Winter Pasture

by Li Juan

  But they still returned earlier than Cuma did.

  Finally, Cuma complained outright. One night, when Shinshybek came for a bowl of tea, the two ended up in a long, serious discussion. The following day, the result was apparent: Shinshybek made up his mind and did not return until six o’clock! It had long been dark by then.… Bracing against the cold wind, Rahmethan and I ran up a nearby sand dune only to find the desert utterly still. Cuma was impressed: “At this rate, they’ll let him join the Communist Party!”

  For days afterward, the two men competed to see who could return the latest. By the time they finally reached home, they were frozen stiff.

  Arms as stiff as a block of wood, Cuma slowly drank one bowl of tea after another. He sat for a long time without uttering a word. It had been an especially cold day. Even sitting next to the stove, his breaths came in thick puffs of white. Then, when he was finally warm enough to have command of his senses, he leaned over to tug my jacket sleeve and opened his mouth: “Is this new?”

  I replied, “No, I’ve had it for five years.” He looked shocked and impressed.

  Then he tugged at the old military-style jacket that he was wearing and said, “This one, two thousand, ten years!”

  At first, I interpreted that to mean he bought it in the year 2000 and had worn it for ten years. I quickly responded, “Wow, how does it still look so new after ten years? Great quality!”

  He paused for a moment, then said angrily, “What ten years, not even three months!”

  In fact, by “two thousand, ten years” he meant 2010.

  If that jacket was only three months old, it definitely looked older than its age.…

  Then he pointed at Sister-in-law’s violet coat—the one that I’d spared no effort washing two days prior—and said, “This, worn for one year, cost two hundred yuan!” I said nothing. My cotton jacket only cost one hundred.

  When I was washing Sister-in-law’s coat, I had thought, I wonder how old this coat is, it’s filthy! I never could have imagined that it was the first time it had been washed. After I washed it, the water was the color of chocolate! Or more precisely, the first wash left me with what could’ve been dark soy sauce, and the second left me with regular soy sauce; the third, I assumed, would have given me light soy sauce, but by then, I’d already been scrubbing for two hours (to clean four items of clothing! Each item was heavier than the previous one—I barely had the strength to wring them out …). I was exhausted, my hands were pruned, and there wasn’t enough water, so I stopped at two washes.

  Meanwhile, Cuma was still grumbling. “You wear it one year and it’s useless. Two hundred yuan! Two pairs of shoes, gone, a hundred yuan! Inside, outside, up, down, yours, mine! It’s all gone, how much money is that?! Herding sheep every day, leaving early, back late, and this is what I get for it!” What he meant was that considering how hard they worked for it, the money didn’t last very long.

  I didn’t know how to comfort him. The few tricks I could think of in terms of caring for clothes were only really suitable in a sedentary lifestyle—a much more relaxed, stable way of life.

  And who am I to suggest that they didn’t look after their belongings? They patched their clothes again and again, and there wasn’t a single pair of shoes that hadn’t been mended. Clothes beyond repair were cut up to be sewn into durable bags and blankets for the camels or woven into sturdy ropes. The most colorful articles were cut into patterns to be sewn into the syrmak. Even the last remaining scraps were cut into even stripes and sewn back into a quilt to be used for cushion covers or cloth bags.… In short, even after a piece of clothing could no longer be worn, it still had a long life in the burrow, disappearing only little by little.

  Shoes that were beyond repair weren’t thrown away either. Instead, Cuma got rid of the soles and pressed the rest of the shoe beneath a rug. Once the material was flattened, it could be used to patch another pair of shoes.

  A chipped ladle had its handle removed and affixed to an enamel bowl using a thin iron sheet to create a new ladle.

  A broken square plastic kettle had the top cut out to make a square bowl for feeding the dog and cows.

  Even an empty plastic bottle wasn’t simply thrown away. It continued to act as a vessel for other things. At one point, it was a milk bottle that froze at night, so no milk would pour out. Kama placed the bottle next to the stove to warm it up, but the moment she took her eyes off it, the bottle shriveled, collapsing at one side to form a C shape. Still, they didn’t throw it away. It just became a container for sunflower oil instead.

