by Li Juan
* * *
FOR SOME REASON, I always felt a deep gratitude toward those who made an effort to greet me when they came in through the door. It felt as good as having been offered friendship or assistance. I remember one quiet guest with pale eyes, who was always on the verge of saying something. I thought that perhaps he had something to say to me or perhaps even sought my friendship. He leaned in intently, ready to listen. I could feel his anticipation, but I was tongue-tied, unable to express myself. Before he left, he turned his attention toward me once again, but I was still at a loss for words. It wasn’t until I walked him out to his horse that I could bring myself to holler, “Farewell!”
There was another young man who, without a word, picked up Plum Blossom with one hand, a Chinese newspaper with the other, and pretended to look very busy. Surprisingly, he could actually understand it! He slowly read the news out loud to me. Out of every ten characters, he knew at least three—impressive. I offered him my most sincere compliments. He then told me, in what words he could muster, that he had gone to high school and it was a small city high school no less.
So we began chatting. I complained that there were too many letters in the Arabic alphabet. He told me that I didn’t need to learn all of them—four of the letters weren’t used in Kazakh—and proceeded to point out which four. Wonderful news! Those four letters were the worst. I was immediately filled with confidence.
He offered me some advice: “The winter is long. Learn one letter a day and you’ll have learned everything in a month.”
I said, “I’m old. I need two days to learn one.”
What more could he say?
After he left, I hoped that he would one day return. Some days later, he really did return. I rushed over to talk to him, but for some reason, the young man completely ignored me! I couldn’t help but feel a little hurt.
* * *
THE GUESTS WHO ARRIVED dressed in thick layers came by horse. Those dressed in extra-thick layers came by motorcycle. And if they wore thin layers, they must have come by car—if they had to resort to using a car, how many camels must they have lost?
And then, there were those three who came by car—acting like they were about to starve! They ranged over the tablecloth, picking and choosing. I had to watch as they picked out the last three pieces of manure-baked nan (mixed in with the regular nan) and gobble them down.…
One evening a guest came. He was far more amazed by my presence than your average herder and stared at me unrelentingly. When I couldn’t bear the awkwardness any longer, I tried my old trick and stared right back at him. But for whatever reason, I couldn’t outdo the intensity of his stare. I was outmatched.… During dinner, he kept his eyes on me while he asked Sister-in-law all sorts of questions about me. I supposed he must have come from very far away. Most herders in the nearby pastures had either met me already or, at the very least, heard of me. He must not have known about me at all, which was why he acted so surprised.
As soon as the guest finished his tea, he returned his bowl, stood, and took down the white cloth that was hanging over one tus-kiiz.… I didn’t understand what was happening when Kama reminded me to move aside. Only then did I realize that this man wanted to perform the namaz (the formal prayer). Devout Muslims observe the namaz five times a day.
So that’s what the white cloth was there for. I thought it was only decoration.
He laid out the cloth, and while facing west, he began, “Wula wula,” reciting the scriptures. Every now and then, he would prostrate himself and pray.
Zhada, being a child after all, couldn’t help but snicker at the sight of someone so seriously antiquated. He tried to contain his laughter, but it continued to escape him.
Yet, at the end of the bata, when the man raised his palms to start the closing words, Zhada instantly raised his palms too, while nudging Kama, who was in the middle of embroidering. At this time, Sister-in-law stopped what she was doing too, and the three of them all raised their palms to utter the final word together, “Allah.” The bata was completed solemnly.
The man stood up, said his goodbyes, and immediately rode off by himself. Later, as I stood on top of a sand dune looking for the cattle, I saw him gradually disappearing to the west. Like all shepherds, he had a long, thin leather strip dragging behind his saddle. He would bring news of me far and wide.
* * *
ONE AFTERNOON, SISTER-IN-LAW and I were cutting a black velvet cloth that we planned to use to trim our new syrmak. Suddenly, the door swung open, and plop, in fell a little boy. After regaining his balance, he stared at us in a daze. Sister-in-law laughed, called him over, and found a piece of candy for him. The boy was no more than five years old, quiet, gentle, and shy, with dark cheeks. Cuma said that he was a relative Kurmash had brought over from the pasture to our west. He would be staying with us for some time.
