by Li Juan
Meanwhile, I was determined to learn Kazakh. I was ambitious about it too, wanting not only to speak it, but write it as well. I borrowed a set of Kazakh exercise books and braced myself for battle. But to actually learn it was something else! Even though the Arabic alphabet only has two more letters than the Latin alphabet, it felt like a mighty army of ten thousand horses. One tongue wasn’t nearly enough and the letters were full of twists and turns with a thousand appendages, like an unspooled thread that is tangled beyond untangling … sigh—au-to-di-dact, four syllables that are not nearly as simple as they seem.
* * *
REGARDLESS, IT DIDN’T matter how thoroughly I prepared; actually leaving was a whole other issue. If it wasn’t Cuma’s sheep wandering off one day, it was his camels disappearing the next. The big day continued to be pushed further and further back. On top of that, it was almost the end of November, but it still hadn’t snowed. Snow is the only source of water in the desert in winter. Without it, humans and animals can’t survive. As a result, the departure date seemed impossibly far away, which made everyone tense and anxious.
To make matters worse, whenever Cuma, the drunk, thought about having to stay sober for the whole winter, he felt sad. So each day, he tried to drown his sorrows in booze and inevitably ended up getting into trouble all over town. This was not a good omen.
Finally, the day of departure was upon us. The previous evening, I moved into Cuma’s family’s permanent spring and fall encampment five miles down the Ulungur River. As usual, Cuma had drunk himself into a stupor, so my mother had to drive me there on a motorcycle.
The final step before leaving, as per the herders’ custom, was to turn my watch back two hours. Until that moment, I had been on Beijing time.
I fell in love with the morning light on the winter pasture.
2.
A Three-Day Journey
ON THE DAY OF DEPARTURE, we rose before dawn and started the final preparations in the wan sunlight, packing, binding the heavy pack to the lead camel’s hump, seeing to the horses, and ushering the sheep into a single flock. Cuma’s neighbor-to-be on the winter pasture, Shinshybek, along with his brother, Kulynbek, came to lend a hand. At 7:00 a.m., the team was ready to set out. Kulynbek led my horse over to me. He and Shinshybek would be accompanying Kama and me and the migrating herd. With one hand gripping the saddle and the other clutching a fistful of the horse’s mane, I strained to pull myself up. After much wiggling around, I found what felt like a stable seat (despite my clothes). Apa (Cuma’s mother, who was to stay in the nearby permanent encampment through the winter) came over and tugged on the bottom of my sheepskin pants to cover my ankles. It was exactly the kind of tender gesture that I needed to ease my nerves. The sky chose this moment to come to light. The air was crisp and cold. The sheep were already on the main road a ways off. Riding between them and myself, Kama hollered for me to catch up. After waving goodbye to those who had come to see us off, I sent the horse into a canter with a light kick to its belly and quickly gained on the rest.
For the three-day journey, nineteen-year-old Kama and I would be in charge of the camel team (thirty-some camels), while Shinshybek and Kulynbek would be in charge of the sheep flock (the three families had nearly five hundred sheep combined) and large livestock (over a hundred cattle and horses) for the duration of the trip. Cuma and Sister-in-law (which is what I called his wife), along with the rest of Shinshybek’s family, would join us three days later by truck, bringing food, fodder, and ice by the ton. Kulynbek and his family would then head to a different pasture for the winter.
Compared to the sheep flock, our camels could walk quickly, so Kama and I would be arriving at the evening’s camp before the two brothers with the rest of the team. After setting up a simple triangular tent, we were to ready hot tea to await their arrival. Meanwhile, the main team would follow our tracks, taking as long as necessary for the sheep, cattle, and horses to nibble on dried grass and snow as they walked. Such a long journey was hard work for everyone; it was only fair to let them satisfy their bellies.
