I’ve got gas

Right after coming back from our trip my roommate and I set to working on cooking Western food. After a week of Uyghur noodles it is nice to make something from home. We turned on our stove, only to have it beep at us. Since this having my own apartment out here is all new to me, I guessed we must be out of gas. I hunted for the card that the landlord had given me when I signed the contract, and took it next door to ask my neighbour where I could add money. My closest neighbours are from the majority people group, and my skills in that language are not that good. However, I did understand that she thought this was the old gas system, and that we should pay to have someone come in and update to what she uses. That was more info than I needed.

The next day I asked my teacher where I could add money to my gas card. She told me I had to take the gas card over to the bank by the Russian market. I walked into one bank and was informed I was in the wrong place, the second bank was no better, the third place I tried was a hotel… and then finally I found it. I next had to find out how much money I should be paying. Here you put an amount of money on your card ahead of time instead of paying a bill afterwards. I asked the people in line ahead of me, how much they were adding, and on average how long would that amount of money last.

I went home feeling pretty good about a job well done. I stuck the card into the gas meter and then tested out the stove… NO GAS.

The next day back in class I asked my teacher what I did wrong, why we still didn’t have any gas? She asked me what kind of noise the meter made… was it a beep, beep beep or more of a beeeeeep beeeeep? Sadly I couldn’t really remember. She suggested that maybe it was the batteries. But when I went home I couldn’t find the slot for the life of me. This time however I decided to go to a Uyghur neighbour's house to inquire about the batteries. My Uyghur grandmother told me her son always changes them for her, but she thought the slot was somewhere on the top.

It took a lot of climbing and searching, but I finally found it on the top, near the back. I changed the batteries and tried the stove again…. still NO GAS.

This time I called a friend on my phone, she suggested that I re-insert the newly paid up card. It worked… I’ve got GAS ( I bet you have never heard anyone say that with quite as much excitement as I just did).

This whole exercise did teach me the importance of turning to my local friends for help. So many times we come into this culture with our western ways and western solutions, trying to help the local people. But it is equally important (if not more so) to come into those relationships with humility seeking help, and letting them lead in even the simplest daily tasks, like getting gas.

Foreign Front and Back

Last week when we were on our trip we did all we could to fit in with the local culture. We wore the long skirts and long sleeves; we put on head scarves, even my figure nails were dyed red with henna, yet despite all our attempts people could still pick us out from a distance. It struck me most when the people behind us started talking about the foreigners. They hadn’t even got a glimpse at our faces, how could they tell we weren’t from around here.

My friend and I started to speculate:

1) Our shoes – no matter how long I live here I will still prefer runners to stiletto pumps. Why any woman would try to painfully squish her foot into a high heeled pointy toed shoe is beyond me, yet here everyone does it.

2) Our walk – Westerners are known for walking fast. When we are going somewhere we move with purpose. My teachers are always telling me to slow down when I walk, that we are not in a race ( I think they are scared I will loosen my new knees) Our fast walk not only involves our feet but our hands, we also tend to walk with our heads held high.

3) Our clothing – well yes, it was decent by local standards, it still wasn’t local. My skirt came from Old Navy and was sadly lacking in sparkles and glitter.

Ode to the Sleeper Bus Reprise

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

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

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

Come In, Come In (NOT)

One of the down falls to travelling this year over the vacation was not getting to go visiting like I normally do. It is tradition over the Heyt season to spend the day going from house to house catching up with friends and family and eating more food than you can imagine.
This year we really didn’t have any friends in the city where we were staying, but that didn’t stop us from getting invitations to come in. We met these ladies sitting out on the side walk and actually joined them for a while, after twenty minutes of chatting they invited us over to their home. We sat for a little while drinking tea and eating from their full table before politely leaving. However they followed us out of the house and down the street, all the time insisting that we go to the second woman's house. Later that day a woman was walking down the road beside us, guiding her elderly mother. We nodded politely as we passed and said hello. Immediately there was an invitation to join them in their home. They weren't even at home yet, and seemed to be going the opposite direction from where their home was, but they invited us in none the less.

