these situation it is best to confront it head on, and try to answer their questions, instead of being stared at the whole trip. So I struck up a conversation in Uyghur. If foreigners were fascinating, an 'American' girl who could speak their language was even more unbelievable. For the rest of the trip I was fielding questions from all over the bus. I think, by the end everyone knew where I was from, where I currently live, what I am studying, what I hope to do in the future, how much rent I pay, how much tuition I pay, how old I am, how many people are in my family, what job everyone in my family has and how much they enjoy their jobs, where we were going, why we were going, how long we would be gone for, how much we paid for our tickets, how many times I had been in that part of the province, how many years I had studied that language, and likely a dozen other things. I was like a circus freak, that just kept answering questions. Unfortunately having all this information did not stop the man from starring at us in disbelief, if anything it just intensified their gaze.

Once we got off the bus we headed out to the desert for a camel ride. But as we approached the camel owners it started to rain. They wanted to charge what I thought was an exorbitantly high price for an hour long ride... so I tried to talk them down. I complained about the rain, commented on how few people would actually go riding on a wet day like today. I tried and tried but they would not budge. I turned to my friends to find out what they wanted to do... only to find one other girl still standing with me. Now you have to understand, when it comes to hard core bargaining there is always strength in numbers. The more people you have, the more business they would lose if they don't agree to your price. The more people you have, the more intimidating you appear. And yet despite that well known fact we were just two small girls trying to negotiate with all the camel owners. We regrouped, grabbed our friends and started again. It didn't matter that our friends couldn't speak the language, and couldn't understand what was being said we had more people. This time I took another approach, I played the "we are poor students" card. It is universally true that college students everywhere are known to be broke. I even went so far as to tell them how much the school charges foreign students to study and that we had to take the local bus to get here. When they still didn't move, We walked. This can be a risky move, because you actually have to be willing to leave and not get called back. But we called their bluff and headed for the bus. In the end our small bus driver friend told them to just give it to us. So we each got a third of the price knocked off.

Which was good considering how cold and wet it can be in the desert. It was pouring and we all got drenched as we rode our camels with no names (I asked) though the chill damp desert sand. What a day.

On the Road Again

I spent last week travelling, again. This time my two new neighbours in the dorm building were planning a trip to the southern part of the province. I love it down there, so it didn't take too much work to convince me to come along as translator. Because of people's different schedules though, we only had five days (or 120 hours) for the whole trip. We all agreed we wanted to travel relatively cheaply, which means we often opt for the slightly slower modes of transportation. We spent over 64 hours of the last week in some sort of transportaion (train, bus, car). It was a tiring but great time. As I get pictures from the rest of the gang I will post more about the trip. I however forgot to take my camera with me.

Different people, different trip, the same good old hard sleeper on the train.

No Matter Who My Friends Are - They Aren't Welcome

As most of you probably already know I have have been living in dorm for the last three years. It really hasn't been all that bad ( even though the main room is only 7 1/2 feet by 7 1/2 feet). I have the room all to myself and it even has its own bathroom. But despite all this luxury I have been contemplating moving into a real apartment where I could have more room to host guests and cook meals. Last week I found a place with a lot of potential, and this week I was pushed to make a final decision.

The leader of our building is a difficult man to work with at the best of times, but of late he has been on a bit of a power trip. The other day he stood at the front door of our building with his arms tightly crossed across his chest and a stern face in place. He seemed immovable and impassable. He was refusing to let anyone enter the building who did not live there.

My next door neighbour was expecting her tutor, who eventually called to say she had been stopped at the front door. My neighbour has only been here a few months and her language is still in progress so she asked me to come along and try to figure out what was going on. At first the leader of the building said it was because there had been thieves and he didn't trust anyone to come in. When I pushed him, and asked what had been stolen and from where, he quickly changed his story and said that they were doing construction on the building and it wasn't safe to have people coming and going. So of course I asked "is it safe for us to be living here?" "Oh, yes you have paid your rent, you are safe here", he responded. Finally I tried to figure out who had instituted this new rule. He told me I had to talk to the Foreign student college, that it was their rule.

So I called the head of the foreign student department and said that by not allowing our friends to come and visit us they were making dorm feel more like prison than a home. But the leader of the department had never even heard of this rule. He also told me he has no control over the dorm and I would have to go back and speak with the stern faced impossible dorm leader. Grrrshk.

But instead of dealing with him the next phone called I made was to let the landlord know that I would take the apartment I had looked at.

Which means: I'm moving. I'm moving to a new home where all my friends no matter who, or how old will be welcome.

My People I Thought Were My Friends Aren’t Really My Friends

How do you define friendship? Who are your friends? Who can be your friends? We don’t often contemplate questions like these, but recently I’ve had reason to do so.

In North American culture, it is possible for a person from one generation to become friends with a person from another generation. In high school I was always better friends with a lot of my teachers than with my fellow peers. I have also always had a strange affinity with the retired generation (I think it has something to do with talking about our aches and pains).

Apparently, that’s not the case in Uyghur culture. A person from one generation would not consider a person from a different generation - whether lower or higher - to be a friend. Yes, they might act the same toward that person as they act toward their friends in their own generation, but they would not think of using the term “friend.” That would be disrespectful. The same would apply between a student and a teacher.

A couple weeks ago my friend Liz (yes I can rightly call her my friend since she is a 20 something American girl) was talking with one of her Uyghur college students. In the course of her conversation Liz mentioned how much she was going to miss all of her friends(referring to her students) over summer vacation. . The student was quick to respond and correct her mistake, “Oh no, we’re not your friends; we’re your students.”

Then just a few days ago I was out walking around campus with a young Uyghur lady my age. Part way through our walk we passed Patigul, a 72 year old woman that I spend a lot of my free time with. I exuberantly greeted her kissing both cheeks and asking numberous times about her health and family. She seemed likewise generally pleased to see me, and even invited me to stop over for tea later that afternoon if I had time. As we resumed our walk the young lady I was with asked “who was that?” “Oh, Patigul,” I said “she is a good friend of mine.” That brought on gales of laughter from my companion. I thought that maybe I had pronounced something wrong, but no, it was the concept itself that brought on the laughter. Apparently it is a ridiculous idea that I could be friends with someone several generations older than myself.

In fact the young woman informed me that I should never call some one like that my friend. I could call her my “teacher”, or my “mother”, but I must never call her “friend”. Suddenly things started to fit, pieces were coming together in my head. Even my tutor who is 12 years younger than Patigul calls her “teacher” or sometimes “big sister” instead of “friend”. If twelve years is considered a big enough gap that it is disrespectful to simply call some one a friend, then I realize I have a lot less friends out here than I thought.

