Winter Pasture

by Li Juan

  Kama reached the peak of excitement when she discovered a small bag of sugar that Sister-in-law had carefully squirreled away. She screamed! Then she scooped a mean spoonful into a mutton jar. She stirred and stirred until the sugar and fat coagulated. Then, she spread this strange sugary mutton grease on a nan like strawberry jam, and chomped down.

  Zhada went to school in the outside world, so he had the opportunity to taste many things that the rest of his family had never tried before—such as mushrooms, tofu skin, and fishball soup. Relegated to the monotonous menu of the winter pasture, he often tried, as if his life depended on it, to describe the shapes and flavors of the myriad strange foods. But in the end, all he did was torture himself, ending up with a mouthful of drool and nothing he could do about it.

  As for me, for the sake of food, I too was willing to give up a little status. When the little girl Nurgün suddenly called me over from afar, I suddenly had a good feeling! I ran over to ask, “What is it?” She whispered to me, “Come.” I hid my excitement and took a step closer—aha! She grabbed my hand and surreptitiously stuffed a piece of cream candy in my palm! Beyond my wildest dreams—I couldn’t help but pinch her cheeks and kiss her, then scoop her up and spin her in a circle three times.

  Over the course of the winter, sweet little Nurgün gave me two candies and a cracker!

  * * *

  IN THE DARKNESS after dusk, I often gaze up at the steaming-hot, delicious moon and think about the other moon waiting at home—that fresh new piece of nan baked during the day … oh, what does that make me? An empty sack with two legs that is endlessly stuffing itself with more and more food!

  The power of food is that it does so much more than merely please the taste buds. The reason for our overly voracious appetites must be more than simply that life has gotten dull. I think all the creatures that live out in the wilderness feel the same way about food. Out in the wilderness, there are no outside powers coming to your rescue. The instinct to survive is so strong that we all live in a constant state of near insanity, an eternal emergency.

  Think about life in a city. Among the crowds, should life start to look hopeless, you can always reach out and beg, you can look for garbage in dumpsters. There, people always have a minimum level of guarantees, there is always the possibility of survival—out there, “living” is never the end goal, the end goal is to “live a better life.” By contrast, here in the wilderness, humans can only rely on the plants and animals. Out here in the wilderness, there is no lucky break, not a single extra thing just sitting around.

  In short, I felt insecure. Aside from eating like my life depended on it, everything else was out of my control. It was as if I only felt the confidence to face challenges when my belly was full to the point of bursting.

  Anyway, “eating” became the number-one item on my agenda. My stomach was a bottomless pit that never once reached its limit. It was there, once and for all, that I got over my bad habit of being a picky eater.…

  * * *

  ONE DAY AT NOON, Kama went to the yurt to grab a length of fatty sheep tail. After chopping it up, she threw the pieces into the wok to render out the fat and make chitterlings. She said to me with an air of mystery, “Today, we will eat this thing that isn’t plov! Isn’t stir-fry! Isn’t noodle soup! Isn’t a stew! …” on and on, listing all the things we ate day to day. I asked, “So what exactly is it?” She pondered for a moment and explained, “Well, this thing isn’t a plov or a stir-fry or noodle soup.…” It must have been lost in translation.

  After a bowl’s worth of fat had been rendered out, Sister-in-law took over, scooping out the chitterlings then adding a scoop of flour directly into the bubbling oil! She stirred it, mixed it, adding more flour as she went along until the flour and oil reached just the right consistency. Then, she put the wok on a small flame and fried it some more, before finally adding two spoons of sugar. During teatime, she poured a shallow half bowl of the fried flour into everyone’s tea bowl, packed it down to the very bottom of bowl, then poured the milk-tea over it. She then instructed me to drink the tea first before eating the flour underneath. I took a sip—the fragrance! In addition to the aroma of the milk and the tea, there was a powerful hint of wheat. By the time the tea was finished, the surface of the fried flour layer had turned into a gelatin, whereas the bottom was dry and sandy. A taste—my, it tasted like cotton candy! If the aroma of the milk-tea could be compared to a charming hiking trail, then the aroma of the fried flour would have to be compared to a boulevard downtown! It really was a thing that “wasn’t this thing or that thing”; I had never tasted anything like it before in my life.…

