Just Take it and Let’s Get out of here!

Our bus pulled into the station after a wearisome 11 and half hour journey it was dark and late and well past my bedtime. My travelling companion and I grabbed our bags and headed for the gate to find a taxi. Behind us came an explosion of people yelling in a variety of languages:

“Stop!”

“Come back here.”

“You can’t leave yet”

“What about your medicine?”

One of the guards came running forward to block the gate and keep us from exiting , while another man in a while lab coat, presumably a doctor, started waving papers under my nose and pointing to the line. That was when I noticed that every one of our fellow passengers had dutifully disembarked the bus and were standing in line to receive whatever medical treatment the local physician deemed necessary.

Since I am on a regular regiment of medications that are prone to side effects and adverse interactions with unknown drugs I am weary of taking something that I don’t know. I haven’t studied enough medical words, so I didn’t know what disease they were saying had broken out in their area, but I tried valiantly to convince them that I was sure I had been inoculated for it in Canada and that I couldn’t pop their mysterious pill. My arguments fell on deaf ears and were to no avail. The group of one doctor, three nurses and two gate guards ganged up on me and scolded saying “You can’t leave the bus station until you take this”, “No hotel in our city will permit you to stay if you have not had your medicine” “You may get very ill, if you do not listen to us”.

Against my better judgment I blindly grabbed their white tablet and swallowed it, signing my name on the dotted line, and accepting the slip with the red stamp calming that I had received the need medical treatment. I kept that sheet of paper close to me, and sure enough needed to show it again at the airport in order to board a plane and leave the area.

It wasn’t until after I returned to my home that I learned that part of our province was facing an outbreak of polio. My doctor friend was kind enough to reassure me, that while a person on immune suppressant, like myself, should not take a live vaccine she did say that I should be fine since I would have taken a vaccination years ago for the same disease. Her confidence did put my heart at ease.

Just Getting on Long Distant Bus is a Story

A trip that has taken as little as 6 hours in the past dragged on to the 11 and half hour mark before we hit our destination. The main delay occurred when our bus had to leave the paved high and take a detour through small, narrow, village, dirt roads. These roads are barely wide enough for two donkey carts to pass each other without incident. Therefore, when our wide bus tried to squeeze by a five tone truck loaded down with goods travelling the other direction, the inevitable happened. With no shoulder to this laneway, the two side wheels of our vehicle slipped on the soft sand and the bus started to tilt precariously off the side.Our driver quickly came to a halt and encouraged us all too quickly disembark and move off to the side, to stand in the fields with those who were picking cotton. The next two hours were spent trying to get our bus balanced on the road and ready to continue our travels. As we stood around watching them dig out the wheels (which only caused the bus to lean more drastically) and try pilling up rocks to added traction of the inverse side, our group was passed by many other travelers including wagons, other buses and a whole caravan of government SUVs, all of which paused for a moment to chuckle at our plight and drove off without even stopping to offer assistance.

At one point all of the men on our bus decided that maybe if they worked together they could push the bus and force it back on to the road. I couldn’t watched as they rocked the huge metal contraption back and forth, hoping to bounce it into place. I was sure they would topple it over on themselves and I would be left standing there watching several men get squished to death. Instead I turned my back on the whole affair just in time to see a man get run over by a motorcycle. Both the pedestrian and the cyclist were so preoccupied by the bus’s movement they didn’t notice each other. From one horrifying scene to another I stood hoping we would soon be back on our way.

The speed with which they had us going again in under two hours, proved this was not a first for the driver or his crew and that while a bus falling off the road seemed like a mad adventure to me, it was a daily part of their job travelling in the southern part of our province.

A Little Girl's Hair

When I use to babysit I loved to play with the little girls hair, brushing out long curls, forming complicated braids, tying ribbons and making her feel pretty. This doesn’t work as a way to reach out to the little kids in my neighbourhood. Most young Uyghur girls have no hair. Their parents shave their heads all through childhood in hopes that will grow in darker and thicker.

