Ode to the Sleeper Bus – The Continuing Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

Village Dreams

Growing up I always thought I had been born in the wrong century. I wanted to be one of the girls on “Little House on the Prairie”. I wanted to live the idyllic country life. The only problem was I was viewing it with city girl eyes.

When my friend and I were in the country side visiting my sand doctor I realized that as quaint as it may be, I really value running water. I don’t like having to go out behind the shed and squat over a hole in order to go. When it is dark you can barely see where you are walking, I am always scared I will trip over a stone and land in the hole instead (gross). After you're done you were suppose to wash your hands in the stream that ran behind the property. The only problem is I couldn’t bend down that far.

I learned that wet ones may be a city thing, but they are a great thing to bring with you to the country. I came home with a new appreciation for a toilet you can sit on and an easy to reach sink. I learned that I have been spoiled by my modern city conveniences, and that I will never get to live my village dream. I also learned that I am totally grateful to not be Laura Ingles .

Cure for Arthritis

I don’t know if I have ever mentioned it before, but the province where I live has natural resources that can cure Arthritis. A pretty amazing coincidence considering that is what plagues me. When I moved here six years ago the first question people always asked me was “have you been to sit in the sand?” Apparently if you sit in the surrounding dessert sand for long enough your pain will vanish and your mobility will be restored.

While I have been to the city where these magical desert sands are located many times, I have never sought out this amazing treatment. Which has lead to loosing a lot of face in front of my neighbours (loosing face is the Asian way of expressing shame). To have to spend the last six years always answering “No, I have never tried it”, is very shameful. To them it sounds like I don’t believe in their cures, or that I don’t trust what they say.

So last week I took a few days off of my busy schedule to find lasting pain relief. My friends and I decided to stay in the official Sand sanatorium, where they have doctors and nurses on sight. The staff checked out my heart and blood pressure to make sure I was physically up to the heat. They also evaluated my arthritis and flexibility. The doctor was pleased to announce that there was hope for me. He said the sand could really cure me of my arthritis. I would just need to sit in the burning hot sand three times a day, every day for three months in the summer, every summer for the next 5 or 6 years. It is just a little time commitment.

When I asked the doctor if there was any point in my starting right now during the few days I had taken off of work. (I asked more for the photo opp of being able to show the picture to local friends and get points for having tired it, and to post it for all of you). But the doctor said it didn’t work. The sand is so hot you have to let your body get accustom to it. The first two days are spent just sitting on the sand for ten minutes at a time. It would take me weeks to get in as deep as this person and have my shoulders healed.

Directions in a Small Town

I just got back from a trip to a small village about three hours from my home. I went with one of my Uyghur friends. Neither of us had ever been to this place before, so we weren’t really sure where we were heading. We found a vehicle heading that direction and got in, the driver himself was not totally sure, but we got in the car trusting that we were heading in the general direction. A few km up the road, another passenger hailed the car and jumped in with us. The driver asked this woman if she knew where to find the place we wanted. She started giving him directions that would only work in the country side.

“You know where Hajji Akmet lives? Two lanes over from him is Hajji Gulsidem. You know her house has the blue door. Right at the end of her property is the creek and that is close to where they are going.”

It was such a simple interaction, but it spoke volumes to the cultural value of the people. Akmet and Gulsidem are known throughout the community for their piousness. Both of them have gone to Mecca as a response to one of the five pillars of Islam. This makes them well known in the community. Even their homes have become geographical landmarks, right up there with the creek (considering the village was on the edge of a large desert I would have thought the mention of water was all the direction you needed). I couldn't help but notice how she assumed that the driver would know Akmet ( a man)’s house without any detail, but felt compelled to describe the equally religious Gulsidem ( a women) by the colour of her front door.

I tried to catch my friend’s eye to see if she found these directions as interesting as I did, but being Uyghur from a small town herself she didn’t even blink. As we walked around the village over the next two days I realized how hard it was to tell one lane apart from another. I began to realize that blue doors, and religious people were not just important to the spiritual life of the community, they really were the only way to find your way around.

The Hotter the Summer...

Summer is finally here. Temperatures are up at 37 degrees and Muslim women stay fully covered from head to foot.
The men on the other hand like to pull their shirts up under their armpits and let the the breeze blow on their expanding stomachs. You can tell how hot it is on a given day based on how high many hike up their shirts. The hotter the summer, the more exposed belly.
Thanks to my friends for posing for this photo, I still haven't got up the nerve to take a picture of men sitting around showing off his tummy. I am to scared that he will think I am hitting on him to even dare asking. But it is a common summer sight.

Tactile Curiosity on the Bus

Crowded buses are not an abnormal occurrence around here. I have had my nose almost in men’s armpits, purses pushing into my bottom, high heels stepping on my foot and a million other things that break North American space and comfort issues. But they are also a great opportunity for me to express a strange fetish of mine. I have a severe case of tactile curiosity, I have to know what a material feels like, I have to touch it! I have positioned myself behind people wearing soft fuzzy sweaters, or fur collars on their coats, so that when the bus jerks I have the opportunity to bump into the person in front of me and touch or brush at the softness.