This is pretty normal. My teacher and I will often walk home from class together, as we are walking she will expand on how busy she is and how she is headed straight to the store. Yet when we pass in front of her building she feels obliged to invite me in. The funniest is when she extends the invitation as she continues to walk right by her house on the way to the market. Uyghur culture demands that they invite others in, but a lot of the time they don't really mean it. The other day some of my expat friends and I were sitting around sharing some of the insights we've gleaned over the years as to when it is a really an invite and when it is just lip service.

A Time to Dance

Uyghurs have an intriguing dance called the Sama. It’s a dance for men only, and it’s danced only during special occasions, like a wedding or a holiday.

The Muslim month of fasting called Ramadan ended last week with a holiday called Roza Heyt. After the usual morning prayers were finished, everyone eats a big breakfast. If they’ve been fasting, this is the first breakfast after sunrise that they’ve had in a month. Following breakfast, a large crowd gathered in front of the countries largest mosque for music and dancing. The musicians sat on the roof of the mosque as their instruments played out a lively tune. At first everyone just gathered in a circle waiting anxiously for the dance to begin. The young boys called out “Sama, Sama” and occasionally one or two men would start to dance in the center. Before we knew it a kind of free-for-all Sama started taking shape, with men swirling around in a circle, some intent on dancing, others just passing the time of day, all surrounded by a huge crowd of Uyghurs, and interested on lookers. This year I was one of the many watching this fascinating scene.

Where’s Waldo

Can you find the foreigner in this picture of the crowd at the bus station the day we were finally able to buy our tickets to head south. The push of the people was unbelievable. I stood in line for over two hours being knocked, pushed, bumped, hit, squished, crushed, crowded, and shoved. In North America the concept of lining up has so firmly been embedded in us since we were children. I remember being in elementary school and yelling when some one “cut” in front. But here the name of the game is cut off as many people as you can and get to the front of the line as fast as possible.

Half way through the wait, while I was in the thick of the crowd I started to have an emotional break down. My feet and back were aching from the number of times I had been crushed and jostled by the hoard of people. The closer I got to the front of the line the more I felt like cattle being herded. Whenever the lines were no longer visible the security guard would push his way though with a stick that let off shocks to those who got in his way. It was an inhuman experience. I seemed to be the only person out of several hundred of us cramped in this small area that realized how wrong the whole process was. Oh there I am, looking hot, tried, and completely worn.

You’re Only a Day Away

My roommate and I are headed south over our week off from school. We have decided to take the sleeper bus because it is cheaper, and she has never had the privilege of such a ride.

Our original plan was to leave tonight, but since I am able to write this post, it is obvious I am not riding through the middle of the desert on a 24 hour excursion. I knew that train tickets go on sale ten days in advance, but I wasn’t sure about when I could start buying bus ones. I knew it was the holiday week and a lot of students would be traveling back to their home towns, so I figured it would be wise to try to buy our bunks early, before they were all sold out.

I mentioned to my tutor on Wednesday that I was heading over there after class, but he suggested waiting until tomorrow. The next morning I got up and headed to the bus station first thing in the morning, only to have the lady at the counter tell me “come back tomorrow”

Friday morning after class, I toted my heavy book bag, once again down to the station and stood in line. While you wait in line at these places, there are always guys with private cars trying to broker some sort of back door deal. I normally try to pretend I don’t speak any local language until I get to the counter. However, even after waiting 25minutes the response from the sales lady was “tomorrow”

Since I had learned that buses leave for our destination ever forty minutes, we decided that today we would just head over in the evening, about the time we wanted to leave, with our bags packed and ready to go. The crowds were crazy outside, and inside we learned that they were already sold out for the day. The lady said we could always try again tomorrow.

“Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, goes by a dismal pace”

What are You Afraid of???

I was over at one of my Uyghur friend’s homes tonight. This girl has just recently moved into an apartment on her own. When I heard she was living by herself my natural first question was “Are you scared?” I have lived in several places on my own out here, and each time my local friends learn that I am alone, they always ask if I am scared.

I normally answer the question with the amusing antidote of how my old shower use to sound just like a cell phone when it got hot, and how my first night I was sure there was a stranger in my house. I didn’t sleep well that night, as I listened to every bump in the night and tried to convince myself it wasn't an intruder.