My Kazak friend was telling me in her culture they not only shave off all the girls hair, they also believe that the saliva of a cow will further stimulate hair growth. She told me the story of having her head covered in moistened cow feed so that the animal would be enticed to lick her entire bald little head. She still trembled 20 years latter as she told the story and admits that she hates cows.

Even without being cow feed, you can tell the custom of head shaving does lead to thick wonderfully dark long hair.

Father's Love

Some of the tourists that went travelling with me this summer took some great photos of Uyghur men hanging out with and showing love to their children/grandchildren. I love these pictures. Enjoy!

That's No Tooth Under her Pillow

I love watching Uyghur movies, I am always picking up little cultural things I didn’t know or seeing something unusual that I want to ask my friends about later. The heroin of one of my favourite stories was awakened in the middle of the night with a nightmare. Her mother was quick to come to her comfort by grabbing a knife ( a big sharp one) from the kitchen and placing it under her daughter's pillow.

I asked around and found out this is more of a normal practice than I figured. Some said it was to cut the power the evil spirits had over her sleep. Others said it cut the bad images to pieces and let her sleep in peace. One person even told me it was so that she could protect herself in case the dream came true.

You're Too Old to Not Be Married

I left the tour group I was translating for to play basketball and I slowly moved over to some steps that I could sit down on. I was stiff and tired after a long day of wandering around and bargaining, my weariness showed as I lowered myself onto the stair. Before finally dropping all my weight I did nod at the family who was already occupying the steps and quietly muttered a question asking to join them. They nodded their accent and I gladly took a break for a minute. I could overhear the family discussing me, but lacked the energy to engage them or even correct their preconceived notions.

"Do you think she is a foreigner?"

"She can't be, she asked in Uyghur if we would mind if she sat down."

"No. she didn't say anything when she sat down."

"Yes she did, she looked right t me and asked to sit down."

"Then she must be Uzbek because she doesn't look like she is from here."

After a few minutes one of them finally got brave enough to just ask me, at that point even my tiredness won't let me be rude enough to fake lack of understanding when asked a direct question. After setting them straight on where I was from, what I was doing here, and where I learned their language, the mother asked me the most surprising question.

"When are you due?"

I stared at her blankly not really understanding the question, at least not understanding how it related to me.

"You are expecting aren't you?" she asked again.... only this time she used a euphemism that literally means to have heavy feet. (which didn't seem to fit seeing as I barely weigh 95 pounds right now).

She tried one more time "aren't you pregnant?"

"No" I said with a bit of a nervous laugh, "I'm not even married".

"Not married?! How old are you?"

"31"

"We're the same age" announced the mother as her 13 year old son slid closer to hear my response. He wasn't the only one drawing closer, I noticed the crowd had grown from the original family to include may curious passerbyers.

I tried to defend myself a little. "Well in my culture a lot of people don't get married until they are 30-35. In fact my older brother just got married for the first time a couple of months ago. So I still have plenty of time."

Everyone in the crowd started shaking their heads at me, I am still not sure whether it was out of pity or shame. "Not here," said a voice from behind me. "girls get married when they are 17-19".

"I got married when I was 15" said the mom "I have a son older than this one."

"You'll be too old to have kids."

"There won't be any men left to marry."

"Don't your parents want grandchildren, I was a grandmother by the time I was 36".

The comments kept coming at me. I tried to laugh them off and enjoy the fact that a group of 30 some odd people where that anxious to offer an opinion on my life choices. I did notice a police or two eavesdropping at the back of the crowd, but they did nothing to break up the ever increasing amount of people who seemed to disapprove of my life.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Have you ever been married?"