It seems that, in Uyghur culture, even though you might be friends with someone older than yourself, it’s not acceptable to call them your friend. You can think of them as your friend; you can act friendly towards them, and do all the things that friends would do, but you just can’t call them that. That would be disrespectful. It just means I have been spending an immense amount of time cultivating relationships with people who have turned out not to be my “friends”. Oh well I still love them. The relationship doesn’t have to change, just its name.

Free to Fly

One of the most frustrating parts of spending time in Canada, for me at least, is getting around. I don’t have a drivers licence (sorry dad), everything is very spaced out and far removed from each other, and the bus system is… well… lets just say ‘its less than positive’. All of these things added together make it hard to be mobile when I am at home.

Today I experienced the joy of going from place to place here in Central Asia. Unlike in North America the number of people here who have their own personal car is a very small percentage. Since there are so many people packed into a small geographical space, most places are compact and close together. The bus system is also the most amazing thing you have ever seen. When my brother was here three years ago he stood at the bus stop out front my school and averaged out how often a new bus pulls in. He figured that every thirty seven seconds a bus will arrive at my stop. With that sort of frequency I never have to wait, or even chase after a bus. If the one I want is already at the stop and I am still half a block away I just let it drive off and know I can catch another one just like it in a minute of two.

There is great freedom in being able to move around at will and not have to depend on someone else to drive you, to be able to jump from one bus to another with no hassle, to walk from destination to destination without getting tired. Everytime I come back I feel like I grow wings.

View of the street from inside a bus

I'm Back

I am writing this blog from the other side of the world. I flew out of the Windsor Airport on the morning of July 2nd and have safely returned to my 'other home' in Central Asia. Despite the thick layer of coal dust that lingered in my room after six months of not being touched, this years return was not as traumatic as last years.

Packing

In Canada we have so much great stuff at our finger tips. I am reminded that 'Greed is Eternal'( ask Bruce it is some type of Star Trek quote). I went shopping for Bath soap, deodorant, coffee, chocolate, books, vitamins, wrapping paper, random food supplies, new clothes, and about a million other things I can't even remember. Too bad not all of this stuff fit in my suitcases.

Kids in the Kitchen the Next Generation

Several months ago I mentioned wanting to learn to cook Uyghur food. In fact at that time I even had my tutor spend a day of language lessons teaching me how to make the most famous Uyghur dish. While the food was good the lesson was a bit of a flop, since all I was allowed to do was stand there and watch.

But since being home I have stepped out on my own and attempted to rule the Uyghur food challenge. Three times now I have very sucessfully made 'big plate of chicken'. And last night I tried my hand at pollo. All in all the flavour was great, but the texture was a little off. That might have something to do with the fact that I did not follow the directions. I tried to prepare it in the crock pot instead of on the stove.

One important lesson I learned from all of this is: Don't tell your guests what is wrong with the food. The whole time I ate it with my family I sat there complaining about the rice being to gloppy and sticky. But when I took some over to my freinds house I refrained from making any comment on the texture. Since they had never eaten Uyghur food before, they assumed I had done it right and were filled with praises for my handiness in the kitchen.

It's Here

I now have both a visa and tickets back for July 2nd. Relief.

A Disappointing Day

After pushing through all the Red Tape mentioned in my last post I was finally ready to make my way to the embassy in Toronto and try to apply for a student visa to return to Central Asia. My father and I drove as far as my Aunt's house on Tuesday night and then we took off early Wedensday morning to face the hoards of people communting into downtown TO.

We arrived at the Visa Office just moments before it opened and waited in line with the others. I made it to the desk within five minutes and two minutes later I was leaving the visa office with an empty passport.

It seems that my school in Central Asia had sent me the wrong paper in the mail. Well not really the wrong paper, just the worng coloured copy of a paper. All offical paper work over there comes in carbon copy triplicate. The white, yellow and pink copies are all meant to go to different departments. The school had mistakenly sent me the yellow copy when what I really needed was the white one

I know that in today's world, governments and powers need to have strict rules and regulations for immigration and visas. I know that not all bureaucratic red tape is pointless and that structures needs to be in place; but it was hard to remind myself of that after driving over 4 hours to Toronto. It was hard to remind myself as I fought back the tears. It was harder still to remind myself as I tried not to yell at the lady behind the visa desk and tell her how unfair it was that I was not allowed to apply because I had the right application form on the wrong colour of paper. It was hard to remind myself as I tried to write a gracious letter to my school asking them to send the correct coloured form.

The good news is I was not denied a visa; I was just not allowed to apply for one. I have already recontacted my school asking for the white copy of my application form. They assure me it is 'in the mail'

So now I am back to waiting....

A Love Hate Relationship with Red

When I first moved to central Asia I was overwhelmed with brightness of the decor. Everywhere I turned my senses seemed to be struck with intense colour. Red is the colour of celebration and happiness. It is everywhere. Signs and banners are made of red, clothing and carpets, bags and everything you can imagine feature some shade of brilliant ruby hue. After being inundated by its joyfulness for the last three and a half years I can feel myself succumbing to it power.
A quick look at some of my own recent purchases will demonstrate how this continental wide love affair of the colour red has sunk deep in my heart as well. I will now buy almost anything that has a smattering of this vibrate colour.
( I didn’t keep all seven pairs of red shoes, mom was purchasing them for me while I was in hospital. I tried them all on and returned the pairs that didn’t fit. But for a while I was the proud owner of seven pairs of red shoes).

Despite this growing love affair with the colour red, I have recently come across something that I loath.

Now that my health has improved I have started to work on my visa process to return to Central Asia, only to find many of the rules have changed. In the past I have entered the country on a tourist visa and switched to a student visa within the first month of my arrival. This always seemed the easiest way to navigate my way through foreign policy. However, my adopted country has recently changed it requirements. A person applying for a tourist visa must produce round trip tickets and full itinerary while in country including proof of booked and paid for hotel accommodations. All of which is a waste of money since I have my own dorm room and no intention of returning in the next few months. They have also introduced the rule that a person can no longer apply for a student visa while visiting the country on a tourist visa.

So I had to scrap my old means and resort to plan B. I am now working on trying to apply from here for a student visa. My school sent me a copy of my original application (unfortunately it has my old passport number on it) as well as a letter of invitation. I will be going later today for a full physical including chest x-rays and an ekg to make sure I am healthy enough to study in their country.

All of this is doable if not a bit of a pain, but then I learned more news. I can no longer mail my completed application to a visa service in BC (they can now only accept visa application from BC and the Yukon) as I have done repeatedly in the past. Instead I will have to drive the whole completed package of information up to Toronto to both deliver and pick-it-up in person. This just adds to the hoops I am trying to jump through to get my return visa.

In the process of all of these application and forms, appointments and searches on the internet I have learned that there is one red item that I loath… RED TAPE

Mug Shot Me

The other day I went to the passport office with all my needed paper work in hand to apply for a new passport. Among my many documents were two recently taken photo’s of me. What is it about passport pictures anyway?!