That morning, the camels, sheep, and large livestock all set off at the same pace. After our clamoring team crossed the suspension bridge over the Ulungur River, we continued south, past the road running along its southern bank then up and down a series of rugged hills. From on top of one, we took in the vast undulating landscape surrounding us. An hour later, we had left the villages along the Ulungur River far behind and were venturing deep into the scrublands.
The barren hills before me rolled like waves. There was only the vestige of a thin trail meandering through them. The sun was still rising, the sky was cloudless and blue. Having walked for so long with no break, the herd was growing anxious. The sheep snuggled up to the goats, the lambs followed close to the ewes. The horses refused to walk with the cattle but the cattle insisted on staying close to the horses—it was a game of tag that inevitably led to chaos. The camels without nose pegs were the most unruly. Whenever they found a tuft of grass as thin as a thumb, they stopped to eat, refusing to budge, constantly falling behind as if they hadn’t the slightest clue we were on the road far from home. The two men shouted angrily at the animals as they ran to and fro, disciplining the ones that deviated from the path.
The sheep were the most orderly. Heads bowed, they huddled tightly together, afraid to stray from the group by even one step.
The ten or so camels fitted with nose pegs were also obedient. They formed a long line and calmly followed the rope that bound them together. The lead camel, packed with a heavy load, set the pace.
It was my job to steer the camels. Generally, they were friendly, but sometimes they liked to chew on my hat. It was a straightforward task; I just had to hold tightly on to the rope. Even so, I managed to lose them twice. The first time, we had walked barely half a mile when I heard Kama shouting from a distance. That’s when I realized that I was holding a rope attached to nothing at all. The second time, I had walked for who knows how long with only a single camel attached to the rope, plodding along at my back. The others were left standing far behind us, wondering why nobody was paying them any attention.
Ah, what could I do. All these layers of clothing had my neck locked in place. I couldn’t nod or look up, let alone turn my head to see what was happening behind me (though it must have done wonders for my arthritic neck)—I had to turn my whole horse around.
Speaking of horseback riding, even though the horse was doing all the walking, I still felt tired beyond belief. The main reason was that my hands were too full. I carried a whip, my horse’s reins, the camels’ rope, the thermometer (for more accurate readings, I kept it in my hand rather than stuffed in my warm pocket), cheese (for a quick snack), a camera, and a camcorder. In addition to losing the camels, I nearly dropped the whip a few times as well. Losing it would have been a real pain. Bundled up as I was, what were the chances that I could reach it? To be safe, I strapped the horse’s reins to my wrist, fastened the thermometer to my glove, tied the camel’s rope to the horse’s reins, wedged the cheese between my teeth, and hung both cameras from my neck. And so it was that I jingled all the way, like a fully decorated Christmas tree.
* * *
GIVEN THAT IT WAS only a three-day trek, one camel was all it took to carry the necessary provisions. There were several pieces of bedding, two large wooden tent frames, some felt covers, a kettle, a big sack of food, an iron oshak stove, two chimney funnels, sets of bowls and chopsticks, bark from a birch tree (to start fires), and a generous bundle of kindling. In the gravelly scrublands, there is nothing that can be used for firewood, only sparse scrubgrass.
Just before noon, as the temperature rose, the team emerged from the hills into the flat expanse of the rocky desert where withered scrubs shyly dot the earth. The sheep and livestock slowed—it was lunchtime! Kama and I picked up the pace, leading the camels toward the southwestern horizon.
Clouds metamorphosed before our eyes, drifting from east to west. The endless sky, the
boundless earth, left us speechless. Compared to the sense of loneliness the moment conjured, our weariness seemed trivial. The wind picked up—heaven and earth were hollering at each other. I had already been wearing my face mask. My scarf was wrapped tightly around my neck gaiter. The earflaps on my big hat were buttoned tightly beneath my chin. The only part of my face that showed through a narrow slit, half a finger wide, were my eyes. The world that appeared before me was shallow and oppressive, but I felt safe. Soon, the lenses on my glasses were misted over by my own breath. The steam thickened until all I could see was Kama’s blurry silhouette before me. But there was no need to see—the world offered no obstacles and the horses knew their own way. At first, every so often, I plucked my glasses off to wipe them. But soon, I simply sat on top of my horse and waited for time to pass.