"Do you at least have a boyfriend?" The calls were coming from further back, and I could only imagine the story that was being circulated through the mass of people for the benefit of those who came late. The next thing I saw was the throng of people dispersing very suddenly. I looked up and noticed that the riot police armed with their wooden bats had marched right up to the crowd and was attempting to force people to move along. I looked them in the eye and sincerely apologized. "I am sorry officer, we were all just chatting. They were asking me about my life in Canada". I could tell once the police had seen what was in the middle of the large group, they too were interested in stopping to ask questions, but their sense of duty prevailed and before you know it I was able to slip out of the park and head back to my hotel for a real rest. The group of tourist had mainly watched from the outside. They said they had been worried when they saw the riot police enter the park and march with purpose right over to where people had been mulling around me. Talk about things to be thankful for, I am so glad that I was not dragged down to the station for another long conversation about my marital status, insulted and told I look fat like a pregnant lady or even worse.

Are We Close?

Traveling in the southern part of our province is exciting for about the first hour or so and then it all becomes a repetition of much the same. Looking at the mountains on one side and the vast desert on the other. Every once in a while there will be small sprouts of green grass popping and slowly multiplying until there are bushes and trees until you realize you are in the midst of a lush oasis. Ten minutes of green beauty with a small village and farmer inhabitance is all you’re allotted until the same progress starts fading away in reverse. The trees disappear, the bushes shrink in size and suddenly you realize there aren’t even any slivers of grass to be seen poking up through the sand.

Recently a group and I were driving along this vast desert highway, almost bored by the hours of mountains, sand, and occasional grass. When we could tell that we were drawing close to yet another oasis town. One of the guys in the vehicle planned on meeting up with a friend in an upcoming oasis. We had no idea exactly how far we had traveled or how many small villages still lay between us and our final destination.

In a moment of inspiration he asked to use my phone to call his friend. The friend of course inquires about how close we were to his home town. My travel companion with total honesty responded “ Well looking out the window I see the desert, a few trees and a couple of donkey carts. So do you think we’re almost there?”

SOLD!

Speaking of spontaneous travel stories… here is one that my former language classmate from out here posted on his blog the other day.

Have you had one of those moments recently when something so outrageous happens all you can do is laugh? I did. And now I'll tell you about it.

It was a short trip east and a bit south of here. By short trip, I mean 30 hours by train. Meeting up with a friend, we headed to the bus station. We had a few small cities we planned to visit and bus seemed the best option. It's cheap and reliable, though I've yet to see a bus here with anything close to resembling what I like to call 'leg room'.

For whatever reason, we were told that foreigners could not take the bus we wanted to take. Not completely understanding we quickly resorted to Plan B. The infamous yet wonderful Santana, or long distance taxi. Santanas derive their name from the Volkswagen Santana, the model of choice for the majority of these taxis. After a quick phone call which involved haggling over a price we waited for our driver who never showed. We finally resorted to flagging down a random Santana which immediately agreed to the price we were told was fair. Great! We jumped in. AND. This driver didn't cram a fourth person in the back. I'm a large man. 4 people in the back of a mid-sized sedan just doesn't work for me.

My rejoicing was short-lived. About an hour into the trip, the driver suddenly pulled over and in hopped a ragged looking migrant worker. Now I was sqished up against the front seat, my friend laughing at me one side and a farmer rattling off about Obama in a local dialect I could barely understand on the other. Off we went again. This time we only got another twenty minutes down the road. After answering a few phone calls (in a dialect, of course, I could not understand) the driver suddenly pulled over. No explanation other than, "Wait a little." Soon, another car full of men in white skull caps pulled up. The hood of our car was opened and all ten or so men hunched over inspecting the underworkings of our vehicle. "Is the car broken?", I asked my new Obama-loving friend. No clear answer was given. Silly me. Thinking the car was broken. Pfff.