My friend tonight admitted to being afraid too, but not of someone breaking in. She is scared of evil spirits or ghosts. She started to tell me of all the things she does, or has heard of to do to protect yourself from evil spirits. She places a Koran at the entry way of her bedroom, she has a knife under her bed. She said that one of her friends suggested that she spit in all of the corners of her house. She went on to share several other seemingly useless sounding rituals for protection. It surprised me because this girl is very educated (she is looking into doing her Phd in America) she is also very modern and trendy, and yet she believes these tales, and has actually tried a number of them.

She wisely summed up our fears by saying “I was afraid of things I could see, and she was scared of what she could not see”. This of course led to a very interesting discussion. So what about you? What are you afraid of?

Depth of Human Pain

Today on my walk around town I couldn’t help but take notice of all the beggars. I know that this is not a situation unique to this city, or even to Central Asia in general but I was struck afresh with how they go about it.

First you have your beggars who sit on the street corners or stairs with their faces covered; you can’t really tell why they are there until you see their hand come out as you walk by. Many people ( even locals) are skeptical of these type of beggars, often questioning the persons laziness at resorting to looking for handouts on the street. Second are the ones who are trying to give back as they beg, many of these folks have brought along an old instrument of some sort and are playing music hoping that people will toss them some small change for their trouble.

Finally there are those who feel the need to explain why they are begging. These people will often have a typed out copy of the tragedy that has befallen their family. They sit beside the message board ( in both languages) and let people read it and accept money out of sympathy for their situation. Today on my way I took the time to read some of these stories. They really are heart breaking. Some people are trying to raise money so that their children can have an operation they desperately need, others have been burned or deformed in an accident that prevents the father from making money to feed his family of five. Often people have pictures to accompany their stories, pictures of infectious skin disorders, or physical deformities, one guy had his lung x-ray out on the street for all to see, one family even had a collection of doctor's notes and official hospital documentation (all stamped with a red stamp, of course) stating what was wrong.

I have learned over the years that I have been here to keep my small change. Anything that is less than one local dollar gets shoved into the front pocket of my purse. This gives me easy access to reach for a few coins whenever I pass one of these sick souls lying on the side of the street. But these few coins seem so little compared to the depth of human pain.

A Successful 24 Hours

To fully understand and appreciate all that I am about to tell you, you would have to live here, but since most of you don’t let me just remind you that sometimes the simplest task can take forever. Anything official here requires a red stamp of approval., and some times not just one, but one from every office along the way. A lot of time can be spent in offices waiting or proving that you should get a document stamped.

Yet despite how slow things can go, my new roommate and I have had a successful 24 hours. We were able to check her out of dorm and get a full refund of her deposit ( this took going to four different offices, one of which we have secretly nick named the evil office). We also got registered at our new apartment. I had gone to the police station to register myself weeks ago, but when I brought in a roommate, they made us both do it all again. I have lived here for almost four years, but have never had an official blue card with a red stamp, since I have always lived in dorm I was saved some of the headache of registering. Thankfully the guys in the office we have to deal with all are Uyghur. They thought it was CUTE that we could speak their language, one of them is even good friends with my landlord. Like in most parts of the world it is all about who you know, and it never hurts to name drop. The only frustrating part of the police station was the fat,balding, leader guy who made a point of telling me how much he likes Canadian girls… YUCK.

We also found a fax machine that would send internationally so that my roommate could send her sister the paperwork she needs to come and visit. This took us walking up and down our street for over an hour asking at ever second shop and being directed around in circles.

Finally, and best of all, we got our hot water tank installed. Ever since I moved into my new place, I have been showering in cold water. Now we have a nice large hot water tank, and the workers even hooked it up to our bathroom sink, now I can wash my hands in warm water. It took two guys over three and a half hours to install the thing, and I learned along the way that I really need to brush up on my repair/ maintenance vocabulary in the national language. I was really struggling to understand words like pipe and tape. But who cares I have hot water.

It is rare to get that much official stuff done in a week, much less in 24 hours.

Roommate #13

After living alone for almost four years my solitude has been broken, my space has been entered and I have taken in unlucky roommate number 13. I know that living by myself has made me more selfish about both my time and space, so hopefully she will be able to stand me. After 12 other roommates in the past I know it will take work, but I am kind of excited to have someone around the house again.

