Winter Pasture

by Li Juan

  Our Young Pioneer stepping outside, midrecovery, to join the rest of the flock, searching for food

  PART

  TWO

  Masters of the Wilds

  10.

  Kama Suluv

  NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD KAMA IS about five foot five inches tall, willowy and graceful. Her skin is pale, eyebrows fair, and she has pretty, rosy cheeks. Her hair, though perhaps thinner than she’d like, flows silky and glimmers with the same subtle golden hue as her eyelashes. Her sage-colored pupils are set into a clear ring of black. Kama may have a baby face, but if you just glance at her, she is not without mature beauty. Given a closer look, the first signs of aging are already visible on her forehead and around the corners of her eyes. The hardship of life on the pastures takes its toll.

  Weirdly, despite her daily manual labor, Kama’s hands are white, slender, and unblemished. Except for her fingernails, which are seriously gnarled, with deep grooves cutting into their tips, likely a symptom of years of vitamin deficiency. To conceal this blemish, she uses hair dye to color her nails a bright tangerine.

  I once decided to call Kama “Kama suluv”—“Kama the beauty.” She bashfully refused my compliment and then called me “Li Juan suluv.”

  Nearsighted as I am, even with glasses, things that are distant remain a blur. I was always complaining, “My eyes don’t work.” So, the second time I called out “Kama suluv,” she shot back, “Your eyes aren’t working.”

  * * *

  THIS YEAR, WITH THE ADDITION of Shinshybek and his family to the pasture, the two families took turns, so the work of herding sheep became less onerous. Once the coldest days were past, Kama suluv took over the herding from her father. The previous year, the family had relied on this girl to do all the herding. The harsh winter and their lack of neighbors meant that Cuma, the head of the household, had other more important work to do. Because of last year’s rare blizzard and record low temperatures, half the family’s livestock froze to death, and they lost their only mount. Cuma spent a long time trying to find the horse, leaving only Kama and Sister-in-law at home. Every day, Kama herded on foot, while Sister-in-law did housework and watched the cattle and camels. Apparently, the snow last year was so heavy that it buried everything. The path that was cleared by the camels in the morning was completely filled in by the wind and snow in the afternoon. The hardship … one could only imagine.

  Herder girls are a rare sight on the pastures. There’s a Kazakh proverb that says, “A girl is a guest in her family.” She is only born there and grows up there, but she will eventually marry and become a member of another family. Therefore, she must be treated kindly and given respect, like a guest. That said, even without such a custom, wouldn’t the parents feel guilty? Making your daughter work like a boy …

  Cuma said that come next summer, they would not be sending Kama out to herd, no matter what. They planned to help her with an investment so that she could open a convenience store in Shaikyn Bulaq. They even included me in this plan. Kama would be in charge of selling and I would be in charge of supplying. The two hardworking partners would sell things at the lowest prices, certain to incur the wrath of all the other shopkeepers. Cuma had a special kind of antipathy toward continually rising prices.

  In my opinion, running a store is a hectic, busy line of work, not to mention the thin profit margins. Kama was better off opening a little eatery. She could make anything taste delicious; business would be booming for sure. I evaluated all three of Akehara’s eateries and concluded none could hold a candle to Kama’s cooking.

  Cuma said, “I already thought of that, but there are too many Kazakh drunks! A girl running an eatery all on her own is too risky.”

  I agreed, “That’s true,” and thought to myself, “You’re one to speak, you’re a drunk yourself!”

  * * *

  KAMA HAD DROPPED OUT of school during the first year of middle school and had been running with the herd for the five years since. But even after five years, she could still recite from memory long passages from her Chinese class: “Spring is here, the swallows fly back from the south … spring rain pitter-patters … the grass is green,” and more complicated poems, like “Pitch-Black Eyes” and “Big Blue Ocean.” She knew the morning exercise routine, which she always did to the music of Kara Jorga, the “Black Horse Trot”; and she made me hold her feet while she did sit-ups; and she liked push-ups, standing long jumps, the triple jump, and in general practicing the many things you only ever learned in school.