Meanwhile cars and bikes are slowing down for a better look at the two whities. One got the feeling they didn't get a lot of foreigners in those parts. Finally, while chatting about what might become of us, the driver turned toward us. Admittedly what came out of his mouth was actually nothing I could have ever expected. "I just sold my car. Now you will take the public bus." So many thoughts passed through my mind. "You ARE selling it? You WILL sell it?" My language skills aren’tt great, but I was sure he just said 'sold'... as in the past tense of 'sell'.

Next my thought was to reason with him. Surely he understood that we had an unspoken agreement; he was under a certain obligation to drive me to my destination, right? SURELY you can't sell your car out from under your passengers?! Silly me. In the next minute our driver flagged down a public bus heading to our destination, he paid our fare, and we were bustled on. Since we were late comers, the only seats available were little plastic stools in the aisle. Strangely, our fellow Santana passengers seemed unphased as they climbed on the bus, like it was normal for their taxi to be sold mid-way through a trip.

ON YOUR MARK, GET SET, GO

Travelling locally takes my personal flexibility and need for spontaneity to a whole new level. A few weeks ago I took a small group travelling down south, as the only one who spoke Uyghur I was responsible for planning out route and buying our bus tickets.

I went to the bus station the day before we hoped to leave, but was told I couldn’t buy tickets this early. I had to get them within twenty four hours of the bus’ departure time. Sadly when I went back the next day our original destination was sold out, and we ended up heading to a completely different city, leaving three hours earlier than planned.

A few days later we were leaving one city to head further south. I sent the girls I was travelling with to the local English training school to teach an English corner while I went to buy our tickets. I wanted to be leaving in about two hours, I figured that gave them an hour to teach class and another to make it to the bus station and buy snacks for the road. But once again I was told I was too early to buy those tickets. They filled up one bus, as soon as it left the station they would start to sell tickets for the next one.

My favourite one from the trip was when we bought tickets first thing in the morning and according to the time printed on them we still had an hour and a half or so before we were suppose to leave. I was just about to suggest we go shopping at the bazaar around the corner from the bus station, when someone yelled out the name of the city we were heading to. Only to learn they had sold out all the seats and were ready to go… the time printed was nothing but a mere suggestion, an approximation of when they might leave.

Locals are much better at this ‘travel whenever’ mentality than I am. They are ready to go on a moment’s notice. Like the woman that had, by our definition, essentially been hitchhiking and waiting for a bus that had room to pick them up. It was 1:30 in the morning when they climbed on our bus from some desert village in the middle of nowhere to spend the night sleeping on the floor between the bunks. They didn’t seem fazed at all by the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements or the odd hour at which their travels began.

When the driver says ‘Go’ you better be ready.

That's Not Very Old Lady Like Behaviour

After walking around a new town with no real place to rest or even put our bags down, we found a nan seller that had a raised platform out front his shop. We asked if we could sit down to enjoy our snack. Uyghurs being the hospitable people that they are, quickly brought us tea to drink as we sat and rested.

The family in charge of the bread shop continued to work away at baking up a fresh batch and allowed us our peace and quiet for our little tea party. Sitting just outside of the shops front door was the family grandmother. She looked very old, like most days all she did was occupy this perch out front and people watch, as those from town wondered by on their various tasks. She sat with a fan in hand alliteratively using it as either a fly swatter, or moving just enough to create a small breeze to cool herself from the oppressive afternoon heat.

One of our group was really getting annoyed by the bugs that kept buzzing around her head. The old grandmother saw her flailing her arms around in an effort to ward off the unwanted guests. The old woman made a grunting sound to get our attention and thrust the fan towards us. My friend thanked her for offering to share, but turned her back to let the women keep up her daily routine.

The woman would not be easily dismissed and tried again to get my friend's attention to offer her fan. This time she was more persistent, she picked up a rock and threw it at my friend's back. Talk about unlady-like behavior. We all saw her do it, and still couldn’t believe that such a sweet woman was a stone thrower.