Radom Acts of Kindness

Saturday was my roommates birthday. Our present might have been rather unusual, but it was a lot of fun for all the friends who joined her in celebrating. In her card we wrote:

Happy 35th Birthday, Roommate! Instead of giving you a gift, we want to give you the opportunity to perform 35 random acts of kindness because we know that blessing others is what really brings you joy. All of these must be completed by the end of the day. We are including everything you’ll need to complete the tasks. Happy birthday, we love you!

Help 1 person make lunch.

Tell 2 jokes that make people laugh
Help 3 people hand out fliers on the street
Fix 4 things
Help 5 people get their pictures on Jess and Rachel’s wall
Provide entertainment for 6 yellow armband people on the bus
Write 7 notes of encouragement
Hold 8 babies
Help 9 elderly people
Give 10 kids toys
Pick 11 things up for people
Buy a refreshing beverage for 12 people
Take 13 pictures with people to print out and give to them later
Hand out 14 flowers
Give up your seat on the bus for 15 people
Tell 16 people that you love them
Say welcome to 17 people as they enter the store
Leave 18 local currency around town for other people to find
Clear 19 dishes off tables
Collect 20 bottles to give to the recycle lady
Give 21 local currency to beggars
Feed 22 fish
Give 23 hugs
Give 24 popsicles to troops, police, or other public servants
Pay the bus fare for 25 people
Tell 26 memories of people in the group
Bake 27 cookies to give away
Water 28 plants
Pick up 29 pieces of garbage
Teach 30 new English words
Read 31 pages of a book to the neighborhood kids
Tell 32 girls that they are beautiful
Give 33 pieces of fruit to kids as they come out of school
Say “hello” to 34 people
Watch 35 minutes of your favorite show

If you think our gift was unique, you should have seen some of the things her local friends gave her. We still don't know what to feed the salamanders, or whether one thing is a scarf, a night shirt or an outfit. But that my friends is another post for another day.

Land Flowing with Milk and Honey

I don't know how many of you remember the movie an American Tale, the one where the mouse and his family is moving from Russia to America. To them America was a land filled with promise and possibility, and potential because "there are no cats in America, and the streets are paved with cheese".

Many Uyghurs look at moving going abroad as that same bright hope. As they sit around and compare stories of how great it would be, the reality is often blurred by a dream. I have had many people ask me questions concerning what they have heard about life in North America. Some of them are still accurate "is it true that you can go to the doctor for free in Canada?" Although I do make sure to remind them that health care is paid for out of taxes and such, so really everyone pays for it.

The other day I had a woman ask "is it true that in Canada you have two taps in your kitchen, one with drinkable water and the other with milk?" 'Wow', I thought, 'where did this rumor start?' These people really are looking for a promised land, a place flowing with milk and honey. Sadly those who end up in the west often find it doesn't live up to their dreams. The roads in America, like everywhere else are made of cement, and there are still a lot of cats running around.

Second Hand Clothes

I have lived here for almost six years and I just found the local thrift store the other day. Actually I was really surprised that we even have a second hand clothing store in town, for several reasons.

Recently I had a post explaining how the entire outfit I was wearing was either, tired, sewed or glued in place. The quality tends to be so poor that most clothes don't last long enough to make it to hand-me-down status.

I have heard of Uyghur families threatening their children that if they don't behave they will force them to wear second hand clothing.

When my roommate and I were studying at the University last year we had the habit (like most young women) of borrowing each other's clothes and mixing and matching our outfits. One of our Uyghur teachers was totally insulted by this practice. She told us when you wear someone else's clothes, you actually take their sin upon yourself.

My friend's mother died suddenly last month and she said she was wearing her mom's old clothes but she didn't want to give them away to anyone else because Muslims believe that if you wear a dead persons clothing you must pray for them each time you put them on. She is afraid that other people will forget to say the prayers and her mother will not be able to rest.

Despite all these reasons against thrift stores I found one with some great stuff. The funniest thing is that used clothing stores have the same smell whether in Canada or here.

Painted Trees

Every year the beginning of spring is marked by the painting of the trees. The bottom meter or so of every tree in town is painted white. I have asked several friends over the years what the purpose of this is. I think I now have more answers than there are trees. Some friends have said, "it is to look pretty" or "freshen us the city". Others says it is good for the trees and "keeps bugs from eating them". One person tole me it was so drivers could see the side of the road at night.

My personal guess is that it is similar to boondoggling of the 20's and 30's. Nothing more than a make work project. Spring means there is no more snow for the street keeping civil servants to shovel, so instead the government hands them paint brushes and tells them to go to work.

Rechargeable Batteries

My friends and I wanted to take some pictures, only I realized that my camera was sadly out of batteries. Locally purchased batteries don't tend to last as long, but I had just changed them the week before, so I was disappointed that they had died so quickly.

"No problem" said one girl "just rub them in your hair".

"Yea the oil in your hair makes them work" said the other girl.

"No, it's the static electricity"

I thought they were both crazy, I didn't know how the oil or my dry fly away hair was going to recharge anything. But the amazing thing was that it worked. We were able to take several pictures.

