Warning: If You Don’t Like the Mention of Blood, Don’t Read

The other day I went to one of my favorite western restaurants for lunch. As I got off the bus at the stop nearby I could tell a small crowed was mingling around the front door. As I headed towards the steps a man stumbled out of the midst of them with blood dripping everywhere. He had a blood soaked towel pressed to his face, and his clothing looking like he had just emerged from battle. His appearance made me do a double take at who was standing around the restaurant entrance; it was then that I noticed that a lot of them were police officers.

“Karen” my friend yelled from the doorway “go around that way and get in here quickly!”

I followed his instruction cutting a wide path around the group and entered the café. Inside the staff were busy filling buckets with water and starting to scrub down the floor, which was splattered with blood. I could tell my friends were visibly shaken and the story of the last few minute’s events quickly poured from their lips.

Apparently there was a couple peacefully eating lunch in the restaurant, when suddenly a second man came storming in and accused them being together. He didn’t give them time to defend their presence together at the restaurant, before he pulled a knife from his pocket and stabbed the other man in the face, cutting a gash straight across the bridge of his nose. The two man than began to chase each other around the small restaurant (which normally has much more of a Grandma’s kitchen sort of peaceful feel), and the women yell “Stop, stop, it is not what you think”. The staff was able to force them outside, and the police, who were stationed right next door quickly made an appearance.

When I arrived five minutes later, the stabber was still there un-handcuffed (which is why my friend suggested I didn’t cut right through the middle of the crowd) and the bleeding man had still not been taken to the hospital. I might have missed witnessing the worst of the event, but seeing the blood splattered around one of favorite places to get a coffee and relax did shake me up a bit.

In Loving Memory

I got an email from my family yesterday informing me that my Grandmother had passed away. I wanted to take this opportunity to honour the wonderful person that was Grace Arthur.

From my grandmother I learned the importance of eating sweets in order to have a sweet personality. Whenever she went grocery shopping it seemed like candy and other goodies would just “jump” into my grandmother’s cart. She was quick to share her home made fudge, and fresh maple syrup.

From my grandmother I learned the importance of “taking five” when what you really need is an hour long nap to refresh yourself.

From my grandmother I learned that you can down play your faults by claiming “that’s the first mistake I‘ve made all year”. Somehow she could still get away with saying this in December.

From my grandmother I learned that the child-like excitement of Christmas can last well past the age of retirement.

But the most important lesson I learned from my grandmother was to always have a soft heart towards the Word of God. Every morning at their home my grandparents would read the Bible aloud over breakfast. If it was grandma’s turn to read, she often had to pass the book off midway through the passage because she was so chocked up with tears. She was filled with joy over what God had done for her. This sensitivity to her Savior was evident in her abundant service in church, her gracious interaction with family and neighbours, and her own well worn copy of the Word.

This classy, feisty and lovely woman was the wife of my late Grandfather, Lionel Arthur (Art). Her ninety years of life will be long remembered by all those who loved and looked up to her. It is hard to be so far away from my family right now, and not get to join in with them in the sharing of fond memories and celebrating a life spent running the race for His glory.

Saying Grace

I overheard a class of English students putting on a skit. They were sitting around a table and the 'father' started the meal by trying to imitate the act of giving thanks. He said:

Oh my God,
Everything is okay.
Let us eat beef.
Okay.

You’re Getting Married NOW!

Drama, Drama, Drama! One of my Uyghur friends is almost 25 and not yet married. While her family still lives out in a country village, she has been living in the big city since she was 18. Her family always figured her move to the city would allow her to meet a more wealthy and influential man to seal her future. But after seven years of singleness her parents were getting desperate.

A few weeks ago her mother came to town to announce that she had to get married NOW! She was disappointed with her daughter’s slowness in this area, and saw it as having a direct negative reflection on her as a mother. She really thought she had lost face in their village for raising a daughter that was either so inept that no man wanted her, or so wilful and headstrong that she wouldn’t accept a perfectly good match. When her mother came to town she came armed with a man to match her daughter up with. His parents were from the same village and approved the idea of their two families being joined. The guy was also living in the city, he was divorced with a child and was almost 15 years older than my friend. He needed a new mother for his soon to be teenage son.