Medicine Coffee- Coming to a Coffee Shop Near You

Uyghurs have a unique tea flavor that they call medicine tea. It is a black tea with cinnamon, cardamom and other spices ( I haven’t asked what those other spices are, because I am very scared they will tell me it is dried snake).

We climbed off the sleeper bus at a small stop along the way. I grabbed a pack of instant coffee to help keep me going. I figured I could just get some boiling water and enjoy a break. I asked around, but all the tea pots were filled with medicine tea.

How bad can it be? I’ve heard of cinnamon coffee… and cardamom is good. I had high hopes that it would taste so good that Starbucks would be knocking down my door for the recipe. Boy was I wrong.

Coffee- good.

Medicine tea – good

Mix the two together = waste of a perfectly good coffee package and an overall bad start to a long day.

Have You Ever Seen A Shopping Centre?

An American girl was recently visiting on one of her first trips to Central Asia. While she was here she made friends with one of the waitresses at my favorite restaurants.

The three of us made plans to hang out on her day off. We meet up at the front of the international bazaar, a place filled with unique sights and sounds around every corner. The bazaar is filled with dried fruit, bedazzled clothing, musical instruments and other Uyghur trappings.

My Uyghur friend excitedly asked my American what she would like to do, since we had a little time before dinner. Without really even giving her time to respond, she asked us if we had ever been to Carrefour, a French version of Wal-Mart. She grabbed our arms and proudly marched us passed all the colourful hats and other expressions of a foreign culture, right to the front door of the cheep take off of an everyday standard retail store.

Hello "Big Plate of Chicken"

I was walking down the street the other day when I heard a familiar greeting tentatively whispered by my side. "Yakshmusiz Da pan Ji". I looked around expecting to see a small child behind me (after I appeared on a Uyghur game show over a year ago many of the neighborhood children gave me the nickname of my favorite food. 'big plate of chicken'). Only this time there was no little ones to be seen. Instead I realized I had just passed a traditional, fully veiled, Muslim woman. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she gazed out at me from the small slit in her head covering. She might have forgotten my name, but I was glad she was brave enough to find some way to greet me.

Business and Boyfriends

I have a policy some days about not answering telephones numbers that I don't know. I have done this too many times in the past and ended up in an awkward conversation with a student wanting to practice their English by reading their textbook aloud to me over the phone.

I was distracted the other day and answered the phone without checking the number. I was really glad I did when I realized it was someone from a government office inquiring about how our business was developing. I proudly announced that all of our paperwork was finished and that we were ready to get down to work. I quickly jumped into my long sob story about going home for just a few weeks to attend my brother's wedding, but having to stay sooooo much longer after I got sick and needed surgery. He seemed to feel sufficiently bad for me to not be to concerned as to why we still hadn't done much business. The conversation turned to lighter matters and he told me I needed a boyfriend to help when I am sick. I tried to laugh off the comment as I began to feel ill at ease about the direction the conversation was going. His follow up question was of course "do you have a boyfriend?" I once again chuckled and mentioned that my business partner would be back soon so we could take care of each other and continue to develop our company.

After successfully ending his chitchat, I sat in the living room recounting the odd discussion with my friends. Before I had even reached the tail end of our bizarre conversation my phone rang a second time.

"Hi" said the voice on the other end. "My name is ____________, I work for the same department of the government as the gentlemen who just gave you a call."

"Hello," I said as I quickly reviewed relevant business words in my head, expecting him to have more specific questions about the speed at which we were developing.

"My co-worker just mentioned to me that you don't have a boyfriend. What about me?"

The total lack of professionalism and inappropriateness of the conversation struck an angry cord in me. "No, I don't have one, and I don't need one either," I said curtly. "I have guests over right now and must go. Bye". I hung up the phone with force and quickly marked his number in my phonebook as 'Do not answer'.