It's Back!!!!!!!!

The Internet is back!

With just the click of a button I can look-up anything, answer any question, talk to my friends, read and write emails, check out my friend's blogs, scan the latest news, sports, and weather, chat on skype and so forth. It is so amazing.

It is also a little overwhelming, after 10 months with no regular internet access, I didn't even remember what some of my old favorite sites where.

My friends and I were talking this morning about how we have a unique opportunity to start afresh. North Americans, in general are so use to being connected to the world-wide web. Wire-less at home, the office, and even in coffee shops. Most phones are also able to connect. The amount of time people spend on-line is mind boggling. I know before we lost our connection I was on almost an hour to an hour and a half a day. That worked out to 7-10 hours a week, when I look at my schedule now I don't know where I ever found the time.

The last ten months was like going cold turkey from any sort of internet addiction we might of had. Now it's back and we get to try to balance staying connected with the outside world with all that is going on here.

The next few posts are still going to be coming to you from the past as mom catches up with the ones my computer sent her while it was on vacation, and I take a couple of weeks adjusting to this new life in the loop, and getting in touch with friends.

Computer on Vacation

In order to get this latest set of blog posts sent out, I actually sent my computer on vacation without me. One of my friends was leaving our area for a week, so I talked her into taking my computer and hooking it up to the Internet so that it can have all its virus software updated, and send and receive the last three months worth of e-mails.

I hope my computer has a good time, I hear the weather there is beautiful this time of year.

Local Quality

Sometimes I bring clothes back with me from home, or my mom mails me a nice outfit, while these things last a long time and look great, they never totally look Uyghur. The best way to look local and fit in is to wear clothes purchased here. It also means you have to put up with local level quality. Today my socks are mended (twice), my purse and my jeans are superglued together and my boots are tied by a string. Despite all that my friends think I look great.

No Solution

In North American culture we are taught from childhood "no pain, no gain", "if at first you don't succeed try, try, again", or "where there's a will there's a way". All of these slogans encourage us to "be all that we can be". These are not the phrases that Uyghur children are taught. Instead people tell them over and over that there is "no solution".

It is a very defeatist attitude. Everything is viewed as to hard to even bother trying.

After running the gauntlet of visa offices for over a month, and hitting road blocks at every step I can understand why people who have been raised to think there is no hope give up before they on till the end.

I got my passport back in hand with a 50 week long visa pasted in it April 1st (no joke). So the celebration can begin.

Visa Saga Part Seven - Not Done Yet

Monday morning, my first day in over a month that I don't have to run on any visa related tasks. I plan to sleep-in and then study for a little bit.

8:30 a.m. - the phone rings. It is the city police telling me that while my health check is officially still valid for another 2 months I am applying for a yearlong visa, and therefore the overlapping time is not sufficient I will need to get a new health check before they can finish processing my visa.

I quickly get dressed and head up to the travel medical centre (more than an hour long bus ride from my home). In order to register I need to have a copy of my passport. I explain that I don't have my passport sine it is in being processed at the city police. No passport copy, no medical check. I know I have a scanned copy saved on my computer at home, so I jump on the bus and head back across town.

In the afternoon I try again, back on the bus, back up north, back to the travel medical centre (which i find out is sadly only open in the morning) and back on the bus home. That means I spent a total of almost five hours on a city bus and have nothing to show for it in other words I have accomplished nothing.

Tuesday morning with passport copy in hand I try again. This time successfully. Blood work, urine, EKG, ultra sound, chest x-ray, blood pressure, height, weight, eyes, ears, mouth and nose all checked and done within the hour. The results would be finished and ready for pick up Wednesday afternoon.

I got it turned in on Thursday morning. I hope I'm finished, but I am holding off the celebration until my passport is safely back in my hand with a yearlong visa pasted in it.

Visa Saga Part Six - I'm Not an American Male

When I woke up this morning I realized that March 21 (the day my paper work is due) is a Sunday. That means I don't really have seven days, I only have five. I need to get the paper work in by Friday morning. It is time to come up with a 'Plan B'.

Monday morning I call whoever this guy is, (it takes about four tries before I get a hold of him), he suggest that I go up to the city police and see if they can grant me an extension until this woman is back from her vacation. The hour bus ride up to the city police turns out to be fruitless, since she can't do anything without a stamped paper from the district level office. She makes a few calls on my behalf and tells me that Wednesday afternoon after the political meeting the woman will be back in her office for an hour or so.

Tuesday I went with my friend to her private English school to look into a job. They figure they could get a visa in one day if I needed it. In fact, I could come in as late as Thursday afternoon and be all set. So I promised I would call her Wednesday night when I had news.

I was not the only one who got tipped off that the woman would be in her office for about an hour on Wednesday afternoon, the place was packed with people waiting. I'm still not good at the cultural thing of pushing to the front of the line (I use the word "line" loosely, it is more like a mass of people who push and shove in on one another), therefore I am the last person she serves. When I finally get my letter I stuff it in my bag and go skipping outside, texting all my friends with the good news that I have my paper work finished and with still two days to spare.