When I go through international customs, I normally walk up to the desk and greet the man behind the counter with a big smile and a friendly ‘hello’ in his language (if I know how to). My hair is normally down about my shoulders and my glasses are in place. I like to think that I come off as a rather un-intimidating presence.

So why in the world when I went to get my passport photos taken did they insist that I jump through hoops to make myself look nothing like me? First I had to make sure my hair was back and that both of my ear lobes were visible. Second I had to remove my glasses (which makes me blinder than a bat, I couldn’t even see where the lady was pointing when I had to look straight ahead). Finally I was told not to smile. No teeth, No smirk, no nothing, just a plain straight almost bordering on sour looking face.

The pictures she handed me three minutes later look nothing like me. They looked like they should be flashed across TV screens at the beginning of "America’s Most Wanted". Or that I should be holding a number and dressed in a black and white striped jumpsuit preparing for my incarceration. The person staring back at me looked angry, and hostel and just …BAD.

One of my best friends had her passport renewed last year. The picture looks like a complete stranger. Whenever we go through customs the officers stop her and ask extra questions as a means of verifying that she really is the person pictured in front of them. You would think they would want the most natural look possible, so that it would be a real and accurate piece of identification. If a person wears glasses they should have them on in the photo and so forth.

I had thought about scanning the photos and posting them so you could all see just how bad they really are… but then I got to thinking. Isn’t it embarrassing enough that complete strangers dressed in uniforms all over the world for the next five years will be subjected to looking at such a horrible version of me. I really don’t need to immortalize it on my own web page for friends and family to mock.

Half Way Up= Half Way Home

I am still going to therapy three days a week and working hard to get back in the physical shape I need to be in to return to Central Asia. Today after 45 mins in the pool and another 45 mins in the gym, my dad and I tackled the stairs. In order to go back I have to be able to do eight flights up or down with out dying somewhere in the middle. Today we made it to the fourth floor and back twice. That means I am more than half way there (on average we don't have as many stairs per flight here). Now I just have to wait and see what the doctor says on May 28th.

Asked to Interpret

The other day while I was sitting in the Doctor’s waiting room I heard another patient start to mumble to herself in one of the two languages I have had to study since moving to Central Asia. I quickly struck up a conversation with her about where she was from, her family, what our health problems were that had brought us to the Doctors and so on. All too shortly she and her son-in-law were called in for their appointment and our conversation and subsequently my language practice ended abruptly.

Two minuets later the doctor himself stepped out of the office and came to seek me out in the waiting room, “Karen, do you think you could come in and give us a bit of a hand?” “I’ll try” I offered boldly, but even as I offered I knew the job would be way above my head. I only studied this language for eight months and that was three years ago. During that time I focused on learning how to give taxi drivers directions to my home, how to barter and buy things from the market, how to call a repair man to come and fix my hot water tank (again), and how to discuss the weather and daily activities with my neighbours. Medical Terms 101 was not part of my eight month curriculum. The next ten minutes involved me trying with my limited vocabulary to translate the doctor's probing questions, and keep up with her speedy delivery of complaints and complications. I don’t know if the doctor got half the information he needed, but considering my services were free, I can guarantee they got their moneys worth from this interpreter.

Scarred for Life

While it is true that I have been incommunicado for almost two months, I do have two new knees to show for it.

Check out the scars

It has been a hard and tiring two months in which I spent four weeks in hospital, lost twelve pounds, cried more than I have in years, and worked my butt off in physio. The past two months have been filled with ups and downs. But I am so thankful for people who gathered around me and blessed me with visits, prayers, gifts and support. Most of all I want to thank my parents for their unending care through it all. At every turn they were by my side, encouraging me, and cheering me on.

Happy 100th Post

Yes, for those of you who have faithfully been keeping up with the KSA Daily we have finally hit the big mile stone of 100 posts. But as I reflect on the last almost year and a half of blogging I realize that maybe the KSA Daily is a bit of a misnomer. A year and a half is roughly 548 days. That means I have posting something new once every 5 ½ days. Maybe I should rename my blog “KSA Every 5.5 Days” or the “KSA Occasionally”, maybe the “KSA Whenever I Feel Like It” or the “KSA Only If Something Somewhat Interesting Happens In My Life” would be closer to the truth.

Seriously though, I started the blog to help communicate some of what my life is like on the other side of the world. Since I have been home many of my friends have let me know that Blogging is so ‘out’ compared to face book. I will be taking a few weeks away from the blog as I go into the hospital for surgery. While I'm gone I ask that if you still bother to occasionally check the “KSA Somewhat Regular”, that you leave a comment to let me know weather or not this is worth my time and energy.

Letting My Guard Down

Where I live in Central Asia my biggest safety concern is pick pockets. They are everywhere. I always have to make sure that my purse is shut tight and clasped closely to my side. I get use to watching my shadow to make sure no one is getting to close to my backpack, or keeping my hands on anything valuable in my pockets. But since coming home I have started to let my guard down a little. I will now hang my purse on the back of my chair at a restaurant without fearing that someone on their hands and knees behind me will try going through my stuff.

Last week when I was up in Cambridge my friends Becky and Tom treated me to a nice dinner at Swiss Chalet. We were all very hunger, but no one was apparently as hunger as their toddler Ben. When the waitress arrived to our table and started putting the full platters of food down, Ben was ready. Before my plate was even fully on the table he had nabbed one of my pieces of bread and had it securely in his mouth. For a girl on her guard I didn’t even see that one coming.

In the national language out there we talk about pick pockets and being small thieves, and Ben is certainly the smallest thief yet to get his sticky hands on my stuff.

Lost in My Own World

If you read my last post then you know I have done my share of travelling. I am familiar with hopping on and off trains, catching flights and being on the go. In fact one of my friends once said that if she was ever on the Amazing Race she would want me as a team mate. After yesterday they may want to rethink that decision

Yesterday I was scheduled to take the morning train home from Brantford to Windsor. Sadly to say I miss read my ticket and showed up half an hour late for my 8:55 train. I had to pay $15 to change my leaving time to 1 o’clock in the afternoon. The weird thing is that the Brantford train station closes for over an hour in the middle of the morning. I had to go to a local coffee shop and sit and wait (there was no Timmy’s within six blocks, so I ended up at some Kelly’s Korner Koffee, let me say it is just not the same).