Amanda had been living in the same dorm building I use to live in here on campus. But after just six months she had had enough. It is one thing that they have been renovating non stop for almost three months, which fills the air with noise and dust, but then last week they came to her dorm and held out a key telling her she had to move right then to a new room. I guess they were ready to start demolishing her room. What they fail to understand is that to us, that is not just a dorm room, it is a home. Amanda had a fridge and oven; she couldn’t just pick up and be out of the space in half an hour. The boss of the building has been pulling more and more tricks of late between over charging me when I moved out, not letting our friends in to visit, and now making her move on a moments notice. So I convinced her to get out of there and join me in my nice new place.

Goodbye to our old dorm building, trust me we will not miss it.

I have so many dorm stories since living there. My favourite was when I still lived at my old school. One day the building manager knocked on my door and asked me if I wanted to be locked in or locked out. When I asked for how long, they said “12 hours”. I guess they weren’t planning on paying someone to sit at the desk during the summer so they needed to lock the front door. At the time I only had a key to my room, not to the whole building , so when they were gone I had my choice of being locked in the building alone with no way out for 12 hours, or locked out and unable to return to my house for 12 hours. Once again they didn’t understand that it was my home. I paid the rent and wanted the freedom to come and go as I pleased. Sometimes dorm life out here has made me want to cry, or scream, or sometimes both at the same time.

Oh well, now both Amanda and I are out of that situation, and I have promised as her new landlord not pull any of the stunts that are so common out here.

The two of us enjoying our new place together

Used Furniture Market

My friend and I went shopping yesterday to buy her a dresser, we decided to save money and go to the used furniture market. This is a fun place to haggle with Uyghur sellers. When I go shopping in such places I normally change into a skirt to look more local, yesterday I went all out and put on my new bright pink and orange atlas dress. I stopped by the store on campus to ask them if they knew if a bus went from the school's back gate anywhere close to the market. They said no, and suggested we wait until they got off work. The lady was convinced I could never find the place on my own. I assured her I had been there before and knew it was near Turmarus restaurant and across from er dao wan road, neither of which she was familiar with ( I guess I know more about this town than they expect).

We arrived with no problems and started looking around. As we neared one man's section he smiled broadly at us as if in greeting and then said in Uyghur “you guys are ugly”. I think he was counting on the fact that we wouldn’t understand a word of what he was saying. But he chose to mess with the wrong girls “Why would you even say something like that?” I challenged back in Uyghur. All of his buddies laughed, instead of making us look stupid, he looked like the fool for greeting paying customers so rudely. After that sort of reception there was no way we were buying from him ( although sadly he had some of the nicer stuff).

Once we had bought our stuff we found a guy who was willing to transport it on a little motorized tricycle with a flat back. He not only had room for our purchases, but also for us. We sat sideways on his bike as he took off speeding though the streets of town. I had to use my toes to grip my sandals and keep them from falling off ( yes the weather warmed up just a little and I am back to my favourite footwear). We had to watch our feet when he took tight corners or other cars came in close beside us. There are no such things as seat belts for this sort of a ride. But thankfully we made it in one piece.

The bike looked a lot like this, but instead of just people it also had our stuff piled on it. This picture is taken in a small town with hardly any traffic on the street, but we were racing though the city streets. Let's just say these things don't come with seat belts, so you have to hang on tight.

The whole day was a great adventure.

Rules for Ramadan

We are now almost half way through the Muslim month of fasting known as Ramadan. During this month followers of Islam world wide abstain from eating everyday from sun up to sun set. It is an interesting time here where I live in Central Asia since the government itself does not believe in Islam and in many ways tries to suppress any religious expression. Students who attend University are not allowed to practice any faith during the duration of their studies, however many of them ignore this rule and still try to live out the faith passed on to them from their families.

For those students who do decide to fast there are many obstacles to over come. There are no restaurants open on campus that early in the morning, and they would get caught trying to leave campus before sunrise. The school also hires other students to rise early in the morning and walk the halls. Their job is the listen at the door ways of each dorm for rustling or any noise that might indicate that someone is breaking the rules. The students who do choose to fast must either awake even earlier, learn to eat in the dark in complete silence, or as most of them do, just choose to skip breakfast and wait until sunset to eat their first meal of the day.