Having passed through the empty and monotonous plain, the landscape began to gradually change. Before us was an expansive salt flat that was slightly lower in elevation. Half an hour later, the camels descended into the western margin of the salt flat, a place that was sheltered from the wind. When I saw Kama slide down from her horse and approach the camels, my heart leaped. We’re here! The first day’s journey had come to an end.
The moment my feet touched the ground, Kama assigned me my first task: to act like a hitching post. On that flat, empty land, there was nothing else to secure the reins to. With the reins of all the horses and camels in my hands, I plodded to and fro, untethering the camels from one another, unpacking supplies, and erecting the stove. I did what little I could to help until Kama’s hands were free. Then the saddles came off, the lead camel was relieved of its pack, and only then were the reins released and the animals allowed to wander free. At first they lingered nearby. Then, gradually, they began to drift out into the desert.
* * *
AFTER ONLY A DAY of riding, my face and the backs of my hands were chapped so bad it hurt. I wanted to wash them, but we had no water. The flask that we had brought along contained only a block of ice—not a drop of water would come out. I found the wet wipes that I remembered packing, but they were frozen too, like iron sheets, rock-hard and impossible to pull apart.
Kama went to collect snow as I lit the stove. But the iron chimney funnel had been squashed flat. I scoured the ground nearby for a rock to smash it back into shape, but I couldn’t find anything bigger than a walnut. All I could do was stomp on the chimney and squeeze it with my hands until there was an opening wide enough to be wedged onto the stove.
I lit the fire easily enough and Kama returned with half a bag of snow over her shoulder. We had a big tin pot to melt the snow in, except that after a day of being jostled about, a coating of dust and dry twigs had accumulated on the bottom (it sat directly below the kindling in the pack). I wondered how Kama planned to wash it, but she didn’t; she simply poured the snow right in.
After the snow melted into water, I carefully washed my hands and face. My hardened skin felt softer, more comfortable. Then I pulled a tube of hand cream out of my pack, but once again, nothing came out—it too had turned into a tube of ice.
While the tea was boiling, the two of us quickly set up the temporary tent. Building the tent was simple; all you had to do was stretch out the two wooden frames, bring the tips together, tie up the top, and throw on the cover. At first, I couldn’t see how two flimsy wood lattices could hold themselves upright. But under the weight of the heavy felt cover, what was once loose and flimsy became firm and unwavering.
Underneath us was a thick layer of animal manure. Apparently, people had been stopping there to rest for many, many years.
Next, Kama asked me to fetch a horse. They’d arrived before the sheep. She pointed to the east, which was her way of telling me to bring back a particular large black steed. After accepting the mission, I immediately set off running toward the horses. But after ten yards, I turned back. I needed to remove my sheepskin pants, which were so thick and stiff that I couldn’t bend my knees.
With my pants off, I felt as light as a swallow, but my feet were still encumbered by my many socks and colossal boots. Once again, I ran back to change out of my black rubber boots that were eight sizes too big.
Having finally disposed of the restraints that had burdened me all day, my strength was unleashed and I quickly covered a large distance. When I saw the horses, I was stupefied. They were all black, and all very large. I couldn’t possibly bring them all back at the same time, so I chose the two blackest and went after them.
Catching horses is easier said than done. Even if I had six more legs, I couldn’t have outrun them. Instead, I circled them, trying to block their path … but that didn’t work either. How exhausting. After a while, panting, I climbed to a higher ground. That’s when I saw that the flock of sheep had already crossed into the scrub plain to our north. I gave up on the horse chase and returned to camp, bringing Kama the news. She was still furnishing the tent. As soon as she saw me, she shouted for my help, never bothering to ask about the horses. I still don’t know why she had asked me to fetch the horse in the first place.…
The sheep appeared on the highland to the north. They were only a half mile away from camp. Kulynbek had left the flock behind, charging toward the rising smoke of our camp. He sang at the top of his lungs as he cracked his whip. He must have been thinking excitedly about the end of the first arduous day of travel. His excitement infected Kama, whose work around the camp grew into a frenzy as her voice quietly accompanied his song.