Oh how the mighty have fallen, there will be no race across the world for me when I can’t even read a simple train ticket printed in my mother tongue.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

I haven’t done much blogging over the past month but here are a few numbers to better help you understand what I was up to in January:

Planes = 25h 15 (not counting layovers of another 16h)
Trains = 57h (give or take a few minutes)
Automobiles = 20h (cars, taxis, buses, and sleeper buses all included)
Meeting = 47h 30m
Doctors/ Hospital = 14h
Different beds slept in = 12
Number of Boarder Crossings = 10

So how am I doing now… I’ll let you do the math.
12.25
16
57
20
47.5
14
12
+10
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Growing up in another world

Happy New Year. I spent New Years Eve with some of the ex-pat community. It was a great evening that included multi different countdowns to the new year. As I have mentioned before we live in two different time zones simultaneously so we can count down at 10pm and midnight. We also can’t watch Dick Clark’s Rocking New Years Eve Party, so we really had no set times and guessed.

We played Catch Phrase and I was struck by how much a young person’s world view can be affected by growing up on the other side of the world. Some of my favourites were: “ It is what the ground is made of” we were all guessing, things like dirt, earth, grass and such, but the answer was cement. Also “First you kill the sheep, take off the skin… then you can cook this to eat”, the answer of course was meat, but it was a really odd clue.

I am Canadian

I remember back when I was in grade ten or eleven our school hosted citizenship court. I helped plan the ceremony and serve at the luncheon after. I remember it being the first day I really thought about how fortunate I was to be born in Canada. Our school gym was filled with people from nations all over the world who had left their home in search of something better, in search of a new life. They all clutched so tightly to their new Canadian citizenship paper as they took pictures with everyone and anyone (I remember a few people even asking me to be in the shot, and I was just serving punch that day). Their joy that day was contagious, and their love for my home land really made me stop and give thanks for my nation and nationality.

Today I was over visiting one of my old Uyghur friends. She had new pictures her daughter had just sent from Canada. Among them were shots of the whole family at citizenship court. The looks on their faces were no different than what I had seen that day at high school. Without thinking I blurted out “Oh look, your daughter is Canadian now!” I was sure this older woman must share in the relief and joy of knowing that her daughter and grandkids now have official citizenship in such a great country. But instead of seeming grateful she seemed upset. To her these pictures did not represent a day of celebration, but a day of doom. In her mind her daughter had turned her back on their culture, their nation, all the history she had tried to pass down. “Why did they do that?” she asked, “they didn’t need to be Canadian, they were already Uyghur.” For every person at court that day, there was a family back in the homeland worrying and wondering how this was pulling their family away from them.

My friend saw nationality as a major definition of who a person is. The more I thought about it the more I was glad that while yes I am Canadian, that is not my number one citizenship.

Bling for my Birthday

For me dressing up means putting on my jean skirt instead of just my jeans, it means my black jacket, or maybe a nice sweater. I like to fool myself by calling it an ‘elegant, understated sort of style’, but to my Uyghur friends it is just plain, simple, and boring. Dressing up requires more, it needs sparkle and colour and zing. All of the Uyghur ladies I go out with will have on makeup and jewellery; their dresses are often caked and incrusted with sequence and glitter.

This semester I have had a real journey to try to add some bling to my outfits (I don’t want these ladies embarrassed when they introduce me to their friends). I don’t know how many times I went to the stores to look. I always wanted to get the smallest delicate necklace I could find in the shop, but the sales ladies would often pick up another one and tell me how much more beautiful it was. The war inside would begin: I knew I should get the one the local people like if I really wanted to fit in, but I just didn’t like it that much. Normally the frustration and tension inside would mount to the point that I would give up and leave the store empty handed.

The truth is that jewellery is more than just a status symbol with the Uyghurs, it is a way to care for your family. Every girl at a rather young age is given a pair of gold earrings by their family. The logic is that if the girl ever finds herself desperate for money, the family has provided something she can sell to survive. So the glitter also has a practical side.

The other day for my birthday my tutor (and Uyghur mother) gave me a pearl, jade and diamond necklace, which might sound like overkill but is actually really pretty. Now she doesn’t have to be as ashamed of my drab appearance in public. But really it is more than that, the pearls are all real, so now my Uyghur family has helped take care of me.

McDonald's at Midnight

Last night my classmate came back from a more populated part of the country. The airport that she flew out of had a McDonalds. As a very thoughtful gesture she stopped and got McDonalds to go. It was than a five-six hour flight across the country. When she came back we ate our cold hamburgers. Even cold they are still an amazing taste of home.

T’is the Season to be Jolly

This semester as I have been getting to know some of the older ladies on campus I was surprised to hear three or four of them tell me about the same Christmas party they had attended many years ago. I guess there had been some other foreign students who had thrown them a party. They had played silly games like the “I’ve never” game, or little Christmas presents in the middle. They had eaten Christmas cookies and listened to Christmas music. It sounded like fun, but nothing really special. The thing that amazed me though was that all four of these ladies still remembered the night in such detail almost nine years later. Some of them even claimed they had never had that much fun in their life.

After hearing all their stories I decided to throw a party of my own. The goal was not to out do the one from years before, but to add another good memory to the season. It was a small party, only three ladies. We eat cookies I had decorated, listened to music and played the game where you wrap a small gift in each layer of paper and then pass it like a hot potato, when the music stops the person holding the gift removes a layer and gets to keep that gift. You would have thought I had invented the light bulb with how much they gushed about what a great idea that was for a game, and how much fun they had. Before they left I gave them all scarves that I had hand knit for them.


I hope some of the real light of Christmas shone through the simple party we had.

My Amazing Mind Boggling Abilities

I was invited to join my teacher at another Chai she was giving. However this time she had to go early, and I had a few earns to run first, so I promised to come on my own later. We were meeting at the same restaurant as last time (which is only three bus stops down from my school).

When I arrived one of the women was very surprised to see me. She had assumed since I didn’t come with my teacher I wasn’t coming at all. The whole idea that I a rather young (I think she thinks I am only 18 or 19) foreigner could find my way around town with out being guided by a local, seem totally impossible. She kept questioning me: “how did you get here?” “I took the bus” “What bus did you take?” “101” “How did you know to take that bus?” “Because we are only a few stops down from my school” “How did you know what stop to get off at?” “Because I have been here before, so I knew where the restaurant was” No matter how many questions I answered this woman still remained totally amazed at my ability to make my way down the street on my own. The fact that I had been there before, or that I have now lived in this city for over three years, the fact that I can speak some of both of the local languages, or that I ride that bus at least once every single day still left her flabbergasted.

May I Have Your Autograph?

The other day my teacher and I went book store hopping after class. We were in search of a dictionary of Uyghur idioms (which we never found by the way), but we did find a number of other interesting books. It seemed that every book shop we went into my teacher would pull a different book off the shelf, look at it and laugh, then open the front cover and show me that she was the author of the book. Some of them were books that she had worked on almost twenty years ago, and she was surprised you could even still buy.