One thing I notice every year at this time is how much the fast is not about fellowship with god, but about letting all your neighbours know how pious and faithful you are. They fast to get noticed. From everything I have read on fasting it seems like it is kind of missing the real point.

Forced into Footwear

Fall is quickly descending upon us, and the warm weather is disappearing before my eyes. I like to hold on to the feeling of summer as long as I can. One easy way to do that is wearing sandals as long as possible. I like to keep them on right into November if I can… Although this year I have already had to put on socks and stuff my feet into shoes, not by choice obviously.

As many of you know most of my friends out here are older Uyghur woman, who are all terrified of the cold. At the slightest breeze they start to bundle up. They are convinced that cold temperatures will negatively affect their joints. Sometimes in the winter people go around with three and four layers of clothing.

I, however hate being hot. I would prefer to get a little chilly running to class for ten minutes, but able to sit comfortable for the four hours in the classroom, than ward off the cold outside but sweat to death inside. Everyday my teachers and friends tell me to wear more layers or thicker clothing.

I have still been running around in my summer sandals even though the temperature is starting to dip. One of my friends Patigule (72) would shake her head in disgust at me every time I went to her house. It got that I felt bad going to visit her because I knew she would disapprove of my footwear choice. She then got all of our neighbours on my case when we were sitting outside talking the other day. One lady even suggested that is why I have arthritis and why I needed to have my knees replaced.

So in order to keep my whole neighbourhood from knocking down my door and forcefully stuffing my feet into wool socks, I have had to rush the seasons myself. My feet are not happy. I have blisters on both ankles to prove their contempt for their early confinement, but at least my neighbours are happy ( they all think I have finally wised up). Peer pressure, ugh.

Garlic and Watermelon Anyone?

It was basically four years ago that I first came out here to live. Somewhere in the midst of it, life out here began to feel normal. As much as I have gotten use to things, I am sometimes reminded of how far removed they are from daily life in Canada. So for your sake I took my camera out on a walk with me and caught a glimpse of the everyday activities that I often take for granted, but thought you all might get a bit of a laugh out of. All of these were shot right in my new neighbourhood, not more than two minutes from my front door.

Garlic and watermelons are sold on the side of the street in huge piles, you can smell the garlic filling the air even before you turn the corner.

Red peppers drying out on a clothesline

Chickens, are our closest neighbours, these guys are right out under my bedroom window. Sadly to say the rooster died just shortly after I moved in here ( I swear I had no hand in his death, even if there were a few mornings that I did wish for it).

A recycling run. This couple would have spent their morning digging though the garbage house ( now there is something I should have taken a picture of) picking out anything that they can get a little money back for.

Young soldiers (freshmen) in training, another sign that the new school year has started.

Twins on the Town

It is considered a horrific embarrassment in North America for a woman to arrive at an event only to discover someone else is wearing her same outfit. We value our individuality and how it is expressed in our clothing.

Here the values are very different and much more communal. It is considered a wonderful expression of friendship for ladies to dress alike. They will walk around town or attend a wedding walking arm in arm with a close friend who has on the same dress.

In the past I have gone sweater shopping with some of my Uyghur friends so that we could express our friendship in this way. This week one of my American friends and I went shopping at the fabric market and both fell in love with the same bright red, orange, pink, black and white ( I really do like it, I think my tastes change the longer I am here) material and both wanted to make it into a dress. Thanks to the culture out here we could. Here we come, Fashion fabulous twins on the town.

School Start up Struggles

In my last post I mentioned having to put my fight face on, but I failed to mention what the issue was. Simply put: School. We started classes today, which meant last week I was in the office several times trying to register.

I have only studied Uyghur for four semesters, but that currently makes me at the highest level at our school. The school refused to open a class just for me and said I could either join the first year students, or “just go to another school”(this was said with a whole lot of attitude). Since I have already paid my tuition and gone through the police to get a visa for this semester, it is unwise and next to impossible to change schools. I also really like my school (most of the time). Instead I tried to encourage them to help me find a solution. They just kept insisting that this semester they were only going to offer one Uyghur class for all the foreigners no matter what level they were at.