  When it came to her time in school, Kama had a lot to say. She told me they called her Chinese teacher “Little Teacher,” and when I asked why she wasn’t called “Big Teacher” (I assumed it was the surname Xiao, homonym of “little”), she explained that this “Little Teacher” was from the Grain Team (a Han work brigade stationed near Akehara village) and used to sell vegetables. The vegetables probably didn’t sell well, so she decided to try teaching. As Kama fondly recalled, “ ‘Little Teacher’ was wonderful, she always complimented me!” I concurred, “Of course she did. You are a good student who loves to learn and works hard,” which made her even more blue.

  She said, “I’ve been herding sheep for five years, while my big sister has been drawing for five years.”

  When Kama was fourteen, Sharifa, her sixteen-year-old sister, wanted to study art in the Normal School in Ili. Sharifa was the pride of this humble family. Ever since she was little, she’d been able to replicate any drawing she saw. She had quite a reputation in her family and among the clan folks. No one could bear to crush Sharifa’s dreams. But the only boy in the family, Zhada, wasn’t ten yet, and the third sister, Nurgün, was still a child. There was no one else who could do the work. So, it fell to Kama to drop out of school and follow her father onto the pastures.

  This made Kama rather sad, but she never complained. She loved her sisters and brother. Mention any of them and she’ll have countless good things to say about them—Sharifa was great at art and dance; Sayragül excelled at singing and learning; Zhada was the smartest, he could even repair motorcycles. And lastly, she sighed, “I’m not good at anything, so I herd sheep.…”

  I didn’t know how to comfort her, so I just repeated over and over, “Now, now … that’s nonsense, such nonsense!”

  The truth is, Kama was far brighter than the average girl her age. Had she stayed in school, she would have excelled.

  Kama told me that when the local youth gathered at the Kara Jorga Ballroom in Akehara, they took turns singing in front of a mic. Deep down, she really wanted to sing too, but she didn’t dare, even when everyone was egging her on. Shyness and insecurity—just imagine, the girl barely spends one month a year among other people in Akehara. The rest of her days, it’s all deserts and plains, flora and fauna; the only companions of her youth are cattle and sheep. Though many women herd, it was rare for girls as young as Kama to work the winter pasture.

  At home, Kama was a happy, relaxed, and playful young woman. Every morning she’d wriggle into her parents’ warm bed to snuggle, nothing like a nineteen-year-old. Yet her parents seemed to enjoy her childish side and doted on her endlessly. Except for when it came time for work—then the couple was all business and refused to spare her feelings even one bit. Whenever I saw Kama bringing back the horses at dawn, her face blue from the cold, I felt pity. But her parents found it perfectly natural and simply shouted at her, “C’mon, tea’s ready.” I couldn’t understand how parents could be so heartless! But the more I thought about it the more I realized: feelings are really only useful for enjoying the happy moments in life. Otherwise, it’s better to use them sparingly.

  Young Kama was diligent and attentive. Neighbor Sayna often asked for her help tidying up her house. A request like that was never an order, and it wasn’t to take advantage of her, but rather a recognition of her abilities, a way of praising her.

  When drinking tea at the neighbor’s, Kama felt like a host in her own home, cutting nan and pouring tea for everyone. She ne
ver sat still in her seat like a stranger.

  * * *

  NOW THAT SHINSHYBEK and his family were sharing the workload, Kama wouldn’t be as busy, so she laid out the following plans: embroider two decorative white scarves following a pattern (even though she was copying a pattern, she ended up with much neater and prettier scarves) to hang over the tus-kiiz, add embroidery to two new syrmak, sew a set of black velveteen saddle decorations for her horse (she was a big girl now and needed to look elegant while riding), complete a cross-stitch pattern with over forty different colors, and make a small felt cushion. Having achieved all her objectives, she still had time on her hands, but she had run out of projects. She groaned, “I’m out of things to embroider, what do I do now?”

