Backpacks and Bra Straps (15 page)

“So you’re telling me you feel the same about this package of pads as you do about everything else you’ve always saved, eh? But why?” I asked Bree.

“Dunno,” she shrugged. “I guess I figure that I just might need it one day.”

Cause and Effect
19

W
hile we were being held hostage by our symptoms, I spent some time reading a bit of Ammon’s
Lonely Planet
book and had some trouble figuring out some pronunciations, particularly Uyghur.

“It’s the name of the Turkic ethnic group here,” Ammon explained.

Before he could explain further, Bree started laughing in a way that indicated another corny, homemade joke was on its way. “Oh, okay. I got it, I got it. You say it like… ‘we grrrr!’ or, ‘My ger. Your ger. We all ger’,” imitating what must’ve been her distorted version of a Mongolian caveman pointing at his home.

“Sort of. Kind of. Yeah, I suppose. Whatever works for you,” Ammon said.

“You sound like a caveman, Bree. Or should I say german…wait, ger-man. German. Do you think Germans had gers instead of caves and that’s why they’re called Ger-man?” I proudly delivered my contribution to the nonsense.

“I don’t think so. I’m not sure I even get what you’re saying,” Mom said, rolling her eyes.

“Or because they had lots of germs,” Bree fired back.

“Okay, you guys are just being officially stupid now,” Ammon said.

I nodded at Bree, giving her a silent, “that was a good one, sis” face.

We girls hadn’t had a chance to explore Kashgar yet, but we’d kept Ammon busy fetching food, retrieving money, and doing just about anything else we needed. The first time he’d gone to the bank for us, he’d discovered that he and Mom’s debit cards didn’t work. Thankfully, thus far we hadn’t had any problems with ATMs, which were our main access to funds, but now we were forced to exchange some of the American money we’d been holding in reserve; each of us carried five hundred US dollars stashed in our packs or money belt for exactly this type of emergency. Once we had some money and were able to trust our bowel movements enough to go a few hours without using toilets, we decided to venture out to discover the city.

As Ammon was strapping his money belt on for the day, he noticed the clothing I was wearing and carefully made a suggestion. “If you want my advice, I’d say cover up and put on some more clothes.”

“What? Why? What are you talking about?” I asked, looking down at my clothes with my arms outstretched.

“I’m just sayin’ that you probably won’t feel comfortable in that. Trust me on this one.”

“But this is China. What’s wrong with shorts and a T-shirt? It’s fifty degrees Celsius (122°F) out there,” I said.

“It’s actually only thirty-five degrees (95°F),” he corrected, “but that’s fine. Do whatever you want. It’s not that you can’t wear that, ’cause the Chinese minority wear the same type of clothing you saw in other parts of China. Just know that the majority of the women here are fully covered.”

Of course, I stuck with my original choice, choosing comfort over conformity and still clinging to my memory of our previous visit to China. It came as no big surprise later to see that Ammon had been right. As soon as we’d entered the old city, I regretted my chosen attire and could sense many eyes on me. I felt my blood rising to my cheeks as we moved through the crowd.

Ammon valued my common sense enough to know that I learned quickly. He also respected my need to find things out for myself rather than doing and believing things simply because I was told to. The way he just let me make this mistake assured me that he was a fair and effective leader and gave me even more confidence in him. I sometimes wondered why I was so darned stubborn, and hoped it was a personality trait I would soon outgrow, or at least, learn to control.

“Everyone stares at us anyway,” Mom commented as we walked into the open square, where a big statue of Mao looked out over us. “They’d stare no matter what we wore. We just look different, particularly you, Ammon, being that you’re so tall.”

“But now it’s even worse than before,” I said, beginning to feel rather uncomfortable wearing my usual apparel. I was never the type to enjoy drawing attention to myself.

“Oh, pft! I just stare right back at them,” Bree said, opening her eyes as wide as she possibly could and looking like a deformed owl in the process.

Most of the women were wearing long skirts with baggy shirts with collars, or colourful, muumuu-like dresses with large prints. Their hair was covered with a headscarf or a kerchief tied behind their necks. Sometimes their faces were entirely covered by thick brown gauze, a constriction that made me feel a bit edgy. Even the men wore long dress pants, worn and dusty dress shoes, and the traditional rounded or squared skullcaps; these beautifully stitched hats were known as
doppas.

“They must be roasting under all that clothing,” Mom said as she fanned herself. “You always hear that people dress like this in places around the world, but it’s quite something to actually see it in real life. Wow! How can those women even see through all that gauze?”