Unbenounced to my friend’s mother was that her daughter had a boyfriend (Uyghur young people don’t tend to tell their parents about their love life until they are ready to start planning the wedding. At that point the young people often try to arrange a match maker to go to the parents and suggest the match. In the city some couples have been together for five years before their parents learn of their significant other). My friend had to quickly call up her boyfriend, who was spending three months out of town on business, and tell him to take the 24hour bus ride to come and meet her mother, or else she just might be married by the time he was done with work.

Two men, one wedding date (already set and arranged by the family) the drama between a concerned/ overbearing mother and a daughter with her own ideas ended with my friend keeping her families wedding date and plans, but switching out the groom. She and her boyfriend hadn’t been together long, they had never talked about marriage, and she isn’t sure she loves him, but at least she knows him and that seems better than marrying a complete stranger in just a few weeks.

I am so thankful, that even though I am 30 my parents are NOT forcing me into a life long union with a complete stranger.

Bike Riding

My friends and I went out of town last week, there were five of us, which is one more than fits in a taxi, so we decided to rent bikes. As some of you may know I have no idea how to ride a bike. We made quite a sight as we drove through town. It was fun to watch the locals’ response, to our parade through town. As the first bike drove by their was surprise at seeing a foreigner, the second bike made them smile, and by the time I pulled up the rear of the party they were out right laughing at what they had seen.

At least it had a long battery life and we were even able to take it off-roading in the woods. It was a great weekend.

A Nice Hot Cup of...

We had a friend stop by last night who is expecting. Because of the baby she is trying not to drink so much tea, since the black tea here is sooo full of caffeine. She loves fruit tea, but sadly we didn't have any to offer. Finally my roommate had the brilliant idea of preparing a steaming hot pot of koolaid. The bright red liquid looked so fancy pouring out of our flowery tea pot and into china tea bowls.

We ended up drinking the entire pot of koolaid before the night was over, and I had to stop myself from asking our guest "What colour is your tongue?".

Canadian Thanksgiving

94. Invited to a beautiful thanksgiving dinner with the other Canadians in town. The host family had heard through the grape vine that I was going to be out of t own for the weekend (a mix up since that is going to be this coming weekend) and didn't bother to call or tell me about the party. When someone else kindly pointed out I hadn’t been invited and didn’t seem to know anything about dinner, the hosts felt so bad and quickly called to include me in the event. Being the last one called meant that all of the dishes were already being prepared and all I had to do was stop and pick up some coke and juice. I am thankful for great fellowship, other Canadians and a beautiful feast that I didn't have to help prepare.

95. Warm blankets to snuggle under as we wait for the heat to come on in four more days.

96. Step three finally being finished

97. Friends birthdays to celebrate: we did a murder mystery dinner night and it was a blast.

98. My roommate had a French press since my coffee maker broke yesterday morning.

99. For newbies who don’t know the cultural value of nan, and therefore don’t feel bad throwing away our old moldy bread outside of our nieghbourhood.

100. Arthur Family phone call times every Saturday morning at 7am

101. When I visit a friend’s house and they serve me anything other than noodles.

102. The smell of fresh cleaning clothes hanging in my office to dry.

103. Draino, and its ability to break up the pieces of raw potato stuck in our toilet pipe (long story)

104. For people who respect personal boundaries

105. That our new house is finally a place where everybody knows our name. The other day another ex-pat came to visit us. She was sure which building or entrance we lived in, but as soon as the neighbours saw her white face they asked “ are you looking for the foreign girls?, because they live in that building on the third floor. I can show you if you want. “

106. The smell of sweet potatoes being cooked and sold on the street.

107. The great book that I am borrowing from a friend. I read this book a long time ago, but I am enjoying it afresh.

Persnickety Lee

Step 3 has been causing us a bit of a problem. After writing and translating fourteen pages of documentation and 5 face-to-face office visits, we weren’t any closer to getting approval from the woman in charge of the paperwork (who we have nicknamed Persnickety Lee). She just kept sending us back every time, and mostly for very small details(she commented on font size and other formatting issues. We are intelligent young women who can professionally format things in our own culture, but even that is different here).