  Kama’s hands were nimble. A lot of girls learn to be nimble through practice and experience, but not Kama. There were so many tasks that she could master on her very first try. The designs of her band-weavings were rich with variations. Patterns transformed through such a complex logic that it was almost dizzying to look at. They were nothing like next-door Sayna’s designs: three lines, a circle, three lines, a square.

  On the syrmak over our bed, the sections that were sewn by Kama were clearly better than those done by Sister-in-law. The needlework was stunningly precise.

  Perhaps it is because dexterous people are more inspired; Kama wanted all her embroideries to be original, refusing to do something that had already been done. Before drawing up a pattern, she’d come up with several different designs in her sketchbook and even ask me for my opinion.

  I pointed at one design and exclaimed, “That radish is brilliant! It’s blooming.”

  She roared, “Koychy! That’s an apple!”

  I quickly pointed to a different design. “The cabbage is nice.”

  By now she was on the brink of tears. “That’s a tree—an apple tree.…”

  In any case, my point was: whether a radish or a cabbage, they all had elegant forms and graceful curves. Were she to study art like Sharifa, there’s no question she would have succeeded as well.

  I once saw one of Kama’s round syrmak back at the encampment in Ulungur. The perimeter was done according to traditional patterns, but in the center, there was an adorable teddy bear wearing a red bow tie! Still a child after all, she said she had copied the design from her younger sister’s T-shirt.

  So when Sayna set out to make a new rug, she asked Kama to use her talents and help design the pattern. Kama asked me, “What’s something no one else has sewn before?”

  I thought for a while, then declared, “The Gate of Heavenly Peace.”

  “Koychy!” She burst out laughing.

  * * *

  IN BRIEF, KAMA SULUV was pretty, clever, and capable, but somehow, she still didn’t have a boyfriend. If I broached the subject with her, she would panic and say “Koychy” nonstop. She was only two years away from being of marrying age, but in her mind she was still a little girl.

  When we stopped to rest on the way home, carrying sacks of snow, Kama began grumbling about all the clothes she was wearing: the jacket used to belong to her little brother, the sweater was borrowed from her mother, the thermal pants belonged to her father, the jeans were hand-me-downs from her sister, even the socks were Grandma’s … all things considered, only the gloves and shoes were truly hers.

  I said, “It doesn’t matter. Once you’re married, everything will be yours, your man included.”

  Kama grabbed a handful of snow and chucked it at me.

  One evening a few days later, after completing work on the cattle burrow, while waiting for the sheep to return, the two of us sat quietly in the dark. It was cold out; we planned to wait until the sheep were a little nearer before going out to meet them. In the dark, neither of us felt much like speaking. Then Kama started to sing.

  Her voice wasn’t clear, but it was moving, crooning a melody winding and melancholy. I listened quietly. Light from the stove danced across her face as her body melted into darkness. Such youth and beauty, but no one was there but me to see it.

  Later that evening, braving the cold wind, we herded the sheep beneath a starry sky, one of us at each end of the flock. I couldn’t say for sure what it was, but Kama didn’t stop singing the whole way. Though her song was mellow, I had a feeling there was something stirring beneath the surface. Sure enough, as we neared the bottom of a sand dune, she said, “Two days ago, the herder looking for his camel shared the news that Kacipa from Shah’s family is starting school in Altai.” Kama was jealous and wanted to go to school too. Frankly, the news of Kacipa going to school surprised me. I knew Kacipa well—she too had dropped out of school and herded sheep for many years (not quite battling at the frontlines like Kama though). In the past, she whined day and night, saying she wanted to go back to school, but her family always refused. Who would have thought that after years of perseverance, her dream was finally coming true. Heavens, that fearless and unruly super-shepherdess … I couldn’t imagine what she’d learn from school!