Still struggling to accept what I was seeing, I asked, “But why are so many women in headscarves? This is China, isn’t it?” I remembered the stamp we’d gotten on our visa only days before, wondering for a moment if maybe we hadn’t somehow taken a wrong turn and ended up in that unfamiliar Uzbekistan place Ammon had been talking about by mistake. From what I knew and remembered of China, we’d been comfortable in whatever clothes the weather permitted. This was the first time in our travels that cultural norms had influenced what we could wear. It didn’t appear to be too unacceptable to show some skin, as some of the Chinese women wore pants and shirts and left their hair unbound and flowing free. But they were clearly in the minority, just as Ammon told me. Geez, only a few short weeks ago, we’d been among skinny dippers in Russia at Lake Baikal.

Here, the old city and language were predominantly Uyghur. Signs were written in Chinese or in an Arabic-based script, both of which were impossible for us to decipher. I had been practicing the Cyrillic alphabet in some of the other countries we’d visited, and I’d actually taken a liking to the language and the alphabet. I could at least try to sound words out, which was significantly easier to do with Cyrillic than with Chinese characters. I had begun to pick up a few words and phrases, and could read some of the Cyrillic signs, but back here in China, I was once again clueless.

I’d been really looking forward to China’s familiarity, and it was turning out to be nothing like I’d anticipated. I’d seen landscapes change so drastically from dust to green that I thought the culture would change just as magically.

A week earlier in Osh, Kyrgyzstan, we’d had our first experience with a predominantly Islamic-based culture, and I still remembered my initial unease. Even Mom had admitted to feeling uncomfortable with the drastic change in culture. The overwhelming Muslim presence, with mosques everywhere and women in headscarves, made us feel wary and somewhat excluded. Part of that feeling of unease was because of all the negativity associated with the 9/11 attacks at New York’s World Trade Centre; we’d unintentionally let the media influence our first impressions.

“But I got used to the Muslim influence pretty quickly,” Mom had announced before leaving Osh. It would have been almost impossible not to revise our negative attitudes, given all the friendly, smiling faces and helpful people we’d run into in the markets of Osh and again here in Kashgar.

“I actually love the mosque and this Middle Eastern style of architecture,” Ammon commented, as if he’d been reading my mind. He snapped yet another photo of Kashgar’s exotic Id Kah Mosque, the largest one in China, and said, “There are also large numbers of Pakistani and Central Asian traders in town, especially on Sundays when the huge market gets underway.”

“What’s nice about this is you see the gradual change by going overland. You would miss it if you were flying over,” Mom said as we walked back to the hotel. Still feeling a bit weak and prone to overheating, we called it a day early so we could be back before the temperature peaked just after midday.

The population in Russia and Kazakhstan had lighter features, but the people’s appearance slowly became more Asian the further south we travelled, with characteristically darker elements and slightly narrower eyes. When we’d travelled along the ancient Silk Road, we could see the conquering Mongols’ physical traits embodied in their descendants.

“I just can’t get over how amazing it is to see the transformation in the people as we travel. I love that. It’s my favourite part,” Mom kept raving. We could literally see the trail left by ancient explorers, warriors, and traders in the faces of their twenty-first century descendants. It was incredible to be immersed in their history like that.

My mind was constantly bubbling with ideas and brainstorming in an attempt to comprehend the infinitely complicated impact that different cultural groups had had throughout history.
Could our simple family expedition have any impact on the future? Had we flown across the globe, which we geographically never could have done without modern technology, only to squish a few too many mosquitoes, or step on too many ants? Had I eaten a Chinese fish that would have been caught by a starving man stranded on a deserted island? And if I hadn’t eaten that fish, would he have survived and gone on to be president and save the world? Had our actions somehow given someone else hope, and thus influenced them to act in a way they otherwise wouldn’t have? Can a butterfly flapping its wings in Mexico cause a typhoon in China?

I considered the effects that might result from how rapidly the advancements in technology, transportation, and trade practices of my era were progressing, and how different the world might be in another two thousand years. At this rate, in only a few hundred years, the Dutch could be of Moroccan descent, the Japanese of African descent, and so on. Or maybe, we would all just be one big melting pot of cultures and physical features, which might help us establish equality and peace at long last. If that’s what it would take, bring it on!

The Ways of Old and New
20

“E
ven though China is the third largest country in the world, it is all considered just one huge time zone. The country itself physically stretches through what should be at least four zones, I’d guess,” Ammon said with a stiff jaw, not bothering to hide his frustration with his latest planning failure. “Needless to say, way out here in the West, the official time makes no sense at all, so they operate unofficially using times that are two hours behind Beijing’s. Of course, that can get a little confusing because, officially, things are still on Beijing time.”