My friend then suggested to me that maybe I could study with the local students who are in the Uyghur major. Thankfully the school agreed, although they never did call me back with my class schedule.

So this morning school was set to start at 7:30 am. I met my teacher and she took me to the local student’s registration office. She thought that the third year class would be the most suited to my level, but sadly those students are away for seven weeks on their practicum. So I decided to push myself and join the fourth year students. After writing down the times and room number, my teacher even walked me to the classroom (since we were now running late) and introduced me and my situation to the professor. It was a good class and I thought it would be a good semester.

But… the moment the bell rang , my teacher called to tell me to come back to the foreign students registration office, that new students had arrived today, and that they are now going to open a higher level class ( which is funny and extremely aggravating if you had heard how firmly they had insisted just three days ago, that they would under no circumstances be opening another class).

My new classmates are still more than a year behind me in their studies, but I am no longer allowed to study with the local students since they have opened this new class.

Okay quick recap of what the school told me:
- No class for you
- Go to another school
- This year we are only offering ONE Uyghur class, if you're not happy, go to another school
- Yes you can study with the local students
- No you can’t study with the local students
- We have opened a second Uyghur class

All this in less than a week, no wonder I often have to remind myself that I am attending the top University in the province.

Get Your Fight Face On

Some days it feels like everything out here takes work, that a person has to fight with everyone for anything. We often call it getting your fight face on. When you have to bargain hard, or push your way through. It takes fight. My friends and I have always valued running interference for each other. That means when approaching a task that we know is going to take a lot of fight we always try to go in groups of two. Even if the second person doesn’t have much language skills yet, they can stand behind you shaking their head and scowling with the fight face in place. It seems that is the only way to be successful. This week I had a cultural eureka moment. It was like a light bulb went on in my head. A girl was telling me the majority people group out here values strength and determination. When you are ready to put up a fight for your rights you are demonstrating both of these characteristics and therefore are more likely to be successful at your task.
Even though I have had to put on my fight face hundreds of times since living out here I am still not very good at it. I feel bad being so mean. In fact this week I even went back and apologized to a woman for my behaviour ( this was before my cultural discovery, and is completely unheard of in this culture, but I wanted to maintain a good relationship with her office) after which the woman saw me as weak and tried to bulldoze over me the rest of the week. I need to toughen up to live in a culture where meanness is applauded. In Canada we are known for being polite people who say sorry all the time, but that sort of attitude doesn’t always cut it out here.

The struggle comes in being culturally appropriate and standing firm, while trying to show love and kindness to my neighbours. To me wearing my fight face is not a good way to make friends.

Marvellously Made up Mug Shot

For those of you who are regular readers of my blog, you will know that just a few months ago I was vigorously complaining about the horrible passport photos I had taken. If I could have, I should have waited until I got back here… here mug shots are doctored at the photo place.

Yesterday I accompanied one of my friends to the police station to act as her translator. After waiting 20 minutes our number was called and we hurried to the desk. We had double and tripled checked that she had all the paperwork she needed to apply for her new visa, but the police officer took one glance at the application and announced that we had the wrong type of picture. Attached to her application was the standard identification picture with its bright red backdrop. Apparently now you need a picture with a white background and a thin black line framing the picture. I had to work to fight down the aggravation that was rising in me. It is such dumb rule… but it is their country and we are the foreigners asking for the right to live here, so we have to follow their rules, and break though their red tape. Meekly I asked where we could get the right pictures taken, and we left the office.

Once on the street we found the picture place and my friend poised for her mug shot. The woman then loaded the picture into photo shop and started to work her magic. First she tamed down the hair, by getting rid of all the fly away pieces, then she erased all facial blemishes or marks until my freckled friend had a perfectly clear complexion. Next she eliminated the shine on her skin created by the flash. They even lightened the colouring. Her picture went from a mug shot to a beauty pageant photo in five minutes.

Thankfully, while this new shot looked less like my friend than the first one, it had the right back ground allowed us to submit her application with no further problems.