By the end of five office visits, K and I both felt beaten down; we were incredibly discouraged at the length of time that this step had been taking, and the total lack of encouragement from the officials.

About an hour later, I called K. I t old her said that when I went to the office, Persnickety Lee was in a meeting, so I had to waited outside in the hallway until the meeting was done. While I was standing there, a minority woman (who we’ll call Helpful Hebiba) that I had met on two previous visits happened to come walking by. She and I struck up a conversation in her Uyghur, and several other office workers, surprised that a foreigner could speak their language, came out to listen. They all agreed that we should have gotten approval long ago,
but weren’t sure what could be done.

At that moment, the meeting ended and the office door opened. I and a gaggle of minority women all swept in together. Persnickety Lee was surprised to see so many Uyghur office workers there. Hebiba and the minority workers immediately began to talk me up (switching back to the main business language for Lee’s benefit), saying what a hard worker I am, how my business would be really beneficial to the province, and how many languages I spoke (I’m pretty sure she mentioned “Korean” and “Spanish” as part of that list, but at that point I was happy to have someone else talking).

When Lee began to nitpick through the forms again (“really, points 3 and 4 should be switched if you wanted the document to be perfect”), I started to get upset and tried to explain that this was my fifth visit, and that everything required by law was in the pile of documents, but Hebiba whispered to me(in Uyghur) to let her handle it. Hebiba then went on to explain, in her most flattering tones, that of course Lee wanted everything to be perfect, and that was completely understandable, but couldn’t she make an exception just this once, seeing as there was another holiday coming up and this cute little foreign girl had worked so hard? In the end, Persnickety Lee stamped the necessary documents, and Hebiba, myself, and the rest of the Uyghur workers trickled back into the hallway.

So we’re going to continue with the step-by-step process of opening a business. I’ll keep you posted as we work through the next 32 steps, hopefully a lot faster.

Business Scavenger Hunt

Starting a business in East Asia is a little like doing a scavenger hunt. I often wonder if the next step will read something like: “Get the signature of a man in a red hat eating a banana. Then take the document he signed to the purple building on the corner of 4th and University to a woman who goes by the nickname “Kiki” to get instructions for the following step.

Okay, it’s not quite that ridiculous. But there are a LOT of forms to download, fill out, make up from scratch, translate, etc. And then we still have to track down the right person at the right office, on the right day (who is most likely coming in late, leaving early, and taking a 2-hour lunch break, in addition to being out on national holidays and “doctor’s appointments” conveniently scheduled just before or after national holidays).

Bottom line: while opening a small business is crucial for my business partner and me in being able to get long-term visas here, it is in no way crucial to the hundreds of small offices that we have to visit in order to get everything in proper legal order. Plus, every time we ask someone to approve a form, it means a little extra work for them, which they would often just as soon avoid.

So rather than reject our applications outright, they find little things to nitpick. The font is too big. The copy is too light. The date should be at the top rather than the bottom. The bank statements don’t look official enough. The translations need an official stamp. And every rejection means another re-write, another appointment with a friend to check the newly added information, and another day of work lost.

In all, there are 35 consecutive steps that need to happen in order to get a new business opened. And they all need to be completed in approximately 6 months, or else the forms from the first few steps start to expire.

We started going to offices at the beginning of September, and have so far completed… 3 whole steps. With each step we finish we added a link to our paper chain commemorating all we have been for. Stay tuned for more details on the struggle of step 3.

House Warming

As if going to visit all of our new neighbours over the holiday wasn’t enough, we decided to throw a housewarming party for ourselves and show off how local our new home looks. We knew our neighbours were all curious to see inside because anytime our door was open even a little; people would try peering through the opening or flat out walk in. One day a lady at the front gate offered to help carry my groceries in, and then took the liberty of walking all around our apartment and commenting on everything.

To waylay their fears and satisfy their curiosity we invited all the Uyghur families living in our stair well (8 households in all). We had no idea how many people would actually venture to come. While extending the invitation I made sure to inform them that our house was halal, and that we bought all our food from Muslim stores so that they didn’t need to worry.

We pushed back all our furniture and put the servring space on the floor, just like they would in the Uyghur country side. We made sure there were plates and plates of snack food, even though they barely touch any of this stuff.