  On our journey south, Shinshybek’s lighter broke. After a long day of work, two men sat in the pitch-black desert night, shining a flashlight on the thing, and discussed how to fix it for a half an hour. They disassembled and reassembled it again and again without any success. I thought Shinshybek would throw it away, but two days later, at the end of our journey south, he took out the lighter and continued to try to fix it with the help of handy Cuma. It was only a one-yuan disposable lighter!

  They never threw these disposable lighters away—even when the gas ran out. Next time, when another lighter broke, they could disassemble the empty one for parts to fix the broken one.… Somehow, it had never occurred to me that these lighters could be repaired.

  But no matter how thrifty they were, everything continued to flow through the household at a rapid pace, like water. And no matter how this water continued to wash over them, the family, set in their ways, refused to budge.

  Still, the water never stopped flowing. Discreetly, it would eventually wash everything away.

  * * *

  THE SECOND WEEK, after settling in, Cuma suddenly said, “Is the speaker broken? What’s wrong with the sound?” Kama turned it upside down and shook it. A clump of dried grass fell out! She opened up the speaker and discovered another clump inside.

  During the move, the speaker had been left in a pile of grass on the truck.

  I asked, “Why’d you put it with the grass?”

  Cuma said, “Who’d have thought it was a sheep? I didn’t know it ate grass!”

  In addition to all the items used in everyday life, the light-duty truck had also been loaded with over a dozen bags of ice and over a dozen sacks of fodder and grain for the two families. By the time the truck arrived, it wasn’t just the speakers that had suffered a rough ride; the steamer pot was also bent out of shape, and Sister-in-law’s bottle of osmanthus pomade broke. But compared with previous trips, the damage was negligible. In the past, they moved using camels. While the camels plodded, all the items weighing down over their humps bumped and scraped against each other. And if they had to travel over a mountain pass, there would be even more bumping involved. As a result, after every move, many things were broken.

  In a life constantly on the move, these things were expected. And taking into consideration all the backbreaking labor, it was even more understandable. Even the highest-quality clothes didn’t last more than a few months, and even the toughest rope didn’t last more than two years.

  The toughest ropes were made from leather. They lasted two years but took almost a year to make. After the summer slaughter, the cowhide is dried in the sun. When it has stiffened, it is cut into an inch-wide spiraling strip, measuring tens of yards long. It is then pressed, rubbed, and beaten until it eventually begins to soften. In autumn, once the flocks have wound their way down from the mountains into the wide-open pastures, herders attach these long, stiff strips to the backs of their saddles to be dragged along wherever they go. This was also to massage the leather, to let them bang on the earth until it gradually softened. This kind of work could not possibly have been done by hand. Across the autumn and winter pastures, almost all the herders rode with these long strips dragging behind them.

  And throughout the long winter, time and again the herders would remove the strip from the saddle, lay it over a rock, and beat it with a hammer, inch by inch, to further soften it. Then, after lathering on some sheep grease, they wrap
the still-hard strip around a pole and pull it back and forth to soften it further. By spring, it will finally be soft enough (though still tough, but at least it can be bent and twisted). On the spring pasture, a herder will cut the strip into four or five thinner strips and weave them together to make a braided rope about as thick as a finger. At this point, it is strong and supple, finally fit for use.

  I said, “It will only last two years? That’s not tough enough!”

  Cuma said, “The plastic rope your family sells, eighty cents for three feet, two fingers thick, only lasts three months!”

  * * *

  LIKEWISE, THE FAMILY’S HEALTH was worn away, bit by bit. Years of strenuous labor had left Cuma and Sister-in-law with all sorts of aches and pains. At times, the pain was so bad they couldn’t walk. As a result, they ate aspirin and painkillers like snacks, two pills, four to five times daily. It had been like this for almost six years already!