Priorities

As I was growing up my parents always told me that what they wanted for Christmas, their birthday, or whatever occasion was my love and continued hard work in school. They looked at my dedication to my studies as a gift to them. It was a little hard since I couldn’t put a bow on it, but that is what they wanted. They valued my studying and made it a family priority.

I have been seeing how much more that is true out here. The Uyghur people, at least here in the city, value learning English and studying hard. This priority trumps a lot of things in their daily hierarchy.

Two of my teachers have been over in the last few days and serve as perfect examples. One lady is seven and a half months pregnant with their first child. They have been planning for this baby for a long time. Most Uyghur families have their first child within their first year and a half of marriage, this couple though has been married for almost six years and is only now expecting. Both are thrilled at the prospect of having a baby ( not to mentioned the excitement of their extended family, who were beginning to doubt it would ever happen). Her husband, however, has just been offered to go to Australia and study for at least six months. Granted it is a great privilege, and a wonderful opportunity for his language skills, so much so that they have decided he should go. So their first child will be born, and then a month later he will leave. I have an America friend who is engaged and when she heard about this set up she said “I would knock Jonny’s head off if he ever even suggested leaving me alone with our first child”. She might value study, but not at the expense of family.

My other teacher stopped by to see my new place. When she saw I had an empty spare room, she asked if she could move in with me. The question was half in jest half sincere. She even went as far as so ask what I would charge her for rent. This woman is married, with a teenage son, but living and learning from me took higher priority.

I think both of these visits really weirded me out since Uyghurs normally seem to put such a high value on family.

Honk if you Love Driving

The other day I heard my friend’s insightful take on the ‘rules of the road’ out here. After six months of observation he could sum it all up pretty simply. “If you honk your horn loud enough and long enough you can do anything, and go anywhere you want to.” Who needs drivers-ed, or a drivers handbook for that matter, just practice laying your hand down hard on the horn. If you want to drive backwards down the street, just honk. If you want to pass full speed in the on coming traffic lane, just honk. If you want to cut off three cars and a bus, just honk. If you are trying to make a left hand turn on a red light, just honk. The best part is that this rule also applies to cars on the sidewalk.

My Fifteen Minutes

In the past few weeks I have been in three TV commercials/news blurbs, it is not quite the Uyghur movie star exposure that I am aiming for, but it is a start at fame. Actually since living out here I have had more than my fair share of camera time. Counting these three new commercials I have taped seven things ( a two part English interview, two childrens programs and now these commercials). The commercials were all for a foreign run restaurant. The owner wanted as many westerners present when he filmed it as possible, so that it would look like an exciting happening place. The TV spokesperson then wanted to speak to as many people from as many different countries as they could… I became the token Canadian.

My TV performances have even gotten me recognition once in the past, when a lady at a bus stop in another town said she had watched the English interview I had done. Watch out Central Asian Red Carpet, I am riding my fifteen minutes of fame as far as they will take me.

Let’s Start At the Very Beginning

Some friends and I have decided to study Uyghur over our summer vacation. This couple has studied a related language in the past so they are pretty familiar with the sounds and grammar, but it is still a whole different language. I have studied for two years, but after being home for a few months, I feel like there is so much that I am forgetting, or just missing all together. There are so many words that are practical to daily life, that never get covered in your average textbook. Our school books teach us words that are in the daily reading or dialogue, they may not be words that are useful to day to day life. And so we decided to start at the very beginning, to help fill in the gaps.

We are having their house helper/ cleaning lady work as our language nurturer ( we are using the Greg Thompson language accusation material, that is his terminology not mine). The thought was that this woman has not been scared or tainted by traditional eastern teaching methodology. She is open and we can use her to help craft our world of ‘here and now’ understandable language. Sadly though, she does not read either English or the national language, so she can not read the nurtures handbook to know how to teach the class. We have had to explain it all to her in Uyghur.

On day one I told her, in Uyghur, that the point or phase one was to just listen to the teacher and her pronunciation. That we were not going to say anything for the first 100 hours of class. We were going to show her pictures or items and wanted her to tell us the name or action in one word. We wanted to listen to her say that word and we wanted to play games where she asked us to point to different items or pictures to make sure we were understanding. I asked her if she had any questions, and then we showed her the first picture. The picture was a man pointing at himself. The elicited word should be “I” or “me” or some type of first person reference. But because I had given such a detailed explanation of the whole language learning process in Uyghur, the teacher figured I must already know those words and went off in a totally different direction. In the end we had to subtlety suggest that maybe this picture best represented the word “مەن” . The founder of the program would not approve of our coaching the nurturer on what word to teach us. Oh well, that is summer school for you. But we are finally off and running. So here is your own little Uyghur lesson. Good luck!