  The dumplings were also like nothing I had ever eaten before. This was because Kazakh dumplings are different from Han dumplings. The meat filling is much chunkier. Sometimes there was only one chunk of meat inside a dumpling. The skin was different too. First, they rolled a big, flat sheet; then they cut out small square skins. The shape of their dumplings was also different from Han dumplings—they resembled little fish. When it came time to wrap, Kama, Sister-in-law, and I were responsible for making the dumplings. Cuma was responsible for lining up the raw dumpling-fish on the table into formations, making sure they were all lined up straight and pointing in the same direction. Two battalions of dumpling-fish stood face-to-face, ready for battle. And it was Zhada’s responsiblity to watch and roll his eyes, offering a “Koychy” from time to time, because his father’s childishness was just too embarrassing. But when all the dumplings were wrapped, we couldn’t help but play with them for a while before tossing them into the boiling pot.

  * * *

  THERE WERE THINGS they hadn’t eaten before either. One evening, as we were winding down for sleep, someone brought up liangpi, cold wheat-starch noodles. Kama and Zhada, who had eaten them before, were so full of praise that Sister-in-law and Cuma became curious about how it was made. I began offering a lecture on the topic, but as they listened, they became skeptical. Kama insisted that I should demonstrate for everyone the next day. Zhada applauded, cheering me on. But Sister-in-law said, “Koychy!” and Cuma said, “A waste of flour!” What they meant was: it sounds impractical.

  The next day, Kama urged me to demonstrate in earnest. While enduring Sister-in-law’s skeptical hums and haws, I began the demonstration, mixing the dough, rinsing the starch from the gluten, letting the starch water settle, boiling the gluten sponge, steaming the settled starch … even making a sauce out of the starch water left from the rinsing. Throughout the whole process, Zhada showed incredible interest. There was nowhere else he wanted to be, so he stuck around and helped out. There were only two iron plates for steaming the noodle skin, so there was plenty of work for him to do. Once a layer of noodle skin was done steaming, he would take the plate out to cool in the snow. In the next moment, he brought the cooled plate back in exchange for another hot one. During the whole process, the boy listened and did as he was told. He ran in and out of the house being as helpful as can be.

  Even though I only rinsed one bowl of flour, it yielded enough liangpi for everyone to try a small bowl, as well as a bowl for the neighbors. Everyone ate in silence, offering neither praise nor criticism; it was excruciating. But then, on second thought, no matter what we ate, people rarely offered passionate comments. That calmed me down a bit. But soon enough, the nerve-racking feedback process began. After Kama finished her portion, she announced with confidence, “Tomorrow she will make it, she’ll get the hang of it!” But Sister-in-law immediately disagreed. She said it tasted good, but that it was too much work!

  Indeed, the menu in the winter pasture was humble. There was only one proper meal a day, and the rest of the time it was nan and tea. As for the proper meal, we ate meat once every three to four days. The rest of the time, it was either sliced noodles, pulled noodles, or steamed rice. Whatever we ate, there would always be a bit of vegetable garnish. Cuma was always complaining about how produce was getting more and more expensive, and even went so far as to blame
my family’s shop for it. How infuriating.

  In this family, everyone had all sorts of problems. Cuma’s feet stank. Sister-in-law and Kama had gnarly nails that were seriously misshapen. Even my nails were starting to grow horns. Once, when I was embroidering a felt mat, I punctured one of the fingers on my left hand. It was only a tiny little wound, but it never seemed to heal. Slowly, the cut spread along the ridges of my fingerprint, deeper and deeper. When I was out working, even a small amount of pressure could cause it to bleed. In addition, my canker sores were getting worse. When one healed, another would pop up on the other side. My mouth was never without a sore. I had to drink tea out of the corner of my mouth. I assume these are all effects of vitamin deficiency?