That night before going to bed I decided to pull out the letter and gaze at it with gratitude that I was finally finished. BIG PROBLEM - the letter is not mine. I have some American guys name on it. None of the information is mine. She printed a second copy of the guy in front of me as my letter. I'm in trouble. I already told my friends boss that I didn't need the English teaching job, and thanked her for all the help.

I was just about at the end of my rope. My roommate could tell I was about to lose it, so she took over.

"Here is what we are going to do. Tomorrow we are going back to that woman's office, if they tell us she is around, we will try to track down her personal phone number and go to her home if we have to."

Thankfully she was in the building, covering a different job. When I found her and pointed out the mistake she promised to fix it when she had a moment. An hour later I was leaving with a letter with my name on it. We took a taxi straight up to the city police and I got all of my paper work turned in.

7 days -week end - 1 day calling and finding no solution - 1 day interviewing for an English teaching job - 1 day getting some American guys letter - 1 day getting my own letter = getting my letter turned in with only 1 day to spare.

Visa Saga Part Five - Waiting for Vacation to End

Take the above documents to the District Police Station and get their stamp of approval. This is one of the last steps in the process and I am anticipating being done quickly. Monday, however was International Woman"s Day and the lady I needed to see decided to take the day off.

Tuesday morning the office was crowded but at least the woman was working. She too needed to come by the office and inspect it before she could sin off the paper work. She promised to call me sometime between Wednesday morning and Friday afternoon when she was on her way to the office. Since I didn't know when she would come, I planned to sit at the office and just wait for her. I didn't hear from her on Wednesday, the phone didn't again ring on Thursday, by Friday at lunch I was still sitting there by myself. I left the office to grab a quick lunch, and ran into a New Zealand woman who was also working on her visa. She told me that when she went by the District Police Station in the morning there was a notice on the door stating they would be closed until April 5th (two weeks after my 30 days is over).

Seeing is believing so I swung by the office to read the note myself. Sure enough the woman I spent three days waiting for was gone and wouldn't be back until it was too late to help me. One of her work mates was able to give me the phone number of a guy "who might be able to help".

Recap: 14 days - 1 week (7 days) = 7 days

Visa Saga Part Four - Shut Up and Kiss Me

Step three is to register with the local police in charge of the area where your work office is located. I had tried to go to this office while I was waiting for the labor department to move, but was strictly told that I could not process the paper work out of order.

The morning after I got my Alien employment permit I was busy and couldn't make it to the police office until the afternoon. I went in and the officer was just getting up from his desk. "I have a meeting" he said "but you can sit down here and wait for me to get back". I sat on the couch he had motioned to and waited, and waited and waited. After about two hours I realized why his meeting was taking so long. In this country every Wednesday afternoon everyone student, bank worker, police, garbage man, everyone, has to attend political meetings. These often go until four or four thirty in the afternoon. I decided I didn't want to wait around that long, so I headed home.

The next morning I went back to his office first thing in the morning. He told me in order to fill out the needed paperwork he had to come to our office and make sure it was suitable. He had no time to come that day but told me he would by be by around 9 a.m. the next morning. Before I left he held out his hand to shake mine. This always creates a problem for me. In Uyghur culture man and woman who are not family should never touch each other. In fact, one of the ways a man can say he is engaged is that he touched a girl. I never know whether I should follow Uyghur culture and refuse the outstretched hand, or accept the fact that they are mimicking my culture and proceed like it is normal. I figured since he was the police and we were officially in his office that a hand shake seemed like an official way to seal our meeting for the next day (mind you I did wait to put on my gloves first so that our bare hands did not touch).

I went to the office for eight thirty in case he were early. I got the tea on and sat down to wait. Almost two hours later he called to say he was in the lobby and could I come down and meet him. As we were riding back up on the elevator to the 18th floor (our office is on the 17th floor but the elevators in our building only stops on even numbered floors) the police man decided to practice his English, here is what he knows:

"kiss me"

I try to gauge his seriousness without actually looking at his face. I can see his reflection slightly in the number panel above the door (the same panel that sadly tells me we are only on the 6th floor). I laugh nervously "that is what you've studied in English? It is rather rude; you need to find a new teacher."

"Shut up", his vocabulary is improving about as fast as the elevator is creeping upwards.

Once we are in the office I sit down to wait as he snoops around for a few minutes. He finishes rather quickly and comes and sits right beside me on the couch (I am really glad one of our employees is just in the other room). Only then does he tell me he forgot the paperwork in his office and I will have to go back there this afternoon. As he says this he starts hitting my hand in a very playful, very flirty, very very inappropriate way. "You know I could process your paper work faster if you promised to teach me English" by this time I have moved off the couch so he can't swap me again.

In the afternoon I headed to his office armed with a plan. My friend is a teacher at a private English school, (the prices are way above what this guy could afford for private lessons). I went in and introduced her as the best English teacher I know. She gives him her business card, (that only has the schools number on it and no way to contact her personally). We sat on the couch, first she put her coat at one end, then her bag, then she sat down. I sat right next to her. I put my purse on the couch next to me and my coat spreads out to the other end of the couch. The police officer had no choice but to sit on the chair across from us, and fill out my paperwork.