Trading Spaces

As many of you may have heard, while I was home in Canada I met a Uyghur man who had a three bedroom apartment for rent right on my university campus. Talk about ‘coincidental’ I took one look at the place and decided to move out of my small 7 ½ foot, by 7 ½ foot dorm room into a nice new place. The apartment is in the prefect location, near the centre of campus and on the first floor.

Just take a look!

Outside my front window

My Living room

My Dining Room

The Kitchen ( the sink and the stove are both out on the balcony)

My bedroom ( there is a spare bedroom too, but it is still a mess from moving)

And my favourite room: the office with floor to ceiling built in bookshelves on both sides of the window.

Flash back to 1984

Over the last few days Canada has felt like it is a part of another universe, one that is far far away. I am reminded again how special a person’s rights to privacy or freedom to come and go as they please are. We tend to take these things for granted in the west. Since my return is still relatively recent I still figure I am due these privileges. But this past week has reminded me that they are just that, privileges. A different culture or a different country can not guarantee the same freedoms or way of life.

I have had to pull out my passport more in the last few days than ever in my life. Twice yesterday just to come on to my university campus, I was stopped at the front gate, by a man with a red arm band asking me to prove that I am a student of the school, or that I have a reason to be on campus. This has never happened in the four years I have lived here. But the man was serious, unless I could prove that I attended the school they were not going to allow me to return to my home.

Also the city has hired a whole new workforce to man the buses. Previously each bus just had a driver, now a second person has been hired to sit in the front seat and check everyone's bags as they get on the bus. We are all expected to stop at the top of the stairs and open up our purses, backpacks or shopping bags so that the man with the arm band can glance at what you are bringing on the bus. It is actually kind of funny since so many people use the bus system, the single person assigned the task of looking in bags on each bus doesn’t really have time to do a through search of everyone’s belongings. So they give a casual nod in your direction after you have undone the zipper or snaps. To top it off there are also desks set up at every bus stop with another attendant whose job it is to monitor who is getting on and off the bus.

Everywhere I go someone is watching.

Big Bottoms

We made a rather odd discovery about sheep on our trip last week. Sheep here have externally large bums. When six people have nothing to do for hours on the train, it is surprising how much conversation can be filled by speculating on sheep butts. Why are they bigger in this part of the world than anywhere else? How did they get to be that size? Is it genetic? Are they engendered that way? Is it natural selection or breeding? Is it their diet? Do they all naturally waddle when they walk, or is that a learned skill? The questions just go on and on. Well we reached no definite conclusions, I think it is wise to warn you if you ever come out for a visit to steer clear of the back ends of sheep.


I will say this for big sheep bums, they taste great Barbecued and served as kabobs.

Snowball Fight in July

On our trip we took a bus up to a small city in the mountains. We were at about 15 000 feet with mountains stretching another 10 000 feet above us. The view was breath taking. I was also a little cold. It had rained all day on our way up, when we came down the mountain we saw many places that were covered in snow. We stopped to enjoy the view and take a few pictures. As I was talking to an older Tajik farmer, who was out with his 200 grazing sheep, one of my friends threw the first fist full of snow. This meant war. Both the Tajik farmer and our driver thought we had gone a little crazy, but really how often do you get to have a snow ball fight 14km from the Tajikistan border with a Tajik farmer, a Uyghur driver, five Americans and one Canadian in the middle of July at the base of one of the world's tallest mountains. Let's just say it was a first for me. What started out as a fair fight quickly digressed to all against one guy.

I commented to our farmer friend how fortunate he was to live in the mountains and be able to go walking with his sheep everyday amongst such magnificent peeks. He responded by saying "All of you foreigners think it is so pretty here, but really I think your home town is lovely" Lovely really? A clear sight of downtown Detroit has nothing on these snow caped heights.

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.