The area of uyghur scholarship and the printed word is just starting to explode, but for years the number of books was very minimal. I guess that is how I can know so many famous authors. In fact all of my textbooks from the last three years have been autographed by the author. I wonder what sort of a price a signed copy of “Essentials of Uyghur Grammar 2” will fetch someday on e-bay?

Contestant Number 6

Yesterday I took part in my school’s Uyghur speech contest. When I was in elementary school and high school I was big into the speech scene. So in many ways yesterday was kind of a flash back for me. The only difference was that this time my speech was suppose to be in another language.

My teacher had forgotten to mention the contest to me earlier so I had exactly four hours to prepare (all of my fellow contestants had been busy memorizing for three weeks). All of the other contestants were students from the majority people. It ended up being a very uneventful night. I sat there for two and a half hours listening to speeches I couldn’t understand well, either because their pronunciation was so poor, I couldn’t make out what they were saying, or they copied the text from such a high level book, that it was still way above my head.

When I arrived I was quickly ushered to a seat up front and given a cup of tea. I told the student severing me, that I was also a contestant in the competition, and therefore shouldn’t be being given tea. I ended up sitting right next to the judges and teachers, and was introduced along with them as “our foreign guest for the evening”.

My speech itself was a mess. I was planning on just reading the text I had found and written out (my teacher had said that would be okay since I had just heard about the competition that day). It was the story of a father who had two sons. The youngest takes his inheritance and foolishly spends it. But in the end it is a wonderful picture of forgiveness and acceptance. Thankfully I knew the story well, because I couldn’t read my own hand writing, and I had to tell it from memory. The grammar was all wrong, but the judges seemed pleased to be listening to something other than another over acclimating piece about ‘unity in diversity’ or ‘world peace’.

After I was done sharing, one of the senior students got up and gave the others a lecture (in the national language) encouraging them all to study as hard as I do. So that one day all the students in the room could speak as well as our ‘foreign guest’. Talk about wanting to eat your face off.
I guess I don’t have to tell you that I came in first place. I think the minute I walked into that room with my ‘blond hair’ and foreign passport the whole thing was rigged. This means I have to go back tomorrow for round two and sit through another couple hours of speeches.

This picture was taken three years ago at the last school speech contest I attended. That time they ended the evening by having a special photo shoot for all of the "foreign guests" and judges.

What’s Hot and What’s Not

As I mentioned in my last post I have been coughing a lot from the coal dust. My constant hacking however does inspire the concern of a number of older Uyghur ladies. All of them are full of ideas and suggestions to help me feel better. They keep underlining how important it is for me to eat hot food. Some sicknesses need hot food to help with recovery and others need cold food. The problem is that I still don’t really understand what is hot and what is not.

In our western way of thinking a food is hot, if the temperature is hot. We talk about warming up with a hot bowl of soup, hugging a mug of coffee, eating stick to your ribs steaming porridge, or settling down with a cup of hot chocolate. We believe all of these will warm a person up from the inside out, because they are foods that are served hot.

Eastern thought doesn’t care about the temperature of the dish, they care about the food itself. The Uyghurs believe that some foods warm up your blood and some cool you down. I still have not learned how to tell hot food from a cold food, I am just slowly starting to learn what category the foods I like fall into. For instance, mutton and horse are considered warm meats, where as chicken and beef are cold. Even veggies can be separated into these two categories, apples and cucumbers are warm, and mushrooms are cold.

Therefore you can have cold dishes that are hot, or hot dishes that are cold. After walking out in the snow, I often am tempted to stop for a hot bowl of beef noodle soup, however, according to my friends this will only make me colder, since beef is a cold meat.

It is all way to confusing for me, I just know that if I don’t want to have older Uyghur ladies lecturing me for an hour on how I am not taking good care of my cough, I need to watch what I am eating in their presence.

Black Lungs and Tight Abs

Winter is here. The coal dust is thick in the air and thick in my lungs. But you know what they say: every cloud has a silver lining. It has taken me three years to find the silver lining to my annual winter hacking cough that develops as a result to the bad air condition, but I have finally found it; tight abs. Yes all the coughing and sputtering is better than any crunches, sit-ups or gym membership. The bright side of coal dust is keeping in shape.

The Season has Started

Yesterday may have only been December 1st, but the Christmas celebration has officially begun. My classmate and I held a decorate my apartment party for some of our friends. We started the night by watching the classic Charlie Brown Christmas special. The girls helped us make popcorn strings, and paper chains with words related to Christmas like love, light, hope, peace and such written over them in three different languages. They enjoyed hanging the shiny decorations, and tying bows, and some of the girls even cried at the official lighting of the tree (we did it up right, turned off the lights, counted down and plugged in the tree).




Okay confession time: the girls worked hard to decorate the tree last night; I left it for all of 10 hours before I ripped it apart and started over. As much as it was fun to have them around and to share the experience; there are certain ways to decorate a tree and also ways to not decorate a tree (like three gold balls all hanging from the same branch, while there is a huge bald spot right beside it). If I am going to look at the tree for the next month, I needed it to look reasonable. Just in case the girls come back over, I did leave the big love sign on the top (mainly because I don’t have a star or an angel).

More Insight on Underwear

Today in class I experientially got more insight as to why local people wear so many layers. Our classroom was freezing. In fact my teacher and fellow classmates don't even bother to take off their coats any more. They spend the whole four hours of class time bundled up tight enough to go sledding. I just can't do that. It is too hard to sit comfortably for that many hours with my winter stuff on. But if the heat inside is going to be that ineffective I can understand a little better why people might need extra layers.

The average classroom here is nothing more than cement floors and walls, nothing fancy and nothing warm about it. These pictures were taken in the summer, but they do represent the average classroom here.

Some Cute Pics

Last week my classmate and I had a number of girls over for American thanksgiving dinner ( I love living in a international community that lets me eat thanksgiving dinner twice a year). We had stuffing, sweet potato casserole, green beans, gravy, rolls, roast chicken, cranberries and more. We had made a ton of food, but the only thing the girls really ate was the sweet potato and the roast chicken. Why those two? Because they are most like Uyghur food. In fact with the chicken we kind of cheated and just bought two already roasted chickens off the street from the Uyghur version of Swiss Chalet. We had also bought the sweet potatoes on the street. Come winter men walk about the street with these large metal drums filled with heated coals, the use the drums to make baked sweet potato. The smell is so intoxicating. I had bought the potatoes from him to save time and just added the extra milk, butter, and sugar. The girls seemed to like the party, but in truth they only ate the food they were use to.

One of the girls had studied up on American holidays before coming. She was asking me to tell her more about the chocolate eating holiday. At first I thought she meant Valentines day, but she looked it up in the dictionary again, and really wanted me to tell her all about Easter. As you can see she listened quite intently though my whole explanation.