  I warned them, “You cannot just keep taking pills like this, you must get proper treatment.”

  Cuma sounded exasperated. “Treatment? How? If we leave, what’ll happen to the sheep? If we don’t watch the sheep, where will the money come from for the treatment?” It was hopeless.

  For the half hour after taking aspirin or painkillers, the pain is immediately relieved, much to everyone’s satisfaction. Nearly every herder family maintains a large stock of these cheap drugs, much to my concern.…

  Possibly due to taking too many pills, one day Cuma suddenly got a bloody nose that wouldn’t stop bleeding. I wanted to help him stop the blood as best as I could, but he refused, saying that his head hurt and that once the blood had flowed out, it would feel better. So every time the blood clotted, he blew his nose as forcefully as he could to make it bleed again—it was horrifying to watch.

  He admitted that the previous night, his knees were in extreme pain so he got up and took four painkillers.

  My heart ached for him as I warned, “Don’t take any more! Those things aren’t good!”

  He said, “I know painkillers aren’t good. But aspirins are fine.”

  “Aspirins aren’t good either!”

  He said, “Koychy!” and went on to ignore me. Sitting at the edge of the bed, head drooping low, his nose continued to bleed.

  * * *

  IN ADDITION TO THEIR DEMANDING way of life, another factor threatening their health was certain unhealthy habits. I noticed that, after the women washed their hair, they immediately tied it, still dripping wet, into braids and went outside to work in the icy cold. And they often went to bed with their hair still wet.

  When Sister-in-law asked me to help her scrub her back as she washed, she told me to rub laundry detergent on her back! Afterward, the suds were never fully rinsed (there wasn’t enough water); she simply wiped the lather off with a wet towel and got dressed. Didn’t her skin burn? Didn’t it itch? Frankly, I thought her back was perfectly clean before, her skin fine and smooth; the only thing dirty on it now was the laundry powder.…

  Every evening, after her work was over, exhausted Sister-in-law crawled onto the felt rugs and asked me for a massage, particularly around the calves. After only lightly pressing on her muscles, she screamed in pain. Cuma had to make a joke of it and wrapped his arms around her, pretending to wipe away her tears. He sobbed in Mandarin, “Don’t cry, it’ll all be better soon, it’ll all be better soon.…” Something he learned from TV.

  But when he was the one with a hurt leg crawling onto the bed, everyone stayed as quiet as they could because the slightest chatter might annoy and anger him.

  Even fifteen-year-old Zhada grumbled about pain here and there. And he had a persistent wet cough.

  Only Kama could cheerfully announce, “I’m not sick, I’m healthy! I can do this—easy!” She raised her arms high overhead.

  “This—easy!” She bent over to touch her ankles.

  “And this—no problem!” She huddled into a ball, crouching on the ground, then jumped back up with ease.

  These simple motions were beyond the older couple’s ability.

  But in reality, Kama wasn’t all that healthy. Like Sister-in-law, her nails were gnarled. But what could they do, they were hardly able to eat any vegetables all year (what little they had weren’t fresh), and fruit was even scarcer.

  The horse trader who had come to buy animals complained to me, “You city folk, when you’re forty years old you look like us when we’re twenty! You work by sitting inside every day, no wonder you’re not sick!” I had nothing to say in return.

  * * *

  THEN OF COURSE, there was the wearing away of youth.

  Kama cut three holes out of her and her father’s shared red gaiter to wear as a balaclava when she went to herd. Yet even with most of her face covered, she came back at the end of the day with cheeks that were red raw. Though with her natural complexion as pale as it was, the rosy cheeks gave her an extra bit of pep. But by the end of February, the rosy cheeks had turned deep red, and eventually into a soy sauce color. Gradually, her whole face had turned dark. She looked in the mirror and dolefully remarked, “Terrible! Winter is terrible!”