The locals had told us the day before that the free shuttle to the Sunday Market left at 10 a.m. What they didn’t mention, and what Ammon forgot to ask, was which time zone they were referring to. It quite quickly became apparent that they had quoted Beijing’s time, and we’d missed our bus by two whole hours. To Ammon’s dismay, we had to spend ten yuan to take a taxi to Sunday’s livestock market, which was the biggest in Central Asia.

“Bree, Bree… Check that out,” I said, catching her by the wrist, “I didn’t know they could do that.”

Disregarding my attempts at discretion entirely, Bree pointed at the gigantic schlong and shouted, “Oh my gosh! Look at his willy! I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life.”

My bulging eyes remained fixated on the bizarre scene in front of us as I agreed, “Me neither.” We both blatantly stared at it, our eyes frozen on the genitalia of one extremely aroused donkey. Not only was his equipment firm and solid, it was astonishingly long – longer than any such tool had the right to be. He could attack that poor female donkey with that thing from a mile away and she’d hardly know what hit her. But he was, by no means, instigating a sneak attack. His front hooves were latched securely onto the sides of her rump as “it” bounced up and down, flexing in an attempt to find its way in. He tiptoed around desperately on his back hooves, trying awkwardly to position himself higher and thrust.

“You guys are such perverts,” Ammon said, barely even glancing at the spectacle before moving on.

“That’s frightening,” I said, shaking my head in hopes of erasing the memory from my brain.

One of the many Uyghur men dressed in grey suits and doppa caps came rushing over to break up the party by shouting at the donkeys and swinging his arms around, as if such meagre acts could dissuade the animal from nature’s strongest urge. He finally leveraged all of his body weight to shove a shoulder into the donkey’s rear, forcing the animal to disengage. As soon as the man’s back was turned to chase the donkey away from his intended prize, though, another randy beast took advantage of the situation. This didn’t last too long before the same man came running back to shove him off as well. All the while, the female continued to stand dopily around, unbothered by whether donkey number one or donkey number two was climbing on top of her.

He’s in for a tiring day of trying to control his animals and their instincts. This was a battle against Mother Nature that he was sure to lose. I wonder why they didn’t separate the males from the females before they threw them all together in this hectic marketplace?

“I always thought donkeys were so cute and sweet,” I said, “but I’m not so sure anymore.” I found that I wasn’t so sure about a lot of things as we continued to explore Kashgar’s famous Sunday Market that day.

The entrance to the animal market was crammed full of merchants surrounded by live goods. A black cow with a white head was riding with four calves in a large truck-bed with metal side bars, pulled by a rusty blue tractor. Their faces were tied so tightly that the cow couldn’t even nudge the calves with her nose to offer even the slightest reassurance. Her eyes bulged out to the sides, searching from the corners of their sockets as she tried to keep watch over the little ones. They were so young that their crusty umbilical cords still dangled from their bellies, and they were trembling with fear.

But when I saw the sheep being brought in like canned sardines, I realized the cows were the lucky ones. Young men hoping to make some money showed up in three-wheeled motorcycle trucks transporting perhaps half-a-dozen sheep tied down in the back, and that was only a moderately sized load. Others came with more substantial numbers of livestock in much larger trucks.

While we watched the farmers arrive and unload their wares outside the city’s brick walls, utter chaos reigned within. Sheep, cows, donkeys, and horses were tied up in different areas to be inspected, test ridden, and haggled over. The Uyghur men formed a cloud of doppas and faded, dirty blue or grey suits as they perched over their sea of four-legged merchandise.

“It sure is a man’s world out here,” Ammon said. The older generation sported long, greyish-white beards, somehow managing to avoid getting them tangled up in all those reins and ropes. The men were all sweaty and hard at work, pulling, whipping, and chasing animals into position while donkeys hee-hawed from every direction. Sheep were continuously being unloaded and then chucked like bags of rice from wooden, donkey-drawn wagons.

As I took in the overall scene, it seemed that everyone was engaged in much the same kind of activity, but a closer look revealed many individual struggles. One example was how it took three or four men just to pull a pair of sheep around a single mud puddle. I loved imagining what such struggles revealed about local lifestyles.

One determined sheep was digging its heels into the mud, screaming and refusing to stand up. Its owner had zero tolerance for such behaviour and casually but firmly stomped on its head. That stubborn sheep changed its tune immediately and jumped right up and cooperated. I was shocked by the apparent cruelty, but then found myself laughing nervously at how starkly the now brown, mud-dipped face contrasted with the sheep’s white, woolly body. The locals had no more compassion for the animals than they would for a sack of potatoes; in their eyes, they were nothing more than today’s bread and butter. Bree, in particular, felt a lot of sympathy for the animals being brought to the marketplace so callously.