My roommate and I both showed off our hand at making traditional food. K made Pollo (rice cooked with lamb, carrots, and raisins) and I made da pan ji (literally big plate of chicken, which is chicken, potatoes, peppers and local spices). Wearing the head scarf in the kitchen really does help prevent the oil from settling in your hair (Uyghur food is very oily), just like the apron almost kept it all from splating on my nice atlas top.

When the guest finally came we spread kurpas on the floor to create a soft place to sit. In the end five women and eight children came over. They didn’t eat much of our feast, but they did all seem to have a good time. The kids stole the camera and got this great shot of two very tired hostesses. Tired or not we are now officially part of the neighbourhood.

Wedding Princess

A Uyghur wedding would make any Disney princess jealous -- sparkles, big hair, fake eyelashes, tons of make-up, huge flowers, full skirts, ballroom dancing... if only they could figure out the pumpkin carriage, they'd be all set.

In the afternoon the men and women are separated for tea times. The girls eat, gossip, fix their hair and make-up, and EAT some more.

Corsages for close friends and family - you got to love the glitter and fake feathers. The best thing about the corsages is that we can TOTALLY wear them again.

The men break into the woman's tea to steal the bride, but first they must dance and sing for her guests.

Uyghurs also have a similar saying about tying the knot... so for their first dance the bridal party tied the couple together.

In Loving Memory

I am the type of girl that loves to read biographies of those who have gone before. In some way they act as mentors in my life, I might never have met them but their lives challenge me. At times I think my life out here is difficult, but the trials of finding worms crawling on my table is nothing like the exploits I read of in their biographies.

Today some friends and I made the trek outside of town to visit the grave site of foreigners who lived here years ago. These people sacrificed their very lives to see this place grow and develop. That sort of commitment and love for this place is a huge personal challenge for me. Two of the graves in the pictures below are those of babies or toddlers who died as their parents persevered in this place. It was both a sobering and challenging day. So this post is dedicated in loving memory of those who have come before to this place. They have tilled the soil and opened doors that I can enjoy my life today.

Carpet from the Carwash

The last piece of our new home is finally in place. We picked up our freshly cleaned carpet from the carwash. It is one of the odd combination business; carpet cleaning and carwash, (I think the flower and cigar shop close to my college still counts as the weirdest mix of all). Just wanted to show off some shots of the new place. I know a lot of people might not really care, this post is really just for my Mom.

The Living Room

Kitchen Space

My Bedroom

The Office/ Clothes Drying Room

Hallway

Bathroom

My roommate even drew a floor plan to help her mom better understand how the whole place is set up (So 'my bedroom' is hers, and 'K's' bedroom is mine).

The clean Carpet that my grandparents sent me money to buy back in 2006, when I thought I was going to move to Achuk. My friend has been carpet-sitting it for me for the last four years. This is the first time I'll really get to enjoy it.

We are already having friends over and enjoying the new space.

Unwanted Company

The new house is starting to take shape, although it seemed to take us forever to get the shower, toilet, washing machine and internet up and going. We started inviting friends over before the process was finished. So even though there were no couch cushions to sit on, we tried to make our house warm and welcoming to our guests, by setting out dishes of snacks on the table.

I grabbed a few pistachio nuts to nibble on as I talked. Suddenly, I was distracted from our conversation by a little tickle crawling down my thumb. It seems like the pistachios were older than I thought, and a little worm had moved with us to our new house. I tried to discretely brush him away without drawing my guest attention to our other little friend. I was rather embarrassed by the infestation of my snack table.

A few minutes later I notice my friend was tapping the shell on the table before eating its contents; sure enough a little buddy also fell out onto the table and started to slither along the surface. Another Worm! What was this a whole family of unwanted company, come to munch on our food? I really shouldn’t let it bother me so much. I don’t know how many times I have been at a person’s house and had to eat around critters in my fruit or crawling out of the bowl. But this week it was my house, Oh the shame.