  Kama’s skin turned dark because she was out herding in the wind all day. So what happened to me? I did needlework in the burrow all day, at most going outside to collect a few sacks of snow, briefly herd the cattle and sheep, or take a walk. Yet somehow, at the end of winter, I was also so tanned that one glimpse in the mirror broke my heart. What’s worse, I had a grown a bit of a mustache.

  I noticed that children on the pastures always looked younger than they were when they were little, but as soon as they reached adulthood, they began to look older than their age. They matured so slowly but aged so quickly.

  But it didn’t just stop there. What that life also wore away were the children’s hearts.

  Aside from the cost of the school uniform, everything else at boarding schools was absolutely free. In other words, sending a child to boarding school took the pressure off the family. Other than special cases like Kama, very few children dropped out of school.

  But this also led to a situation where there was a growing disconnect between the children and their families, their traditions, and their cultural environments. Children who have gone to school are clearly transformed.

  When everyone sat around watching TV, the grownups wanted to watch exciting shows with lots of killing and fighting, but the children preferred urban melodramas that reflected modern life.

  To express shock or disappointment or such, everyone exclaimed, “Allah!” whereas Nurgün said “Aya!” like a Han person.

  Nurgün would sometimes blurt out, “What are you laughing at?!” in Mandarin, using frighteningly accurate accent and emphasis. It must have been some short-tempered Chinese teacher’s catchphrase.

  When I asked the kids what they would like to be when they grew up, Zhada answered repairman. Only a few years ago, he was happy to one day run a motorcycle repair shop. But as he got older, he became more ambitious. Now, he wanted to repair computers.

  Kama revealed that she wanted to go out and find a job so that she could walk down the wide city streets, dressed in beautiful clothes, living a hip, independent, and trendy life. That was why she was working so hard on her Chinese.

  The children next door giggled at the question, unable to come up with an answer. But being as intelligent and optimistic as they were, with a penchant to perform and a love of excitement, they were also unlikely to be satisfied with this lonesome way of life.

  * * *

  AND THE HERDERS’ hearts.

  My family has been living in Akehara for many years—the water from the wells has become harder and harder every year. Add to that the increasing number of shops that have been opening, increasing the competition, and business has become harder than ever. My mother and I have been discussing whether or not to move for some time now. Not long ago, a new settler village, Humuzhila (which means “lots of sand”), was built eighteen miles from Akehara. This was th
e place where I was invited to serve as the “village head’s assistant.” Situated on the north bank of the Ulungur, near several large sand dunes, seven thousand mu of land had been recently reclaimed in order to settle an estimated one hundred and twenty families. Mother and I rode over on our motorcycle to check it out. Even though not many families had moved in yet—making the place look desolate and barren—it otherwise seemed satisfactory. When Cuma heard about this, he tried to persuade my mother to drop the idea. He said the place was brand-new after all, and no one had lived there before, so there was no way to know if it was any good. Why not wait two or three years, then decide? He added, “Right now, there’s no grass, no water, no electricity, nothing. Why go there?”

  Even so, he’d been toying with the idea of settling himself. Though he usually liked to mock farmers for living pathetic, deprived lives, sometimes he’d let out a long sigh and confess that if only they owned fifty to sixty mu of land, there’d be no need to migrate; they could just grow all the feed they need for their cattle and sheep.

  During some of our conversations, the metal tripod on top of the sand dune came up. I asked him, if there really was oil down there and they began to drill, then he would certainly receive enough compensation to never have to herd again—would that be a good thing? He said of course it would be a good thing. Only, that day seemed so distant in the future that he probably wouldn’t be alive anymore by the time it came around. But if he did get that compensation, he’d buy a car right away so that he could make a living in transportation. What else could he do? Manual labor was out of the question, he was too old. As for opening a shop, he was afraid he lacked the experience.

  Buying a car had been Cuma’s dream. Besides, it might tempt his only son, Zhada, to stay at his side.

  Only later did we learn that even without compensation from an oil well, the government subsidy for grassland restoration was more than enough for him to buy a car and live off it. He had been waiting for this policy to take effect for a long time.