Cool Deals are Disturbing Realities

The most common form of advertising in this country is not a flyer in the mailbox or a billboard at the side of the road. Instead companies big and small pay individuals to stand on the street and hand out business cards or coupons with their information printed on it. I have heard some of these employees get paid per card they get rid of. Which means the worker are quite insistent to press the information into the palm of your hand as you stroll by. Some companies try to make their handout more appealing by printing up a brochure of some type to be distributed in the same manner.

My friend stopped to accept one of these handouts the other day. This time the advertisers had gotten creative. The information was printed on a cardboard type heavier paper and cut out in the shape of a fan, each one of the flyers even came with a handle so that passer byers could fan themselves with a cool breeze as they continued on their way in the hot summer sun. My friend noticed that the fan was printed with several large price tags declaring low, low deals. She quickly scanned the paper to see what was being sold so cheaply and was disturbed to realize it was a hospital praising the painless and healthy means by which they executed abortions.

This brightly colored and animated summer cool down advertisement that has been forcefully pressed into her passing hand was a reminder of a painful reality that abortion is part of everyday life here. Small children and adults alike were fanning themselves with these deathly good deals, there was no shame in publicizing the topic.

Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

What do you do when you are the first to enter a room that has a table in the corner for you and your friends to sit at?

If you are in North America, the polite thing is to file into the back corner, farthest from the door, so that those who come after you don't have to scurry past you to find a seat. Right? It would not only be inconvenient it would all seem rather rude, if you sat close to the door and forces others to squeeze into the corner.

If you are in Central Asia it is the exact opposite. The seat in the corner furthest from the door is the seat of honor. If you are the first person through the door and naturally assume you are worthy of sliding into the back seat, you seem presumptuous and proud. The proper response is to sit in the seat right by the door and let the older and more important guests struggle to climb over your legs and situate themselves in the back corner. It may seem inconvenient, but it reminds me of a story of parents often told:

"When you are invited by someone to a wedding feast, do not take the place of honor, for someone more distinguished than you may have been invited by him, and he who invited you both will come and say to you, 'Give your place to this man', and then in disgrace you proceed to occupy the last place. "But when you are invited, go and recline at the last place, so that when the one who has invited you comes, he may say to you, 'Friend, move up higher', then you will have honor in the sight of all who are at the table with you."

In the west taking the chair crowded in the back corner is the same as taking a low place. You may hear a friend say "oh don't sit there I can squeeze in instead" -- but in this culture that same back corner seat is the place of honor.

Line-ups

While in Canada last month I was making frequent trips to the walk in clinic for dressing change and wound care. Mom and I learned quickly that it was best to get there first thing in the morning before they opened and wait outside for the door to officially be unlocked. Arriving even ten minutes later could result in a much longer wait. We weren't the only ones to discover this, every time we drove into the lot a ten to eight there were a couple of people already loitering in the vicinity. Some were leaning against the building playing on their cell phone, others hanging on the handrail as they gazed across the street. To say we organized ourselves in a straight line in front of the door would be a stretch to the definition of "lining up". But this cluster of people, no matter where they were standing or how they were occupying their time, were very aware of who had arrived before them and who showed up after. When the door was finally opened we all filed in orderly according to the amount of time we had been standing around.

As much as I love life here, I wish I could transport the courteous custom of lining up to this culture. Here, no matter who arrived first, it is the person with the sharpest elbows and the ability to push the hardest that gets in first. In most cases there is no such thing as even a loosely formed line, all that exists are blobs of humanity striving to get through the same doorway at the same time.

In elementary school we use to yell at the student who tried to slyly make their way to the front bypassing the wait...we would scream "so-and-so is a Cutter - they just cut in front of me". Instead of being a reason to tattle on each, the value of a good 'Cutter' seems to be a learned and much practiced skill.

My Convenience Store

At the front gate of my apartment complex there is a small convenience store. I stop there all the time because I am friends with the owner. I had noticed that it was odd before, but after spending a few months in Canada the sight of their shop struck me as downright hilarious.