Still Thankful

81. Movers that can carry half my stuff on their back at one time
82. Friends who let you keep coming back to shower at their house, since I still haven’t got the water issue fixed at my new place.
83. My first morning with coffee in a month (now that Ramadan is over)
84. Likewise being able to eat whenever I want
85. Nice neighbours to visit over the holiday. We hadn‘t meet any of them yet, so we just waited to Rosa Heyt and then went door to door introducing ourselves. They all gladly welcomed us in to join. Can you imagine a strange foreigner coming to your door on Christmas expecting to be ushered in to join in the celebrations?
86. Hosts that only make you eat half and melon, couple of handfuls of nuts and raisins and a few bowls of tea instead of forcing you to eat three days worth of food in three hours. (Two homes didn’t actually feed us full meals)
87. Being able to buy a replacement fuse box , plumber’s tape, and the flotation thingy for in the toilet even though I don’t know any of those words in either local language ( based on my use of the word ‘thingy’ I don’t think I know proper terms in English either)
88. Hardware store owners who like playing charades, and are willing to pull apart half the store to help me find what I am looking for.
89. Another step checked off the list in the ‘we are trying to open a business’ red tape
90. Getting the map hung up in my new bedroom, which always makes a place feel more like ‘home’ to me.
91. That the new neighbourhood kids seem to be getting tired of the ‘run up to our door, bang on it, and giggle’ game
92. That students who went home for the summer are back in town
93. It is only a $1 taxi ride from my old house to my new one

2:30 is a Great Time for Noodles

The human body is truly an amazing organism. I’ve heard stories of people who have lost their ability to see, but whose bodies adapted by becoming more sensitive to the small noises, smells, and textures that would have otherwise gone by unnoticed.

As foreigners living in a Muslim city, our senses have adapted in other ways.

From up to two rooms away, I can identify the thwack of freshly pulled noodles slapping against a countertop. The thunk of a knife chopping a cantaloupe in half. The scraaape of a cooking pot being taken out of a cupboard.

Recognizing these sounds is crucial to our survival here. Guests in local homes are expected to be able to eat on command. And while there are ways of avoiding eating a full portion (only eating when the host is in the room, putting part of your own meal on someone else’s plate, etc.), there is no getting around the fact that sooner or later, you have to eat something.

Normally this isn’t a big problem – after all, there is no need to visit more than a couple of houses in one day. But this week is the end of Ramadan. Our Muslim friends have spent the last month fasting from food and drink during daylight hours, and now it’s time to party! During the next few days, anyone can knock on anyone else’s door and expect a warm welcome, complete with tea, snacks, and a hot meal.

Since K and I just moved into a new house, we decided that this would be a great time to meet our new neighbors. Knowing that there are at least 7 or 8 Uyghur families in our apartment building, we decided to plan carefully. We had a light snack instead of breakfast and lunch, and planned on visiting neighbors between 1 and 4 p.m. in order to avoid mealtimes. That way, we could just drink tea and pick at snacks on the tables, visiting a lot of new houses without having to eat too much or stay too long.

Our plan started off well – we were in and out of our first house in just fifteen minutes, with only a few mouthfuls of melon and a cup of tea. But the second house wasn’t quite so easy. Our hostess was excited to tell us that they had only just finished eating, and immediately brought us two bowls of noodles so we wouldn’t miss out on the meal.

I should probably mention that Uyghur noodles are basically like homemade spaghetti, with a little bit of sautéed lamb and green pepper thrown on top in place of sauce. The noodles – a fairly tasteless tangle of starch – are the main event, and the more the better.

Luckily, bowl number one wasn’t too big (about half of an American portion), so we polished them off with no problem and headed to our next house. A few quick introductions and melon slices later and we were on our way again. The next house we hit another snag; the woman who answered the door was alone, and dressed very conservatively, which is usually the sign of a big feeder. Sure enough, within a few minutes of being seated in the living room, we hear the telltale thwack, thunk, and scraaape coming from the kitchen – noodles and melons. K and I did our best to wolf down a full-sized portion of noodles, plus a couple of slices of melon and several cups of tea, thanked our hostess profusely, and headed out again.

Our last stop was a big family gathering. Almost immediately upon entering, the grandma of the family brought out plates heaped with dumplings, rice, and fruit. K and I didn’t budge. So she brought out a second plate – more fruit, meat pancakes, and bread. Full teacups were pushed into our hands. “Eat, eat,” urged the family members.