That day, the flock returned late and everyone was rushed off their feet. After tethering the calves, I bumped into Rahmethan, who was returning with the sheep. It had only been a day since I had last seen him, and all of a sudden, he was exceptionally polite. He graciously extended a hand toward me and said, “Hello.” I obligingly stepped forward and shook his hand. Suddenly, the little boy I had met earlier in the day appeared from behind him and said softly, “Hello.” So I had to shake his hand too. Such grown-up gestures made the little guy giddy. Energized, he worked extra hard ushering the flock into their pen. He stood behind us and screamed vehemently, slapping the obdurate sheep with all his might, refusing to return home until all the work was finished. It must have been freezing.
It wasn’t until the next day that I learned he was seven! The poor little chap looked much younger.…
Those were Cuma’s rest days, which he spent sawing and hammering, and he managed to fashion a series of makeshift items, including a saw handle, a dagger handle, and a cleaver handle (for some reason handles were always breaking). The little boy gawked all day, mesmerized. Cuma told him in a serious tone, “In my family, we have a twenty-year-old baby and a fifteen-year-old baby, all we’re missing is a seven-year-old. Why don’t we go have a word with your ma and pa, see if they’ll give you to us?” The child thought hard about the proposition but in the end decided, “No.” Cuma added, “I know your ma and pa, I’ll speak to them, they’ll be thrilled. In the future, when my family has some new babies, your ma and pa can pick one in exchange!” The boy suddenly fell silent and left. Apparently, after returning to Shinshybek’s, he cried all night. The next day, he demanded to go home. Kurmash had no choice but to take him back.
Cuma could be really loathsome sometimes. In addition to bullying children, he also made up nicknames for the older guests. Kurmash’s two chubby friends, who looked a bit like Indians, were dubbed “foreign Kazakhs.” The two had thick, black, curly hair and round faces, which were darker up top and lighter on the bottom, the result, I assume, of wearing face masks.
Cuma named a skinny old shepherd “old man flower” because the man’s sweater comprised a patchwork of various yarns and threads.
In spite of being rather shallow, he was still quite a welcoming host. In these wildlands, who could afford not to be? Perhaps all the people who live in such remote, sparsely populated corners of this world are the same way? The herder’s welcome comes not only from his loneliness, but also from the need to forge a network of people who could help each other. Everyone is at once a host, providing food and warmth to others, as well as, inevitably, a guest in the care of others. The sense of equality between guest and host is what keeps the social life of the wilderness predictable, sincere, and simple. Whenever a guest walks through the door, the tablecloth is promptly laid, and tea served. If it happened at dinnertime, the guest sits to eat as well. Even if the host is eating meat, the guest would not act polite and refuse. Likewise, if the guest arrives in the middle of work that requires muscle, there is be no escaping it either. Off the horse and straight to work.
* * *
ONCE, WHEN I WAS OUT
gathering snow, I tripped and tore my pants. My other pair had recently been washed and were not yet dry (despite having been hung up for a week …). So, as soon as I got home, I began mending my pants. We’d had a long series of quiet and peaceful days, but just my luck, guests started to show up. They came one after another like a school of fish. One was looking for lost camels, another was waiting for a car back to Ulungur. Yet another was seeing off the one waiting for the car, and another two were acquaintances of the one waiting for the car who ran into him on their horses, so they all came in to catch up.
While shouting, “Wait, wait!” I wriggled back into my pants in such a hurry that the needle was still hanging from my butt. But the guests had no intention of looking away. Instead, they all squeezed onto the bed as usual and made a joke of me. The whole thing became a classic joke about Li Juan, one that Cuma repeated to every visitor. He’s told it at least five times.