They got government permission to open their own shop in that location, but they couldn't get the permits needed to cut down the tree. So they just built around it and now hang their wares off the trunk. It is my local tree fort/store.

Who are the People in your Neighborhood

While in Canada several friends and family sincerely asked if my life in Central Asia was lonely. I am so fortunate to say that nothing could be further from the truth. Upon coming back this time I was struck by how much I fell like I am a part of life here, that I am a member of our neighborhood.

In my neighbourhood there is the older almost toothless Uyghur man and his wife who sit at the front gate of our apartment complex running their tine convenience store, every time I head out they smile and ask where I am going, on my return they eagerly check my bags to see what I have purchased and invite me to sit down next to them and chat for a while.

There is the woman responsible for cleaning our apartment complex, in the summer she uses her over sized straw broom to sweep the ever present dust, in the winter she shovels piles of snow and chips away the ice so we all have a safe place to walk. Due to what I think is a birth defect with her mouth she is unable to talk and often wears a face mask to cover the deformity but her eyes are so bright and welcoming that you don't need to see her lips curve upwards to know she is greeting you with a huge smile. She is part of the majority people group, but can understand both languages and using her hands and different grunts has found ways to communicate with those around her. She always stops and puts down her broom so her arms are free to give me a hug.

In my neighborhood there are the children who come running after me yelling "Acha, Acha" - which means "big sister, big sister". When I turn to talk to them they say in heavily accented English "hello" and then run away giggling to themselves. But they always come back a few minutes later to show me their newest toy or tell me a story about what happened at school.

In my neighborhood there are so many shop keeps who nod and smile as I pass by, or even step out of their shops to yell a greeting across the street. Yesterday the carpet salesman was in the middle of enticing shoppers into making a purchase, when he spotted me and stopped mid way through boasting about why his carpets are the best, to greet me and ask how I was and why I had been gone so long.

Not to mention the seamstress by the front gate who can tailor make any outfit you want, the drycleaners down the street who always clean and press my finished cross stitched things for free or the policeman who offered to help my business in any way he could, the university professor who has studied more English than anyone else in our area and is so pleased he can converse with me im my language. There is a 14 year old Uyghur girl who loves to sneak up behind me on the street and tickle me until my obnoxiously strange laugh breaks out.

These are the people in my neighborhood, and I am so glad to be one of them. Yesterday the water deliveryman was having trouble finding my apartment and I told him just to ask someone on the street "where does the Canadian girl live?" because all of my neighbors know where I live and count me as part of the community that surrounds them. With wonderful people like this close by I am anything but lonely.

Tickets Have Been Purchased

Last week when I was at the doctor’s office I got the go ahead. It seems that my incision and infection have healed amazingly quickly. I think I heard the word “prefect” pass the mouth of a medical professional in response to my case. With that pronouncement I started looking into flight and ordering tickets. I am now knee deep in purchasing fun North American treats and trying to pack them in my small weight allowance.

I official leave here Thursday night at about 9pm, but due to about 20 hours spent in layover, 4 different flights, and huge time difference created when travelling internationally I don’t actually land in my destination until 11pm Saturday night ( that is 11 Central Asia time – I guessing about 1 in the afternoon here). It will be a long journey, but my strength has returned and so am I returning.

Thanks to all of you for your thoughts and support in so many ways over the last few weeks. Some prayed, some sent cards, and others called to see how I was doing – all of it meant so much to me. A special thanks goes out to mom and dad who ‘held my hand’ through the roller coaster that has been this past month.

Home for Canada Day

It was nice to be in country to celebrate our nation’s birthday; but for such an important event I knew I should find a date. I always did have a thing for TALL , dark and handsome men in uniform. I got myself a Mountie!