19 days - 3 days spent interacting with the inappropriate police man - a 2 day weekend = 14 days left.

Visa Saga Part Three - Moving Day

On day 24 I went skipping out of my local police office, and decided to head straight for the labor department. The two offices are on the same street just two or three blocks away, very convenient.

As I walked through the labor department door I had to flatten myself against the door frame to allow room for a large desk to be carried out. The desk was followed closely by chairs, tables, and all sorts of furniture headed for trucks parked just outside.

The security guard at the front desk looked at me funny as I headed for the stairs to the third floor. "You can't go up there" he yelled after me. "No one is there".

"When will someone be back in the office to approve alien labor permits?" I ask innocently. Just then I see a cart loaded down with computers also heading for the truck outside and a light goes on in my head.

"We're moving up to the north part of the city. The office will open again in its new location on March lst."

I wisely got the man to write down the address for me as I left the office. "February 24th" I thought to myself "that means they will reopen in four days".

Five days later (I wanted to give them a day to settle in) I got into a taxi handed him the address (I couldn't really read the guys writing, so taking a bus was out of the question). When the guy at the desk told me they were moving up north he meant way up north.

The taxi driver let us off at a bus stop, when I asked him which was the right building he said he had no idea. The paper just listed the name of the bus stop, and nothing more. He drove off and my friends and I looked around in bewilderment, we don't really know this part of town. Thankfully there was a police car parked right there so we asked him for information. The police man pointed left and said "maybe that direction". We walked left for a couple of minutes but didn't see anything like a government building. So we stopped a street sweeping lady who pointed in the opposite direction. Another course adjustment and we headed off a while in her suggested direction. Seeing nothing that looked promising we decided to go into a hotel and ask for help at the front desk. Sadly the hotel staff had no idea either. They at least took the initiative to call information on our behalf. Information, however, is not up-to-date and still gave us the address from last week. The only good news is that they did have a phone number we could call. Thankfully we were still in the general area, our searching only put us off a few blocks.

Once we found the new building we were impressed by the size, however, it looked like they were still in the process of moving in. The door guard told us the office we wanted was on the 5th floor. The people working on the 5th floor told us we needed to talk to someone on the 8th or 9th floor. Neither floor had a reception desk so we randomly started walking into offices and asking whoever we saw. Finally someone told us we needed to go the 10th floor office 11.

The 10th floor was empty. Most offices were nothing more than cement floors, with unpainted walls. Some of them didn't even have doors yet. My friend and I were convinced that no one was even up here. But we counted off offices until we found number 11. There sitting in the corner of an unfinished office at a small wooden desk sat the woman we are searching for. Thankfully she was able to give me my Alien Employment Permit in just five minutes.

24 days - 5 days for their move = 19 days and still three offices to go!

Visa Saga Part Two - Vacation is Not Over Yet

Anytime we enter the country we must call our local police officer and let him know we are back. If you enter on anew visa you must go to his office and have him fill out a new blue residence card. This contact with the police must be made within 24 hours of your return, or you could face fines.

I called our friendly neighborhood policeman while we were in the taxi from the airport to our home. I started out asking about his vacation and was surprised to learn he was still off work. He would be returning to the office in two days. I told him I had a new visa and would therefore need a new blue card, and he told me all that could wait until he got back. So my 30 days had started to tick away while I was sitting at home waiting for his vacation to end.

Two days later I showed up at his office bright and early awaiting his arrival. The officer I was waiting for is a really nice guy and easy to chat with, he was able to fill in my residence card, but I noticed he marked my card ending March 21 (since February has only 28 days - I figured I would have until March 23rd to get it all done). But he is the policeman and what he says goes.

30 days - 2 waiting for vacation to be over - 2 days because February is a short month - 2 days for a weekend = 24 days left and counting.

Visa Saga Part One - Rules of the Game

If you regularly keep up with this blog you will know that back in February I was able to get a work visa while I was out of the country. My friends and I purposely extended our vacation an extra week so that we could arrive back in country after a national holiday was over and civic workers would be back at their desks. The reason behind this was simple; stapled to my new visa in my passport was an important notice that read "The holder of this visa is kindly reminded to go through the procedures for obtaining the residence permit for aliens in local public security bureau within 30 days from the date of entry, to avoid illegal stay."

The procedures for obtaining a residence permit are as follows:

a. Register with the local police in charge of the area where you live (he must fill in your residence cars as well as a letter of verification)

b. Obtain an Alien Employment Permit from the labour department.

c. Register with the local police in charge of the area where your work office is located.

d. Take the above documents to the District Police Station and get their stamp of approval.

e. Drop your passport and above documentations off at the City Police Headquarters in order to get your residence permit.

All of these steps must be done in 30 days or less -- GAME ON!

Texting Is Only for Good Boys and Girls (Jan 28th)

I mentioned that on January 16th we were once again able to send text messages. This fun discovery led my friends and I to have deep text messaging conversations like the following.

Hungry?

Very. Where?

Dumplings?

Good. Bus stop 5 minutes?