  I didn’t know what to tell Kama. One girl was realizing her dream, while the other was feeling hopeless. Kama was a pillar of her traditional household. Without her, they wouldn’t be able to live as they do, at least not these last couple of years.

  Then, on her own, Kama brought up the topic of marriage, explaining how there weren’t many suitors (probably out of fear of Cuma, the drunken father-in-law), and of them, none were without their own problems, so nothing could be settled for the time being. She went on to say that many of her former classmates were already engaged and some were even married. She spoke with a sense of despair, adding, “If I don’t marry, I’ll be an old lady, and no one wants to marry an old lady. If I do marry, I’ll be just like Mom, day in and day out doing housework, cattle work, sheep work … from now until when I’m old.”

  She talked a lot that day, about how she wanted to work in a town somewhere, maybe learn a trade. She thought five hundred yuan a month would have been enough, as long as it could get her out of the wilderness.…

  Who knew that this cheerful, resilient girl harbored such a humble, desperate dream.

  * * *

  I WONDERED IF THIS was what drove Kama to so assiduously study Chinese with me—she was determined to learn not only to speak but to write too. She borrowed my Kazakh exercise book to copy out the vocabulary list and phrasebook in the back. She wrote out the pinyin next to each character, studying as if she were really in school. But the content itself was not at all practical, with phrases like “Courtesy must always be a two-way street” and “Life is finite, time is infinite” … what in the world was the editor thinking?

  I also sought to learn better Kazakh from Kama, but she always ended up going on and on, to which I had to say, “Enough, enough already, I’ll need a week to learn all that!”

  She smiled. “For me, it would only take a day.”

  She was right. Words that she learned at night, she had memorized the next day, acing her spelling quiz! I had to increase the difficulty, taking points off for writing even just a stroke out of place. As a result, she only got ninety-five points. Angrily, she crossed out the ninety-five and demanded that I change it to a hundred. I took the pen and wrote “85.” Her eyes bulged. Panicking, she relented, “All right, all right, ninety-five it is.…” She was completely serious.

  As a result of our mutual language lessons, our tongues often crisscrossed to comic effect. The best gaff of mine was: “Add some more black?” while her most memorable blunder was: “Por adam, por donkey.” The former meant, “Add some more sheep manure [to the stove]?” The latter was, “One person, one donkey.”

  * * *

  IN THEORY, AS THE ONLY child of theirs who lived with them, Kama should have been the Cumas’ least cause for worry. And yet, she worried them the most. Cuma rarely got riled up about anything. When he did, it invariably had something to do with Kama. For example, one day he spent an hour ranting about “excessive drinking among Kazakh boys these days.” This
came up because someone had suggested a potential spouse for Kama. The boy was great in every respect—except it was said that he loved to drink. Another time, Cuma was bemoaning the uselessness of education, citing over a dozen examples in one breath, simply because Kama had revealed her envy of Kacipa and her wish to go to a technical school in Altai herself.

  In fact, Kama was a sensible and mature young woman. For years, she had made so many sacrifices for her family that both her parents felt plenty of guilt. The reason they rebuffed her wishes and refused to let her attend school went far beyond “losing an extra pair of hands,” or anything selfish like that. I believed that as her father, Cuma wanted to keep this daughter by his side, secure a stable marriage for her, and ensure that she lived a stable life. He feared change. He wanted to stay in control of his child’s fate, forever protecting her, taking care of her, keeping her from hardship—as far as he was concerned, the only way to avoid misery was by sticking to the old ways.

  Even though once upon a time, his eldest daughter Sharifa had been Cuma’s biggest source of pride, now, when he talked about his children, Cuma would say, “Aside from Sharifa, the rest of the kids are good kids, carefree.” When I pried, he explained, “Sharifa has been away, going to school for five years, that’s five years without her parents at her side, who knows how she’s changed.”