Though both are the music of nomadic peoples that ring out across the steppes, Kazakh music is different from the music of the Mongols, who we are more familiar with. The latter is soulful and austere, while the former is exuberant, bright, and rhythmic.
Kulynbek rode up to the camp, but he never dismounted. He circled the camp, signaling his satisfaction, and then charged back toward the herd without even stopping for a sip of water.
Once the sheep were accounted for, the men lay down on a slope by the camp to catch their breath. They kicked off their felt overboots (chunky, round things that were impossible to walk in) and gulped down a few bowls of tea to soothe their weariness before jumping straight back on the horses to gather up the scattered herd. Having brought the livestock back to camp, they tied up what needed to be tied up and fettered the hind legs of those that needed fettering. They beat the ones that demanded a beating and scolded the ones that deserved a scolding. It wasn’t until the sky was dark that the animals began to quiet down. But even then, they appeared anxious. This was unfamiliar territory after all. At this point, the horses that had been ridden all day were relieved of their saddles. With their hind legs fettered, they wandered off to eat grass for the night. Only then did the men crouch down in the tent where, at last, we sat to enjoy tea without worry.
The bowls, wet from washing, were frozen into a single tower. It took great effort to pry them apart. The milk in a plastic bottle labeled “Nutrition Express” was frozen solid as well. Kama used a small spoon to dig into the frozen bottle and scraped bits of icy milk into everyone’s tea. The tea was neither dark nor aromatic, but out in the desert, it was enough to assuage our pitiful bellies. The trick to drinking tea in the cold is to drink quickly, before the tea has a chance to cool. Once cooled, solidified chunks of butter would float in the tea bowl, which made it hard to swallow. I drank as quickly as I could, and before I knew it, I had gulped down five bowls, which meant countless trips to the toilet.
As soon as night fell, I began to feel sleepy, exhausted beyond words. When I thought about the fact that I only had four hours to sleep, I was desperate to crawl under the covers and shut my eyes. But no one else seemed to share my sense of urgency, or perhaps after the arduous day, they still needed time to recuperate. By the dim light of a flashlight, they continued to drink one bowl after another, while the kettle kept at a boil. They spent two hours drinking tea and finished two kettles of water! When they saw that I couldn’t stay awake any longer, they told me to sleep. Meanwhile, they
remained seated together, silently, around a shaft of light encompassed by the dark night. I slept a little, then suddenly woke up to find them still sitting there, unmoving. It wasn’t until later that I understood that only Kama and I could sleep that night—the men couldn’t shut their eyes for more than a second. Because we had no sheepdogs with us, it was their duty to keep watch, protecting the herd from wolves. They could do nothing but drink tea in order to make it through the cold, trying night.
When Kama had first put up the tent, I had poked my head in and found quilted felt syrmak rugs and wool blankets laid out in the thirty-square-foot space. Could four people really sleep here? Whoever had to sleep near the side of the tent would be the unfortunate one. Of course, that ended up being me.
Sleeping under the stars in the frozen wilderness, I couldn’t help but have the jitters. At first, I hadn’t planned on taking off my leather coat, but on second thought, I realized wearing thick, stiff clothes to bed might constrict my blood flow, which might actually increase my chances of freezing, so I crawled under the covers in my down jacket and long johns and laid my heavy coat on top of the equally heavy leather blanket. Snuggled under all that weight, I lay motionless. Soon, my feet warmed up.
Ordinarily, covering my head with a blanket would have made me feel like I was suffocating. But that night, I was like a baby bird tucked beneath her mother’s wing—safe and sound. This little nest, dark and warm, separated me completely from the cold. It was a universe within a universe, a seed inside an apple.