C U

We had to keep it short and to the point because even after the texting ban was lifted we were only allowed to send a total of twenty messages a day (believe it or not those can disappear fast). But I guess not everyone was keeping their messaging privileges as pure as we were.

On January 28th (just 12 days later) everyone was sent the following text from the government (rough translation): Some citizens have been caught misusing text messaging and sending inappropriate messages. They have been jailed.

So now I don't know how much hope there really is that soon our area will be technologically back open. I mean if text messaging is only for good girls and boys, internet much be reserved for the perfect.

As Red As a.........

Language learning is an ongoing game. I have mentioned before some of the common mistakes I make in pronouncing Uyghur. Things like; "verb" and "elephant" are only one vowel apart, as are "think" and "house", and "love" and "slaughter". So our teacher likes to laugh when we tell her we "conjugate elephants", have a guest "staying in our thoughts", and that God "slaughters us".

Now a days the challenge is to get deeper into the language. I want to learn how to use idioms and express myself using metaphors and similes that resonate with the culture. To learn how to describe things in a natural Uyghur way.

Today we found out that when Uyghur people get angry, they turn "as red as a lung". When they blush, they turn "as red as a gobbler". It took us two days to remember the English equivalents; sometimes our English atrophies from lack of use. But now I know we beet red when a person is angry. I tried this expression on my teacher, but realized that it fell flat since she had never seen a beet much less eaten one. The comparison was empty to her.

Moreover, Uyghur people don't "get angry"; their "anger comes upon them". They don't "get hungry", they "have an open stomach". Clothing isn't "immodest", it is "open". "Pregnant women" are "two-layered" or "heavy-footed". People who are "generous" are "wide-stomached".

"Putting requirements on a woman" means to propose to her. When your face "turns to the color of a wall", it means you've become pale. To "look to someone's road" means to wait for them.

The Uyghur people give their strongest promise to attend an event by saying "can't not come". (double negatives always threw me for a loop in English). They have the same word for "bitter", "spicy", and "angry". There are two words for jealous--one with a good connotation (like "I'm so jealous of your new car") and one with a bad connotation (I'm jealous of my brother"). They have ten or twenty expression for happiness depending on situation, mood, and accompanying actions.

The heart also plays a key role in the unified language. To have "half a heart" means that you're sad. To "lift someone's heart" means to comfort them. To "put someone's heart on the ground" means to disappoint them.

Picture Perfect

A favorite activity among Uyghur people is going to have pictures taken. This can be an elaborate

affair involving traditional clothing, make-up, hair (often fake), and several hours in a studio. Since we were on school brake some other foreign friends and I decided to take a day to get this done. Here are the results.

Hope

I mentioned a few weeks ago that the government had given me a birthday present by promising to open up communication again in our province. Today we had our first hint that they intend to keep that promise. Today, (January l6th) I got a Text message from my friend.

I know that doesn't sound like a big deal to most of you, but if you are a faithful reader of my blog you will remember that I used to be addicted to texting friends as a short simple means of communication. Since July of last year the government has turned off our ability to send and receive text messages. The only ones we have gotten in the last seven months were text from the government either reminding us to be good citizens, or ones telling us how they have punished people who weren't.

But today's simple text message is like a ray of hope in our world. Today text messaging.... tomorrow international phone calls or Internet?

Coughing, Whistling, Stomping and the Such

The lights in our stairwells are sound sensitive, meaning they come on whenever you make a loud noise. It is the same idea as the 'Clapper" that was popular in the Eighties, It is not just the stairwell in our building, but everyone around the entire country. As you sit in your apartment you can hear different people ascending and descending the stairs using their own unique ways to get the lights to come on. Some people stomp (I find this hard on the knees), others can make a high pitch whistling sound, I personally find coughing/clearing my throat the most effective noise to make to turn the lights on.

The other night as my friend and I were walking home late at night we noticed that many of the street lamps on our block were out. Without even realizing it I started coughing loudly hoping more light would come on. Apparently I an not the only one that has this reaction to darkness. You could hear other pedestrians clapping, whistling, stomping and the such, in hopes of lighting their way home.

Snow a Blessing and a Curse

Over the last two days the city has once again been blanketed in a thick covering of snow. Every snow fall really is a mixture of good and bad, both a curse and a blessing.

The days leading up to a snowfall are often bitterly cold and gloomy. The air is heavy with pollution that sticks to the inside of your lungs, and is so thick you can't see across the street.

The only thing that can solve this problem is falling snow to clear the air. And when it does it is a welcome break......

But then the roads are slick and icy, the bus lanes are slippery, and getting around town seems so much more dangerous.

Not Setting the Price

Around town there are real taxis and fake ones. Real ones are red and come with a meter that clocks the fare as you go. Black ones (actually they can be any colour, we just call them black, like the black market) are just any guy driving his own car who is willing to take pity on you and give you a lift where ever you are going.

I use to stay away from the black taxis because I was convinced the driver was going to try to rip me off and charge me way more than a normal fare should be. When I first started being willing to go in fake taxis I would make sure I had negotiated the price before even getting in the car (and trust me they always seemed to call a higher price the minute they noticed my white skin), but the more I travelled with local friends the more I realized none of them did this. They just get in the car, tell the driver the destination, and when they are getting out give him the amount that everyone knows a ride that fare should cost.