The ground was covered with a fresh layer of dung, and the scent of hay and feces was strong. Hooves tromped through the muddy earth, the dark splatter hardening in clumps on their legs and tails.

“I mean, honestly, how do any of these people sell their sheep when there are a hundred other guys selling them, too?” Ammon wondered as we walked down the long rows of sheep that were tied to parallel ropes, facing each other with their necks interlocked in a criss-crossed zipper pattern. Men were busy sheering them the old-fashioned way, using two sharp knives like scissors to do the job. In Kashgar, Sunday was the big day for buying and selling, and wives and families were no doubt expecting their menfolk to come back with more money than animal droppings.

“This market is perhaps the largest and most active of the Silk Road markets still operating. Although a lot has changed, to think that something similar has been going on here for at least a couple of thousand years seriously blows me away,” Ammon said, clearly in awe of the historic continuity of these muddy, bustling surroundings.

We sauntered over to the horse section, which was comparatively less crowded. The horses were decorated with lots of bells and colourful ribbons to mimic the noisy havoc of riding through the city.

“It’s like a horse’s driving test,” Bree said, watching the potential buyers observe how the horses reacted to these simulated hectic conditions before making a purchase. We climbed up onto a high stone wall to get a bird’s-eye view of the action.

“Do you guys notice how there are no touts or any other sort of promotional hassles here? There is no way they’re going to stop and harass us to buy a cow, so we’re left alone to just observe. I love that. We really get to see the genuine working lifestyle,” Ammon said. “I mean, just look at that boy right there. He’s simply priceless. He’s out here working as hard as anybody. He’s like a grown person with his hat and his suspenders and his kid-sized horse. I love it!”

He zoomed in to snap a candid shot and was pretty pleased with the result, until I pointed out his mistake, saying, “Ammon, I think most people actually call those kid-sized horses ‘donkeys’.”

“Whatever, Savannah…” I had never seen Ammon happier or more in his element. He was smiling and enjoying every moment, and I knew how he felt even before he talked about it. “This is amazing. You know, there are people who are getting ready and filing into church in their Sunday best right now, while we get to sit up here watching all this old-fashioned commerce going on.”

His recognition of the contrast highlighted how much some things differ around the world. I understood how easily this world and its people and trade could be ignored from the calm, well-ordered lifestyle most Canadians enjoy at home. From such a great distance, it would almost seem the people, dirt, noise, smells and crazy activities of this town in Western China had never Wood chips existed, but here it was, and we were right in the middle of it all…

During the era of the great Mongol empire, Italian wayfarer Marco Polo, one of the first Europeans to journey to China on the Silk Road, made a stop in Kashgar. I wondered if he’d seen the old town in the same light that we did. I imagined the ageless carpenter shop with its stacks of wood piled high outside the brick cubbyhole, just the same as it must have been in that ancient time. The smell of fresh wood was ripe and inviting in this area of the market. Wood chips and shavings flew out of the young carpenter’s shop. Bits of sawdust decorated his hair, and he smiled broadly at us as we passed his shop. Could this young man be a great-great-great-great-great grandson of someone who’d met Marco Polo on his way through the city those many years ago? I remembered learning something about him in school, but mostly I remembered how much I had loathed anything to do with history class. Now that I was experiencing it all personally and walking the same trail that had linked merchants, monks, pilgrims, warriors, and nomads for centuries past, it was becoming all too real. And exciting.

“I know we’ve all heard of Marco Polo, but did you know that it was actually his father and uncle who took him along with them on their journeys? He was only seventeen, just a few years older than you, when they travelled to Mongolia. You two have a lot in common. The Polos travelled together for twenty-odd years before returning to Venice,” Ammon told us.

“Oh, geez. Poor guy. I better not get stuck with you guys for the next twenty years,” I said.

“Why not? I want to keep travelling for at least five more years,” Bree said.

“Why would you want to do that, Bree? I am
not
going to be twenty years old and still stuck in grade nine.”

Ammon interrupted the beginning of this sisterly squabble by saying, “If you two keep going on like this, I’m not taking you anywhere, so just stop it. Think about this instead. Did you know that Marco Polo was under the service of the great khan of the time, Kublai Khan, in Beijing? You know what khan means, right?”

“Ruler,” I said, still distracted by thoughts of the ancient roots of the habits and routines I could see taking place in the shops.