On the other hand, I have been puzzled ever since. What happens when these people who just barge into people’s homes encounter an even more awkward scene? I suppose it would be considered the host’s lack of foresight. That’s why out there in the wilderness, no matter how hidden and remote a burrow, it remains perpetually neat and proper, ready to welcome a guest at a moment’s notice. Even if only a single guest appears all winter, the burrow will maintain its immaculate state for that one occasion. It isn’t a matter of vanity but rather respect for one’s self and others.
* * *
FOR SOME REASON, after the guests had greeted the host and everyone found their place around the tablecloth, the first ten minutes of the gathering were always silent. As the guests gulped their tea, the host would quietly keep them company, as if they were all laden with weariness. Suddenly, someone would begin the conversation and everyone around the table would instantly come to life, chatting more and more enthusiastically until they could no longer stop themselves.
It was the same way even when the guest was there for a particular purpose. First there was silence. Then, after twenty minutes of drinking tea, when I threw the guest an unconscious glance, he quickly explained, “Your mother asked me to bring a crate to you, it’s sitting outside.…” What if I’d never looked at him, would he have continued to wait for an opportunity to tell me? It was as if the long stretches of time that separated the contact between people, as long as the desert was wide, made it hard for them to reconnect when they finally met.
* * *
BUT MORE OFTEN THAN NOT, people passed by our burrow at a distance. Whenever we saw figures slowly traversing the land nearby, we’d climb to high ground to observe their movement. It wasn’t until the figures disappeared completely in the distance, with no intention of ever turning around, that we would finally return home, disappointed.
Our most common visitors were the livestock from the neighboring pastures. There were always occasions when, upon leaving our burrow, I was met with a startling surprise! Outside the door was a gathering of more than twenty camels draped in festive colors. Who knows how long they had been there? What a festive sight!
When cattle from the neighboring pastures got lost, they would grace our burrow too. Perhaps it was because they could smell their own kind there, and perhaps they were attracted to the thick bed of sheep manure, which offered a precious bit of warmth. They camped out outside the sheep pen, and by dawn, they were all covered in a thick blanket of snow.… Most of them were pregnant, with bulging bellies. It must have been a difficult night for them in this cold and strange place. On the other hand, it must have been a relief compared to being stranded in the middle of the vast desert.
But our most frequent visitors were the two brothers, Shinshybek and Kurmash. Kurmash came over most every evening around dinnertime to trade news and enjoy a bowl of noodle soup while he was at it. And Shinshybek came over every morning during tea to discuss the day’s grazing plans with Cuma and enjoy a bowl of last night’s noodle soup while he was at it.
26.
Visitors (2)
IN EARLY JANUARY, we were graced with a guest of honor. This visitor was very distinguished—he was neither looking for camels nor passing through: he was the veterinarian!
The veterinarian was the guest who had traveled the farthest and who was also the most important, so far. From the banks of the Ulungur, he drove down in a pickup to complete four important tasks: one, vaccinate the sheep; two, geld livestock; three, act as deliveryman for incoming and outgoing parcels; four, give everybody a haircut.
Whenever guests turned up at our door, Cuma would ask them if they knew how to give haircuts. He was always asking me as well. How could I? Cutting hair is a highly technical endeavor. It’s not like stir-frying or cooking rice, something that anyone can master.
Time and again, I told him, “You’re out herding every day, who are you cutting your hair for?”
I even advised that he stop shaving. A long beard could keep the wind out and his neck warm.
But when it came to these rubbish theories of mine, Cuma felt nothing but scorn.
Anyhow, the vet arrived. Cuma and Shinshybek wrapped their wives’ headscarves around their necks and had the vet clean up their facades.
Watching the vet cut hair left a deep impression on me—who said hairdressing required a three-year apprenticeship? Nonsense! I watched him do it once and I learned it.
Then the vet helped us castrate our camels. It’s called surgery, but from beginning to end, all he did was make one cut, sew two stitches, then cauterize the wound. And to facilitate this work, the whole family had to help. He didn’t have to do any of the chasing and hobbling and tethering of the camels, yet he still charged fifty yuan. So expensive!