We eat our share from the edges of the rice and sipped our tea slowly. The grandma reappeared, this time with two bowls of noodles. “Here, I made these for you,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. We both did our best to smile as we took the bowls, which were full to the brim. “You eat so slowly!” one of the girls remarked, watching us mechanically shoveling noodles into our mouths. “Don’t you like it?”

Eventually we excused ourselves, narrowly missing another round of dumplings and rice, and went home to rest. In just three hours, we had each eaten three helpings of noodles and half a melon. I decided to skip dinner.

What’s in a Name?

My business partner and I are in the process of selecting a name for the Language Consultation and Translation Company we are hoping to open. Names really are tied closely to both the language and the culture from which they come; it is hard as an outsider to pick a name that will resonate with native speakers.

Three years ago I was walking to class, when I was stopped by a few local students who wanted my advice in choosing a good English name for a hotel. I asked what it's name was in the original language, and tried not to laugh as they seem to go on and on, with a long flourishing name.

“So in English that is literally ‘Imagine Peace and Happiness Everyday Hotel’” she told me proudly “What do you think? Is that a good name?”

I shook my head, “It is too long to be a good name and it is way too cutesy”

“What about ‘Imagine Peace and Happiness Hotel’?”

I shook my head again. “You could try just calling it ‘Imagine’”

“No,” she said firmly “ What about ‘Everyday Peace and Happiness Hotel?’”

We were nearing my classroom building and I was getting frustrated. “I already gave you my suggestion as to what I think most native English speakers would like for a name”. And with that I quickly dismissed myself from the decision making process.
Skip ahead in time until last week. My business partner (who is also from North America), and I were trying to come up with good local names to register our company under. The form said we needed five names in case our top choices were already taken. Most of the names we liked were two words, short and sweet type names, although we had only come up with four suggestions. I needed to fill in the fifth spot, so I wrote in a joke, just to make my business partner laugh.

As a joke I had taken a local saying which basically means “One heart and one mind”. It is kind of a cliche way of talking about being unified. The word they use for ‘mind’ is pronounced very similarly to the word for translation. So I switched out the last word and wrote ‘One Heart and One Translation’. My business partner saw it chuckled and said “Funny, but no way, it is too long”

One of our local friends accompanied us to the office, she saw the list of names and her eyes were immediately drawn down to the bottom of the list “Oh is this the one you are going to use? It is so meaningful”

“No that was just a joke, we don’t really like that name, we just needed a fifth option”

“Oh” she said sadly

After seeing her reaction my business partner grabbed the list and asked a group of random people which name they liked the best. Everyone resonated with the long and cumbersome cutesy choice. Remembering how much I disliked having my opinion as an English speaking discounted in picking an English name and not wanting my own culturally based pig headed preference to hold back our company, we decided to listen to the masses and use our final option as the number one pick.

We are now officially ‘One Heart and One Translation Translation and Consultation Company’. With such a solid name blazing a trail for us, I can’t help but imagine peace and happiness everyday for us in the business world.

Proud to be a Canadian

My friend and I were out running around town the other day and getting things ready for our new apartment. We were both pretty worn out and not really in the chatty mood when this story took place. Here is how my friend explained the interaction on her facebook page:

"So you're students?"

I looked at Karen. I don't feel like talking to strangers today, I whispered in English. Let's just nod and smile and say yes to anything he asks. Karen nodded.

"Yup, students." (actually, Karen works at an export company).

"But you speak our language; you must have been here a while... maybe a year or two?"

"Uh-huh." (reality: me -- 2.5 years, Karen -- 6 years)

"So what will you do when you finish school?"

"We're going to open our own business."

"Oh, teaching English?"

"More or less..." (Reality: we're starting a translation company)

"And you're from America?"

"Yup."

For the first time in this interaction, Karen's national pride got the best of her: "Actually, she's American, but I'm Canadian," she jumped in. The stranger and I both turned to look at Karen, but that was all she had to say.

Which just goes to show you that in the levels of "what it's okay to fudge the truth about," letting a Canadian be taken for an American is never okay.