I wanted to try it. So I started taking more blacks taxis and just stated my destination as I climbed in. I find that if I just sit there they still end up wanting more money, but if I speak to them in Uyghur and try being all cute and adorable (my friends words not mine) I often get offered the ride for free, or can at least get away with paying less than a regular cab. In fact even when I don't have correct change they will break up my big bill and give me back more money than I expected. This new strategy is not only saving me a lot of money, it is giving me a lot of language practice and keeping me updated on current events (taxi drivers in any culture hear a lot of news and have a lot of gossip to share). The only thing about taking fake cabs is that my marriage proposal rate increases. Taxi drivers are good they can go from "where are you from?" to "will you marry me?" in a ten minute ride or less.

Buying Bruises

My friends and I had a hard week last week and in order to encourage us to complete tasks we were dreading we had set up a reward system. If we got certain tasks finished we were allowed to go for a massage (in hopes of removing some of the tension).

My friend went for the whole body massage, but I have tried that before and the massage therapist spends more time trying to get my legs to move in directions that they can't reach. So I decided to just get a simple back and shoulder massage. When I asked the price they told me something reasonable and then said it was an extra two dollars for something else. They lady was speaking really fast and I didn't really catch what the extra two dollars was for, but I agreed anyway and lay down to relax.

The first thirty minutes were great and I was almost asleep, when it was time for the two dollar extra bonus part of the message. The next thing I felt was this huge suction cup feeling on my back in not one or two places but a total of nineteen places. They take glass jars, light a candle inside them to suck up the oxygen and create a vacuum or sorts before sticking them to your back. The vacuum sucks up the skin and creates big black and blue bruises.

When I realized what they were doing to me, I tried to ask what the purpose of this particular treatment was. The answer was somewhat confusing; it was something about keeping me from getting sick by getting rid of the cold in my body. I didn't have a cold and I didn't feel like I was getting sick, and I really didn't see how bruising me was going to help get over these none existent symptoms.

It was a good cultural experience, but it was a little painful sleeping on my back filled with nineteen bruises all about four centimeters in diameter for the next few days.

Broken Door

The apartment I share with my friend is on the third floor. I know I have told you before about the lack of elevators in the city. Any building that has less than eight floors is not required by law to have an elevator. That means we spend a lot of time climbing stairs. Living on the third floor really isn't too bad, but this past week the door to our stairwell broke. People coming by to visit can no longer ring the bell downstairs to let us know that they have arrived, and we can no longer unlock the door by simply pushing a button. Instead our friends call us on our cell phone and we have to run down three flights of stairs to open the front door. We walk them back up to our apartment, and after they have visited for a couple of hours we should really follow good Uyghur custom and walk them out all the way to the road, (which of course means going back down three flights of stairs again. Up and down, up and down, it really is quit the work out.

Invitation Letter

So I am still trying to get a work visa. I know I have been talking about this for months now (actually I think it has been more than a year already). I have spent the last five months going from one office to the next, collecting red stamps and handing in copies of my passport. I finally got my Invitation Letter that I have to take out of the country to an embassy to apply for the much sought after work visa. This paper said in big bold letters that I had to return to Canada, and I had to have done it by January l0 (only ten days from the time it was in my hand). The story of my life, having to make last minute trips out of the country.

There was a lack of consensus on this date and its meaning. Some other foreigners who have gone before in this process claimed that the date was only an estimated time frame and that I had up to thirty days after that to get it in. Others said I had to not only have left the country before then, but I had to also have come back before that date.

All this confusion and stress was really starting to wear me down, when I finally used someone else's good connection with a government office, to re-issue me a new Invitation Letter with a date that better suited my own personal travel plans. Now that is what I call a real gift from the government.

Governments Gift

My friends aren't the only ones who decided to give me a gift for my birthday. The local government published an article on the one web page our province has had access to for the last seven months saying that they are going to "slowly start to re-open" international communication (ie: Internet and phone calls). I have been asking my friends when they think this slow opening will have us back up and running full throttle. Most people guess it will be at least another six months before we are back to where we were before this summer's situation. While six months still seems like forever without being able to regularly check e-mail, at least we have an update, at least the government has given us some news, some hope, the mention of some sort of plan.

Timmies Run

If you are a Canadian, or if you have ever been to Canada, I don't need to explain how much Timmie Runs are a part of the everyday ebb and flow of life. When I was in college I use to stop in everyday on my way to work or school and grab a large double-double and a sour cream glazed doughnut. There were many days that I would need another pick-me-up half way through the afternoon. I have so many good memories hanging out at Timmies with my friends, and now I can add one more big one to that list.

With the Internet still being off I don't know when you are reading this....but December 28th was my 30th birthday. Sadly the day didn't start the greatest for me (I was still really exhausted from basket delivery the night before. Yes the Christmas season was just so busy we put off playing Santa until two days after Christmas. We figured people here always celebrate their holidays for days after the event and they would never know the difference). This old body could barely make it out to the living room. My roommate unexpectedly had to head into work for the morning, and I couldn't find my favorite Tim Horton's coffee mug anywhere.