Then again, camels are rather large animals. Perhaps the price was based on size.
After inquiring, I learned that castrating horses and cattle cost fifty yuan as well, which left me puzzled once more.
* * *
THE VACCINES NEEDED to be administered at sunrise before the sheep left to graze, so the vet spent the night in our burrow.
The next morning, we woke up half an hour earlier than usual. The sun was still below the horizon. The sky was gloomy. Steam billowed out from the sheep pen. Shinshybek and Cuma caught the sheep; the vet gave them a shot; Sister-in-law painted a red line on every vaccinated sheep using the red dye that she boiled wool with. The whole process took an hour in the freezing cold. A layer of ice formed on Sister-in-law’s basin of dye. Our hats and collars were coated with frost.
It cost one yuan to vaccinate each sheep, which felt quite reasonable. The haircuts were free, as were the deliveries. In addition, the two families boiled a pot of horsemeat and a pot of cattle head respectively in honor of the guest. Before he left, they each gave him a bag of kurt. The perks of being a vet.…
* * *
ONLY A FEW DAYS LATER, we welcomed the winter’s second-most-important and honored guests—the horse traders.
In fact, they were only passing by in their big truck, but when Cuma, who was out herding, saw them in the distance, he intercepted the truck and invited them home.
When I climbed up a dune and saw a big truck tottering through the wilderness toward our burrow, I was thrilled! I immediately rushed home to report the news. Everyone followed me back up the dune. As our eyes followed the truck closer and closer, we made guesses as to what its business was. Cuma was galloping behind the vehicle. The flock had been left far behind in the distance.
When the truck finally stopped in a dip to the east of the dune, I saw that there were already two camels and some cattle and sheep tied up in the truck bed.
While Kurmash and I went to herd the flock that Cuma had left behind, we discussed the topic of the horse traders. Cuma had long wanted to sell a horse so that he could buy a car. I first found it hard to believe: How is that possible—the price of a horse is enough to buy a car? But later, when I actually saw the selection of beat-up old vehicles, I changed my mind.
There were four people in the truck: a
boss, a hired hand, a driver, and a person hitching a ride to his spring and summer encampment (for a fifty-yuan fee). In the evening, Sister-in-law boiled a large pot of mutton and wheat porridge to treat the guests. Shinshybek’s family came over as well, making it a full house. Because at the time, no one from the younger generation was around, it fell to me to carry the kettle and basin for everyone to wash their hands with, as well as a towel draped over my shoulder for drying. I thought nothing of it, but the guests were clearly uneasy, quickly washing their hands and thanking me when they were done.
Because we couldn’t all fit around the dastarkhān, Sister-in-law and I sat down in the right-hand corner of the room with a small basin of meat. Though everyone else sat all the way across the room, their faces were all turned our way, watching me slice meat with fascination, smacking their lips in approval. I did as the locals would, holding down the meat with my thumb while slicing the blade toward me. The meat fell slice by slice and quite ceremoniously at that.
In the company of so many well-spoken and worldly guests, lonely Cuma was ecstatic. While he conversed normally at the beginning, his conversation quickly turned into a monologue. The distant visitors, weary from their long journey, were exhausted, but they forced themselves to listen late into the night. After a round of tea came a plate of meat, then another round of tea. There was no end in sight to his monologue even as the guests were so tired they could hardly keep awake. When one guest went to the toilet and Sister-in-law took the opportunity to start making the beds, Cuma continued to sit next to the quilts, rambling, unwilling to move aside. And after the lights went out, when everyone was curled up beneath their quilts, he continued to prattle in the dark, laughing at his own jokes. For a while, he even acted out two different characters, impersonating their dialects to great effect, as if he was performing for an auditorium rather than an audience that was deep asleep. To be polite, at the end of every story, one of the guests would say “ye” in the dark (ye means something like “uh-huh”). But gradually, even that came to an end. Sometime later, someone shouted in panic, “Allah!” before mumbling a final “ye.” He’d woken up startled.