  In any case, I braved the winter, took it in stride, and avoided any other form of ailments. Even on the coldest days, when I was as cold as a monkey, I still managed to ward off the cold. But somehow, during the last week at the burrows, perhaps because I was anticipating the departure, my body suddenly let down its guard. It was as if other hopes and demands had overcome my immediate needs, smashing my body’s equilibrium with a flood of complicated concerns. At any rate, during those last couple of days, my digestive system, which had been running full steam all winter, suddenly cooled. At the same time, I came down with a bad cold.

  * * *

  WHEN I FIRST STARTED living with my new family, Cuma noticed by solid appetite and said with confidence, “When you go home, your mother will be shocked. She’s gonna think you were drinking chemical fertilizers at my house.” But in reality, I didn’t fatten up at all over the winter—my weight even dropped down to below eighty-eight pounds.

  Because I slept in a sack, Cuma often called me “gunnysack girl.” Then as I became thinner, he changed it to “half-a-gunny girl.” That was my third nickname in the wilderness.

  25.

  Visitors (1)

  ONE DAY, CUMA STERNLY tugged on my jacket and said, “This is for old woman, not young lady!”

  I looked down. The shiny silver down jacket was exactly what young people were wearing. It didn’t seem particularly old-fashioned.…

  Then he added, “So dirty!”

  True … it was filthy.

  Because it was the only light and easy-to-wear jacket I owned, I refused to wash it. Washing it would have been a big commitment. It would have meant the pain and misery of living for a week without a jacket. Besides, the amount of water Sister-in-law gave me for laundry would have only been enough to wash one sleeve.

  I bucked up and retorted, “And who am I trying to impress?”

  Cuma said, “See, I told you, an old woman.”

  Hearing something like that said about you, how can you not feel embarrassed?

  It didn’t matter that I dressed like this when I was herding sheep, collecting snow, or shoveling shit. But the moment I saw someone headed my way on horseback, my first reaction was to take a detour. Should that same person shout a greeting to me, I would keep my back toward them and only turn my head for a quick response.

  Had a visitor showed up at the door, it would have been a more frenetic situation. It would have involved me quickly taking off the jacket, rolling it into a ball, and stuffing it under a blanket. That would have been the quickest way to distance myself from the thing.

  Bringing a light-colored jacket into the wilds, yet another bad idea!

  Fortunately, we were in the winter pastures, with a population density of one person per every square mile and a half. How many visitors were we expecting to see in a winter? And in the middle of the winter, even when there were visitors, nine out of ten times it was people looking for their lost camels. The passersby stopped for a drink of tea, which could hardly be called a visit. So we didn’t need to treat it with such seriousness.

  Although in my view, camel seekers could be considered an important form of networking as well. When the herders looking for their camels entered the burrow, they sat and drank tea for at least two hours straight—but what about the camels?

  When we first settled in, our neighbor Shinshybek lost two camels. He spent a week looking for them, during which he came home only twice. Every time he came back, he still hadn’t found the camels, but he smiled as usual. Before we even had a chance to ask, he would grin: “Nope, still didn’t find ’em!”

  * * *

  WHILE NINE OUT OF TEN visitors were on the lookout for camels, the remaining one was either passing through on their way to hitch a ride or had missed that ride and were on their way back home. That’s life: once you’re in the wilderness, leaving isn’t so easy.

  The latter kind of visitor tended to be young people with beautifully polished shoes. Some were even wearing shoes that were obviously new because their soles were spotless.

  After saying hello to the hosts, they would proceed to lie down for a nap on the bed. Sister-in-law, who would be in the middle of boiling or cutting patches of felt, would carry on with her work as usual. While waiting for the tea to be ready, the guests found things to do like play with the cat or flip through an old, wrinkly newspaper that had been tossed beside the bed.