Polu

Since coming home a few months ago, everyone asks question about what the food is like where I live. They all want to hear the crazy stories of when I eat sheep brain, or the time I tried fried bugs. But on the whole Uyghur food is really good and filling. The following is the recipe to make Polu. This is one of the main foods in the Uyghur diet, and is mainly eaten at the lunch. In fact restaurants make one batch a day and if they are out by 1pm and you can forget about trying to order it for dinner. It is one of the foods I miss the most when I am home.

Polu (Rice with Carrots and Mutton)

1 cup salad oil

1 kg mutton cut into 4 big chunks

5 big carrots (some yellow, some orange), cut in thin slices on the diagonal, then cut into tiny long strips

½ medium-sized onion, cut in chunks

3 cup rice

4 ½ Cups water

2 tsp salt to begin with (add more to taste – up to about 3 ½ tsp total)

¼ tsp pepper

1 tsp cumin (optional)

Put oil in the pot and let it get very hot. Add salt to oil. Add mutton and cook from 2 minutes. Add onion. Keep frying until mutton is brown. Then put in carrot. When it comes to a boil, turn the heat down and simmer covered for 15 minutes. Turn heat up and add water. When it comes to a boil, turn the heat down and simmer covered for another 15 minutes. Taste and add salt if necessary. Add rice on top of vegetables. Push not water but DO NOT STIR. Poke some holes in the rice. If a little too much water, cook at a high heat for a minute or two, then turn heat right down, cover and simmer for 30minutes. Turn off heat and let sit covered for another 10 minutes. Don’t remove lid until you serve it. Stir and serve.

Options: Add raisins, dried apricots, currants, or eggs tucked into the top of the rice before the final 30 minute steaming.

A Second Bellybutton

Since surgery and since my brother's wedding I have come down with an infection at my incision sight. While the infection itself is clearing up, and looks good, the doctor had to cut a hole in my stomach in order to clean it all up. The hole is currently the size of my pinky figure and healing slowly. They can’t stitch it back up, because that would close any remaining infection inside, which means I am waiting for it to heal on its own. The doctors have given a variety of time length indicating how long this might take, I have heard everything from 2 weeks to almost 2 months ( as Uyghurs would say when they hear bad news ‘Huda Suklasun’ aka- God Forbid).

I asked friends in the nursing profession if there is anything I can do to speed up this process. One suggestion was to stay away from sugar - a hard thing to do in the Canadian land of plenty surrounded by chocolate, ice cream, cinnamon rolls and other decadent treats. But in an earnest attempt to do all that I can I have not only turned my back on these sweet indulgences, I have even cut the sugar from my coffee. (Long suffering sigh)

I ran into some friends the other day who were surprised to see I was still in Canada. They said they had been checking my blog, but since there was no update either way they just assumed that I was in the process of traveling and unable to post anything. Sorry to all who have been faithfully checking in hopes of hearing news. I have been taking so many antibiotics to fight the infection that I didn’t have any energy left to sit at my computer, much less try to be lighthearted while admitting to my delay. I will keep you posted on the state of my second bellybutton and my plans for return.

The Main Event

The whole purpose behind my trip home this year was not just to visit with old friends or even to have my appendix out… the main purpose was to witness the wedding of my big brother and to share in their special day.

June 4^th marked this important day in their lives and I was glad that I could celebrate with them. The ceremony itself was very beautiful and very intentional in it message. I finally have a sister!

You may notice that we are wearing shawls in a few of the pictures… those were not standard wedding apparel. In fact I picked them up at the grand bazaar in Central Asia before coming home. I had seen a picture of the bridesmaids dresses on-line and knew they were way too revealing. I had told my Muslim neighbors that I was going home for my brother’s wedding, if I brought back photos of me looking that inappropriate they might disown me. I bought a white shawl for the bride as well, so that they would know my brother had found himself a virtuous wife (since being home I have got to know her and see her beautiful heart… but sadly that wouldn’t communicate cross-culturally if all that can be seen is bare shoulders). Decent or indecent it was a beautiful day.