As I was laying on the couch trying to recover from the long trip from my bedroom one of my friends called. She was also not feeling well, I guess she had eaten something the day before that had sent her stomach into convolutions (it is funny this girl and I often are affected by the same foods). She was calling to see if I could come over and take care of her. Normally the three minute trip to her house would not be a big deal, but on days when I am moving slow, and the ground is slippery it seems like miles to me. I made apologies that I just wasn't up to it and hoped she felt better soon.

She called me back a few seconds later to tell me that she had been lying and that she was on the road walking towards my house to pick me up and take me back home with her. I have to admit to being a little mad, I mean if she had a birthday surprise that was worth lying to me for, why didn't she just bring it with her instead of making me go back to her place.

We made the slow cold trek to her house and when the door flew open I was greeted with the most amazing sight. There were all of my closest friends wearing Tim Horton name tags. They had moved the kitchen table to act like a front counter. There was my favorite "missing" coffee mug filled with freshly brewed Timmies coffee (they had had the grinds sent from Canada) and homemade sour cream glazed doughnuts. They had traced the logo off my mug and had made signs for the walls. We spent the morning just sitting around Tim Hortons on the other side of the world, drinking coffee and hanging out. It was the sweetest birthday treat ever.

10 Baskets in 1 Night

This year my friends and I decided to celebrate Christmas like we did last year, trying to outdo Santa himself by delivering baskets of goodies to friends and neighbours. Last year we were set on the people we wanted to deliver to. We went to homes and if people weren't there we tracked them down at restaurants or offices to deliver our gifts.

This year we were a little more flexible. While we had developed pictures of us with our friends and framed them, we were willing to grab out the picture and change who the basket went to at the last minute. We gave them to our vegetable lady, the lady who owns the photo copy shop, the young girl who works at the convenience store near our house, the wait staff at our favorite restaurants and more. Only one of the homes we went to was a repeat from last year's basket delivery extravaganza. At each stop we sang one stanza of a Christmas carol in both our native tongue and theirs. We also included a letter that we had written in both the local languages that told the reason for the season. It was a great night, but once again we were totally exhausted.

2012

I don't know how big of a deal this movie has gotten to be back in the west, but out here it is the have-to-see-flick of the year. Everyone on the street is buzzing with talk of this movie. I have now watched it in both English and Uyghur, and while yes the cinematography and special effects are pretty amazing, like when all of California falls into the ocean, the truth is I still don't really know what all the fuss is about.

But apparently this movie has a lot of people worried about the end times. There are men standing on street corners selling nothing but copies of this one movie, reminding people to be prepared for the end. The movie shows rich people being able to buy their salvation. My friends here see themselves as having no hope to be saved if this is the case.

Country Cousin

My Uyghur mom and her family recently took in a distant relative to help them raise their grandchildren. They have two small boys that it is mainly their responsibility to raise. Their son is living in Europe and their daughter-in-law who, lives with them, is a police officer and is so busy with work that she is hardly ever home. That means that my mom, who is almost 65 spends her days running after a five year old who is tough and has never heard the word "no".

I kept telling them it was too much for them to handle on their own. In the end their daughter-in-law asked a second cousin living in the country to move in with them and help with the children. She is a 12 year old girl, who like I mentioned before is not registered. Twelve is a weird age for girls some of them look like they are going on 30, and others, like this young girl, look like they're still 8. She has learned how to read and write along the way, but doesn't really speak any of the national language. She can barely lift the baby but she is very dedicated to helping with the laundry, dishes, cooking, and such.

My Uyghur parents have offered that if she is willing to stay and help around the house they will pay for her to go to a training school after their grandchildren have started school. It sounds like such a sad life for a young girl, but living with my Uyghur mom and dad and having an opportunity to learn a trade is a lot more than she could have hoped for otherwise. Her mom is getting remarried and her soon-to-be-step-father wants nothing to do with her. Sad stories like these are a daily part of my life.

Give or Take a Couple of Million

If you read my last blog post you might have noticed that I took an estimated guess at how many people live in this city. It might not be an exact guess considering I allowed for a difference of up to 2 million people, but population is a hard thing to nail down around here. For instance, there is a law on the number of children a family can have. Uyghur families living in the city can have two, those in the country can have three. But some people don't abide by the law and end up having more children. In order to keep these extra children they either have to a pay a big fine to the government, or else keep the child a secret by not registering them. A non registered child officially does not exist, which means they can't go to school and they are not included in a population count. These children will end up being street sweepers, house cleaners and such. They will never be able to move up in society because they officially don't exist. As sad as it sounds it is actually a very common thing, so common that some people actually figure there are likely two million unregistered, non legal children.

Weird Sights and Smells

So the other day I stepped out of my apartment to see a cow standing by the garbage pile. Keep in mind, we are living in a city of 3-5 million people, but the sight of the cow in the middle of my apartment complex was somehow not that surprising of a sight. I naturally assumed that many of my neighbours would be eating beef for dinner. As sure as sure could be a little over an hour later when I came home there was no cow, but the ground outside my front door was all bloody and red.