  Had I been a competent official, observing life in the wilderness, I would have asked in a politely patronizing tone, “What is your name? How old are you? Is your home far from here? What is your business in the area?” But I was too lazy to bother with all that.

  Generally speaking, the younger visitors were always very curious about me. They stared at me with eyes like convex lenses that focused laser beams on my body. Wherever they looked, I felt a burning sensation. Needless to say, it made me feel very uncomfortable.

  To solve this problem, I stared back at them just as intensely. Soon, it was their turn to feel uncomfortable. They returned my fixed gaze with a look of embarrassment.

  In spite of her lack of interest when guests first arrived, Sister-in-law never neglected her duties as host. Once she had finished with the task at hand, she laid the tablecloth, cut some new nan, and even asked me to fetch some baursak from the yurt. Normally, our tablecloth did not hold such nice things.

  But until then, as Sister-in-law quietly finished her work, the guests plonked side by side on the bed, waiting. It was rather awkward. However, once tea was served, the atmosphere warmed up immediately. Sister-in-law asked the guests all sorts of questions with keen interest. The quests chatted without pause, thanking their host for every bowl of tea. They could have all used some company, after all.

  * * *

  AS FOR THE GUESTS who were not at all surprised by my presence, it was either because they had visited before or because they had heard all about me before they arrived. When this one man entered, he greeted the hostess and sat down on the bed without so much as a glance at me. He took off his magnificent fox-skin hat and laid it next to him on the bed, revealing the small white skullcap underneath. His beard was gorgeous, and there was a sort of magnetism about him. I took the initiative to talk to him, asking if he would allow me to take a picture of him. Unbelievably, I was rejected! Cuma quickly explained to me that the man wanted to be on horseback before taking the photo. That way, he would look even cooler.

  After tea, he offered the most gracious thank-you and bid farewell. He put on his hat and strode out the door. We accompanied him outside. There was a coat lying in the snow that was too raggedy to wear inside. He picked it up and put it on. Cuma grabbed the horse’s halter to steady it while giving the man a hand as he climbed on. The man turned the horse toward me and waved. I snapped photos, as many as I could. But after only a few shots, he kicked the horse and rode off. Cool indeed!

  * * *

  AND THEN THERE WERE the familiar guests, like Bolat—the elder brother of the girl Kaziyman, whom I’d met on the Dongquer summer pastures. His home was far, a day by horseback. I never did figure out why he showed up there. It wasn’t to look for camels or to catch a ride.

  Though we already knew each other, the boy never once greeted me in front of the family! What was there to be shy abou
t?

  One afternoon, an elderly visitor suddenly appeared. He was of medium stature with a long face and a big nose. He was shabbily dressed, aside from the pair of binoculars around his neck. Binoculars were considered precious items. Many shepherds bought sleek and stylishly embroidered leather cases for them. But this old man’s binocular case was a leather satchel, and a patchwork one at that. Rustic and flamboyant, it was clearly the handiwork of his missus. I stared at the swanky satchel for a long time; ah, an old man with a satchel like that, honestly … but the more I thought about it, the more I realized, huh! What’s there to be ashamed of? At least he had a case. Our Cuma didn’t even have one. He just wore the binoculars around his neck.

  Even though the old man was shabbily dressed, his shoes were unusually new, and stylish to boot! But were they really necessary? He was out looking for camels, why the new shoes? I imagined that perhaps in the morning, he had an argument with his wife over that very decision. Chances were, they were his one nice possession, like Cuma’s new jacket that he insisted on wearing when he went to herd. People with nice shoes never took them off when they climbed onto the bed platform. Not only didn’t they take off their shoes—they would stomp their feet as they climbed on.

  Though I found the old man charming, little Karlygash thought he was frightening. Head tilted, she stared and stared at him. The old man stared back in the same way. After five minutes, the baby suddenly broke down in tears! It was the first time something like that happened. Everyone laughed. Having failed to win over the baby, the poor old man clearly looked embarrassed. He never turned his gaze to the child again.