WANTED:

I almost got a job this week at the top university in the province. Halfway though the semester they realized they were short an English teacher for four hours a week. When I heard about the crunch they were in I offered my services. NO one asked for my school transcripts, my English teaching certification, or a resume. In fact they didn’t really even seem to care about that… all that mattered was that I was a native English speaker. Talk about a demanding standard and a competitive job market. The top school is willing to hire profs part time, who just volunteer to teach. They were offering to pay me 100kuai an hour, which is more than three times what I pay my tutor, who is a real retired prof from the school. The guy in the office said he would try to work out the students’ schedule to match mine and get back to me. The day before I was suppose to start to teach I went into the office to make sure everything was set. I needed to get the text book for the class, and know what building and room we were meeting in. I arrived only to find out they had already hired another Canadian guy without telling me. When I inquired as to why I didn’t get the job, they said “oh, the other guy had more free time on Tuesday” (that is what I call a superior job qualification).

Goodbye Mountains, see you in Spring

Our annual pilgrimage into darkness has begun. The mountains and backdrop of the city is fading into the haze. The city I live in is surrounded by large mountains that can be seen from all over town, or at least in the spring. I was walking down the street today and realised I could no longer see any of them. The coal haze has gotten too thick. It is time for them to make it snow and clean out the air.

Long Underwear Fashion Show

When it gets cold here people pull out their long johns. It makes every one look like they have gained several pounds since all of their pants fit tightly. Underneath everything there are two or three pairs of long underwear. This layered looked makes a person comfortable when they are outside in the frigid cold, but makes it a little too toasty when they come inside. That is why stripping is considered totally appropriate. Not only do people take their shoes off at the door they sometimes take their pants off too.

Yesterday our teacher came over for dinner and to watch a movie. After we had finished eating my classmate invited her to get comfortable to watch the movie (she meant grab a pillow or feel free to put your feet up on the bed and stretch out), our teacher looked relieved at the invitation and stripped off her skirt. I guess it was too tight with all her pairs of tights on underneath, she was also getting pretty warm.

Another time I went to visit my friend’s home, it was the first time I was going to meet her parents, and she assured me they were very excited about the visit. When I arrived my friend greeted me at the door wearing her long johns, but it wasn’t just her both of her parents were walking around the house the same way. It was hard work keeping a straight face throughout my visit as her dad sat across from me wearing purple long underwear.

A few years ago when my room flooded the older Uyghur guy who lives a few doors down came to give me a hand. He helped me scoop water for three hours, the whole time wearing nothing but matching top and bottom stripped pink, green, and blue long underwear. While I was thankful for the help, it was a little too much information about my neighbour.

In this way I am not doing the best at enculturating myself. I still refuse to wear any long underwear. In my mind it is a ten minute walk to class I would prefer to be cold for ten minutes and comfortable for the four hours I am in class, or any time I am inside. Needless to say I get told hundreds of times a day, and in a variety of languages that I am wearing too little, that my clothes are too thin. Well I might be wearing too little, but at least I am wearing real clothes. For your sake I am choosing to not include pictures with this blog. I think I have created enough of a mental long underwear fashion show, that we can skip the real thing.

A Night in Square

Every city around in county has its own Peoples Square. In reality it is nothing more than a cemented over area in the middle of town that features a monument or a statue commemorating something famous. But in practice it is one of the most happening places. Ours features a ten foot squared television screen where they will often show sporting matches, rides for kid, dancing for adults. It is the heart beat of the city. Despite all of its amazements and distraction, I rarely make the trip on the bus anymore because it seems whenever I go I draw way to much attention.

If you saw the video I sent home a few years ago, you may remember the scene with the expatriate youth doing a crazy Olympic night, we held that at the Peoples Square. That night we gathered a crowd of over a hundred people just standing and staring at us.

The other night one of my friends asked me to join her at the square. I was once again overwhelmed by the number of activities that go on there and the number of people just hanging out. After wandering around for a while, my friend and I joined a group of people who were painting ceramics. It beats me as to what is so fascinating about two western girls doing crafts… but at least thirty people stopped to watch us. Even one of the guys who worked there taking pictures for the tourist stopped by with his camera. I told him we didn’t want our picture taken. But he insisted. He didn’t want to sell us the picture of ourselves; in fact he wanted to use it at his booth for advertisement. So now I am forever promoting the fun that comes with a night in the Square.

I Can See Clearly Now, the Dirt is Gone

I finally broke down and hired someone to clean my room. Almost all of the foreign community along with many of the upper working class locals hire people to clean their homes. One hour of labour costs just one Canadian dollar. But I had been being stubborn. The main room of my home is only seven feet by seven feet, as a single girl with no family I should be able to find time to keep it clean, but I have finally come to admit it is not a time issue or even the size of the room issue, it is an ability thing. The windows in my room are five feet tall and you have to climb to clean them. Since I am not much for standing on rickety things, I just ignored my windows and let them fall into neglect. It had gotten to the point I couldn’t even see clearly any more. So last night I finally broke down and hired help. In just a little over two hours two girls had washed the windows(removing two years of coal dust grim), swept and mopped the floor, dusted everything, and straightened up. I sat there talking to them, and practicing Uyghur. In fact they even helped me with my homework.

Keep Fit for Surgery

Before I came back in the fall I met with a physio therapist from the Arthritis society… she gave me a piece of ther-a-band (this stretchy oversized elastic thingy) so that I could be doing exercises to keep my muscles strong for surgery. But I hardly need it here. As if all the stairs, walking and climbing up and down off of buses, wasn't enough to keep a person in shape, there is also the play equipment.

Every where you go there is play equipment; some of it is more like the type of machines you would find at the gym. There are at least nine sets of equipment on my school campus, alone, not to mention the ones that you find in every apartment complex, or just randomly out on the street. Most of them feature a nice plaque put in place by the government, claiming “For the People, a physically fit and healthy future.” And it is true the people do use them, at any time of day you will find both young and old, physically abled and disabled at the playground, working towards a healthy future.

I know my first few months out here I found it funny to see these old ladies outside flexing their muscles, but now it just seems normal. In fact I can’t help but wonder why our school yards and apartment complexes don’t have better workout equipment. No one would need to pay expensive monthly gym fees any more, and they could build community by working out along side their neighbour. It a great idea, which I am taking advantage of for my own physical fitness.

Sick

I have been feeling a cold coming on the last few days. All of my friends have been coughing, sneezing, wheezing and all the other gross stuff that comes with the territory. I have been trying to avoid it and stay as healthy as possible, but I am being to think it is inevitable.

I have been very fortunate while living here, only getting really sick a few times. Some foreigners find that they are always sick since their bodies are not use to the different set of germs that float through the air here. But this new bout of feeling under the weather has caused me to reflect on the first time I was sick out here.

I had spent the whole night feeling awful, I couldn’t breath lying down, I was to weak to sit up, I kept having to run to the bathroom… it was just awful. I decided to skip class the next morning, but forgot to call my classmates to let them know I was not coming. When I didn’t show up for class and I wasn’t answering my phone ( it was to far from the bed for me to make it in time)… both my classmate and my teacher came running over to my room to see what was wrong. The teacher went to get the school doctor, but my classmate started to make me chicken noodle soup( it was just a package of cup-of-soup), but it smelled so good and reminded me of home. I had just gotten propped up in bed ready to drink my soup when the school doctor and the teacher arrived. The doctor took one look to see what was in the cup and deemed it unsuitable to drink when I was sick. And then in a flash of a moment, before either my classmate or I could do anything to stop him, the doctor took the hot cup of soup out of my hand and tossed the contents out of my second story window. Trust me I had enough energy to scream out my protests… but the doctor insisted it was unsuitable… that I needed to be drinking flour water. Boiling hot water with two to three table spoons of flour in it. GROSS. Both my classmate and I were so mad, that soup had come in a care package from home… we have to use that stuff so sparingly, I mean even if I wasn’t allowed to drink it, my classmate could have.

This time I am going to stay away from any school doctors and just administer my own treatment of orange juice and chicken noodle soup in the quietness of my own room.

Fast Money

In Uyghur Culture there is a simple way to get cash fast… throw a party. They call it a chai it is more like a money borrowing system with your neighbours and friends. A group of ten to fifteen people take turns throwing a chai every month. Today I had the honour of joining said party and learned a lot about the culture and how money and friendship interact here.

The party I went to today was made up of a group of fifteen ladies; they are all retired and from the same hometown. Some of them have been friends since middle school. These ladies know everything about each other, good and bad. Trust me when I say that don’t let anyone forget any of it. There was so much gossip spinning around me at such a fast pace I was actually glad I couldn’t understand it all.

We went to a very fancy restaurant where we were given our own private room off to the back. The room had one large table, a TV and DVD player and a small dance floor. The meal itself was very extravagant, taking us more than three hours to eat it all. In order to join the Chai each one of the ladies was expected to bring 150 kuai with them (about 20 dollars, which trust me is a lot considering I can normally go out and eat at a restaurant for only 1 dollar). You can do the math 15 ladies X 150 kuai = 2,250kuai (or about 280 dollars). As we were eating the ladies made sure to ask the hostess how much the meal cost, and then compared the price with how much they had spent the last time they hosted the chai. It seemed that on average the hostess spent about 400-500 kuai to throw a chai. This means they make at least 1,700 kuai. That is a lot of money here. But as I said early a chai is just a way to borrow money from your friends and neighbours, because next month they will be invited by someone else in the group and expected to pay 150 again to join the party. In one day they can make some fast money and then spend the next year paying the loan off to their neighbours. And trust me they keep track, if one person missed one chai, the hostess of that chai is not expected to pay the other person for attending theirs.

The Uyghur people have a saying that says “good friends keep count”. This is true at chai, or any other time you go out to eat. I remember in college when a group of people would go out to eat, the bill would come and we would spend twenty minutes trying to break it apart and figure out how much each person owes, we would add in the tax and count down to the penny. But Uyghurs hardly ever split the bill evenly. One person is always treating. Fights break out over who will give the money, but even as everyone is fighting they all know whose turn it is. Part of being good friends is remembering who paid last time and making sure to pay them back next time with an equally valuable meal. It gets complicated after a while if you have a lot of friends.

Thanks Blair !

I got a package today. This is always a highlight for all of us… not just the package recipient, but everyone close to them gets excited when fun things arrive from home. I think part of it is that we are just glad to have proof that people at home still remember us. I just want to say a big thank you to all my friends at Blair who put together and sent a great parcel. My classmates are already waiting for the hot chocolate to be opened and shared around, and they have all softened their hands with the hand cream. Thanks guys, not just for the fun stuff, but for your continued thoughts and encouragement.

Simple Mathematics

This morning while visiting one of my Uyghur friends I learned that some mathematical expressions are universal. For instance I purpose that if you go any where in the world you will find that:

1 room full of women + 1 baby = higher pitched voices, increased amounts of silly
talk, lots of cooing (not by the baby), funny
faces, kissy cheeks, Peek-a-boo, and laughter
whenever the child so much as moves a finger.



When I first went to my friends house she was sitting in the kitchen with three of her granddaughters. We all sat around for over an hour chatting and such, when suddenly a cry came forth from the back bedroom. All regular conversation stopped, and the next hour of my visit contained nothing but the results of the above math equation. I know I contributed to the silliness this morning. It was actually a very good language lesson on how to talk baby talk. I tried to study what sounds they changed, and what sort of ‘cute endings’ they added to words. In all the differences in culture and language that I face everyday, it is nice to know that some things are as predicable as math.

Eating Humble Pie and Everything Else

This week marked the end of the Islamic fast. After a month of only eating when the sun is set, the Uyghur people break the fast in style by feasting and eating. If you have been keeping up with this blog since last year, you may remember all my rules for eating (or should I say not eating over the holiday).

Over the first two days of the holiday this year I visited seven different homes, and thanks to my trusty rules of eating I was able to get away with only minimal snacking: several pieces of cake, a few pieces of fruit, and a handful or two of candy, two bowls of soup and two steamed stuffed buns. I walked away from my two days of holiday visiting without that constant uncomfortable stuffed feeling. I was so proud of the fact my pants still fit I started boasting to all my uncomfortably over stuffed foreign friends about how well I had learned to survive the onslaught of food, and how comfortable I still felt.

But you know what they say about the prideful having to eat humble pie… on the very last day of holiday visiting I only had one home to go to, and it was one of my friends who is a college student. Her parents live in another town hours away, but they do keep a small apartment here in the city, which is where she had invited us. Both of her parents happened to be there and thought it was a big deal that their daughter’s ‘American’ friends could join them.

We sat down to a table covered with nuts, fruit, and candy. After ten minutes of munching out came the spicy jelly noodles with chick peas. Next, it was followed by a large plate of mutton stew. Our host kept putting more pieces on our plate, she wanted to make sure we got all the big chunks of meat. To help sop up the extra gravy the mother had made a pile of handmade noodles. By this time, I was starting to feel the discomfort coming one. Once the stew was cleared away we were given melon (normally the fruit coming out again is a good sign that the meal has come to a close) but yesterday it only indicated intermission. We still had a large plate of pollo (the rice, carrot, and mutton dish that is very famous with the Uyghur people) and big bowls of soup. Once all of the above had been consumed, the fruit was brought back out, only this time the father insisted that we all try a fresh big pomegranate from their home town. The whole meal of course was washed down by cup after cup of tea. Okay, so maybe during the 3 and half hour ordeal humble pie wasn’t on the menu, but I am pretty sure every other food known to man was.

The Gloves are Coming Off

For the last two weeks I have been wearing gloves to bed. I know it is only the beginning of October, but in many ways this feels like the coldest time of year here. The temperature has been dropping down to negative 2 at night. In and of itself this is not cold (considering the -35 winters we face here), but during the first week of October there is no place for a person to get warm. A few days ago I got out my heavy jacket and bought a pair of gloves. The sad thing is that I needed them more when I was in my house than when I was outside. I have two extra blankets on my bed and have the sweatshirt and wool socks always close at hand. The last two weeks have been spent either huddled around an electric space heater, or snuggled under quilts.

Heat inside buildings and apartments is regulated by the officials. The average temperatures are fingered out for each city and a magical date on which to give the people heat is determined. In the city where I live we wait patiently for October 15th. One of my friends said recently that every day between October 1st and October 15th feels like a year.

Today however we were all shown grace. The heat has come on two days early. I am sitting here beside my radiator, shedding the gloves as we speak. No more icicles for me, I am warm.

Time’s Time and Half a Time

Daily life out here is quirky for a variety of reasons. One of the most notable is that no matter where you may be throughout the province, you're functioning within two time zones simultaneously.

Technically the whole country is supposed to set their clock to one uniform time. That choice is of course based on where the sun is relative to the capital--a city far from where I live. The use of one time zone throughout country is akin to the Canadian government declaring that all people will run there life by Eastern Time (as found in Ottawa). This would mean that 8 in the morning was the same time in Newfoundland, BC and everywhere in between.

The sun may be at its highest point when striking noon in this countries capital but it takes two or more hours to make it to that same place here, and still another hour to reach its zenith above the farthest western reaching parts of this country. The Uyghurs, along with other indigenous minority people groups, tend to ignore the concept of this “One for all” time zone imposed from several thousand miles away. They simply use their own unofficial local time. This presumes the entire province to be two hours behind everywhere else in the country.

Setting local clocks to the capital's time doesn't make much sense. People around the world prefer not to function when it's dark outside. So the government offices, banks, and other institutions that are obliged to follow official “one for all time zone” policy a way to circumvent this problem by shifting business hours to later than they would be held in the eastern cities. Doors at such places tend to open at 10:00, rather than 8:00, to simultaneously address the directive of the central government and serve the local population.

While just using local time would seem a more logical way of operating, the existence of Capital’s clock confounds everything. Posted operating hours on businesses are often qualified with the notion “official time”, aka that of the capital. Arranging to meet with anybody will almost always end with the question "Capital time or local time?" It's a general rule of thumb that the majority people keep their watches set to the official time, and the ethnic minorities' run two hours behind. However, no matter how carefully appointments are scheduled, everybody is at some point bound to either stand a friend up, or arrive somewhere two hours earlier than they needed to. ( Trust me, it still occasionally happens even after living here for three years, which has inspired this somewhat long and biter diatribe against time zones)

It may seem trivial, but the choice of which time zone one uses out here is to some degree loaded. Operating on the same time as the bulk of the country’s population doesn't offer much convenience, but does signify volumes as to the “oneness” the government is trying to establish here. And while it's not much of a rebellion against capital, it is significant that the locals choose to ignore what is perceived as a silly mandate from the central government.

The actuality of which time people really function at seems to fall somewhere in between. My perception is that those who run their lives by official time tend to stay out late. Those who go by local time turn in early. For what it's worth, I keep my clocks set to local time. I've always been an early riser, so I think it marginally moves my schedule closer to normal. I would be so tired if I thought I was going to bed every night at 1 am, but 11 pm feels reasonable. I would also think I was being very sluggish if I didn’t start my days activities until 9:30, but being up for classes at 7:30 am feels just about right. Two times at the same time, it is almost apocalyptic (or science fiction, since I can time travel ahead two hours, by just walking next door).

If it Looks like Ham and it Tastes like Ham, it just might be….

Happy Canadian Thanksgiving. Today didn’t seem like it was going to be much of a holiday with six hours of class scheduled. But one of my American friends offered me the use of her house and help to host a thanksgiving dinner for other Canadians living out here (talk about diplomatic relations between our two countries).

You can’t buy a butterball turkey out here, and for obvious reasons ham is a no no. But there is a compromise. One grocery store sells smoked turkey legs, once they are cut off the bone they look just like slices of ham, and the smoked flavoured makes them even taste like ham, but they are totally halal.


So this year I am thankful for:
1) Meat that looks and tastes like what it is not.
2) Friends who help host holidays that are not their own
3) My family, and the fact that we can still stay in touch so well
4) The internet and how it spans the world
5) The chance to live here and learn Uyghur
6) My summer at home and my opportunity to see all of my friends
7) Most importantly My Rock, My Foundation, My Rest

The Fabric of Our Lives

Third year university students around the country are required to participate in the picking of cotton. It is meant to be an equalizer of sorts, a way to get the educated class involved in the hands, daily struggle of the common man. Picking cotton is a common experience that is woven into the lives of almost all the citizens.

Each year I have seen my friends come back from their two weeks of required labour with rough worked hands and sore muscles. They talked about the large daily quotas that each student was expected to pick, the blazing hot sun, or the bone piercing cold wind. I had yet to find a student who enjoyed their break from the books and a chance to work the land.

Yesterday my friend and I wanted to get out of the city for the day. We took the bus to a near by town that neither of us had ever visited. As we were riding along we saw cotton fields everywhere. They were filled with students and labourers who were bringing in the yield. My friend and I both agreed that it looked like fun. We imagined the students singing songs and having competitions for who could fill their bag of cotton first. In fact we so romanticized by the notion of ‘cotton picking’ by quoting lines from Gone with the Wind, that we actually wanted to join them.

So now I have knit myself into the very fabric of this place. I have a shared experience with almost everyone of the local people. I have picked cotton. I am a cotton pick’n kid. Okay so my experience is not totally the same as everyone else’s. After arriving in town and taking a city bus to the outskirts of the village, my friend and I reported for duty at about 11:15 in the morning. After talking with the ladies in the first field we came across, and getting a lesson on how to properly pick cotton. I worked for about half an hour (of which part of that time was spent taking pictures, and answering the ladies question about where we were from… and why did we want to do this again?) After half an hour I started to get frustrated, picking cotton is not easy on crutches, they kept getting caught in the bushes. Also my friend was wearing our backpack full of goods for the trip. We knew we wanted to see more in town and so we thanked the ladies for the experience and left. I guess half an hour, and being able to quit whenever I wanted, doesn’t really make me like the locals, who have to do it for two weeks straight despite their screaming muscles after all the bending down (which I also have, but I can nap today to help with recovery).