Sihpromatum - Backpacks and Bra Straps

by Savannah Grace

  Which streets had Marco Polo actually walked down? Did he buy supplies and what not, or was he too important to hobnob with the locals? If he had, how well was he able to communicate with the shopkeepers and such? Am I at all like him as I document everything I see each night in my journal? Could any fifteen-year-old affect the future of travel or inspire others in any way? If only my life were even remotely as interesting as such a remarkable traveller…

  The present-day old city was crammed with specialty shops, either on wheeled stalls or in small brick nooks and crannies. Most of the owners and employees were men, as I imagined would’ve been even more the case back in the thirteenth century. Diligently performing trades with techniques passed down through many generations, craftsmen and artisans actually did their calculations on abacuses, their fingers and beads clicking as fast as any modern-day teenager can text.

  I had to stop at the shoemaker where, for just a few cents, I could have my black flip-flop repaired for the second time. I was quickly adopting the mentality that something that was broken wasn’t necessarily garbage. The shoemaker had half-a-dozen young sons and apprentices helping and watching, already immersing themselves in the trade. The shop filled a small space under a hung tarp that was crammed with rustic scissors, threads, needles, and lots and lots of broken, single, or lost shoes. We sat on a tiny wooden bench watching him refasten the fabric to the sole with a large needle and thick thread.

  Hmmm…I wonder what kind of shoes Marco Polo wore. What would he think of the ones I’m wearing?

  A man was busy working on a foot-powered knife sharpener wearing a pair of clear protective glasses similar to those you’d find in a kid’s Nerf gun set. He took his eyes off his work for a moment to wave to us as sparks flew skyward in the narrow alley. As I smiled back, I hoped the thin awning hanging over him wouldn’t catch fire.

  “Check out our first follower,” Ammon said, indicating the little old woman Mom had attracted. Mom is just five foot three inches tall, and this woman only came up to her shoulders. She wore a long, black-and-white, floral skirt and a zebra-patterned headscarf. She stayed right on Mom’s heels, constantly looking at her and then consulting a little English book, apparently determined to practice.

  “Guess how old she is,” Mom said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe sixty?” I guessed, wondering why Mom seemed so fidgety.

  “Guess again. You’ll never believe it.”

  “Eighty, then?”

  “She’s sixteen. Six-teen!”

  “Holy crap. There’s no way. She told you that? Are you sure she wasn’t trying to say sixty?”

  “I’m sure,” Mom replied. “That’s what I thought at first, but she’s carrying around a little English picture book, and she pointed to the number on the bottom of page sixteen.” The girl giggled sweetly as she continued to watch our surprised chatter. I wondered if she realized why we were reacting as we were. She hobbled along, crouched over like a dried-up old bird with surprisingly rosy cheeks. Her layers of clothes and headscarf looked as if they were pulling her to the ground.

  She was equally shocked when Mom pointed in her book to show her that she was forty-six. The girl waved her hands emphatically as she expressed her disbelief. Since Mom still had all her teeth, she reasoned that she couldn’t possibly be a day over thirty. The girl’s teeth, on the other hand, were already deeply stained and rotting.

  “Speaking of teeth, did you notice that we haven’t seen any more pirates or terminators?” Bree asked. In Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, it was common to see gold and silver crowns but in the parts of China we’d seen, people didn’t really seem to fix their teeth; they were generally just crowded, crooked, and rotting.

  The young girl followed us through the streets, practicing her English, trying to hear the difference between ‘I’ and ‘R’. She repeated them over and over, literally looking in Mom’s mouth to see how she pronounced them.

  “I never thought about those two letters sounding similar, but she was really struggling to hear the difference,” Mom said. We enjoyed having her and her younger brothers around to provide more insight into their culture. We had lots of local children following us, too. They loved being photographed, and would run over and demand to have their photo taken while posing with their friends.

  Ammon spotted an old man resting in the shade, squatting with his back against a concrete wall. He wore a long blue dress coat and a traditional hat, and he sported a beautiful, chest-length white beard. His life story of struggle and hard work, but also of satisfaction and contentment, was written all over his face. “Wow! He looks so authentic, like he could really have lived in the early Silk Road era. I’d love to take his picture.”

  “Do it, then,” Mom suggested.

  “The older people generally don’t mind being photographed, but I still feel uncomfortable asking. It seems such an intrusive thing to do.”

  “Here, give me the camera, and I’ll ask him.” Mom snatched it from his hands.

  “Okay, it’s probably better if one of you girls do it, anyway,” he said, letting her take charge. Ammon really had a good eye for architecture and people shots, whereas I was drawn to nature-related subjects.

  Cloth awnings were tied between stalls across the alleys, creating shaded paths through the crowded markets. Blankets and sheets were hung up to separate the vendors, though it was often difficult to tell whether shops were beauty salons or clothing stores, as almost every stall sold a wide variety of different merchandise. Underwear, shirts, plastic sandals, and hair clips filled plastic wash basins, while backpacks, skirts, and dress shirts were displayed on walls covered with wire mesh. I was amazed by how messy everything was. Most of the clothing, though, was risqué enough that we’d be hard pressed to see it actually worn in the streets. Given the predominance of men in the marketplace, I was relieved that, despite the heat, I’d chosen to wear more concealing clothes. I felt much better emotionally, but physically, I was melting.

  A smothering haze hovered above us, as if we were being insulated by a dark blanket draped over the city. The smells of dry earth, smoky fires, and meat added to the heat’s intensity. I was exhausted, overdone, and as grey as a slab of steak that’d been left out too long (and there was certainly no shortage of that lying around).

  Chickens were displayed on wooden tables with their skinny legs sticking up in the air. My personal favourite turned out to be the butcher sections, which seems quite ironic considering my love for animals. However, I had become better at differentiating and accepting the circle of life in such matters and had somehow learned to separate my feelings about the discrepancy between these two opposing viewpoints; though it was often a surprising, stomach-turning ride, it felt a bit like going to a horror movie to purposely freak myself out.

  An entire section of the market was jam-packed with hanging sheep and lamb carcasses, pink and still wet from having recently been skinned – except for the ankle and tail fluff, which was left on for some reason, perhaps to offer somewhere to grip the carcass. Entire bodies were strung up with the bullocks actually skinned and dangling – how on earth they managed that, I’ll never know, but however it was done, it was definitely not my idea of a delicacy. I loved learning about the cultural side of the dinner table, as long as I didn’t have to put it to the taste test.

  “I guess we found out where all the sheep went,” Mom said, always the realist. The heads and hooves were tossed on the ground next to the fresh meat stalls (and often, our feet). Piles of sheep’s heads looked up at us with glossy, distant eyes, waiting to be thrown into a soup pot. What they did with the hooves was still a bit of a mystery, but it was comforting in a very real way to see that absolutely no part of the carcass was wasted.

  When Bree grabbed a goat head off the ground and used it like a puppet to pose for a rather unusual photo, a lady came up and promptly ripped it out of her hands. Turning her back protectively, the lady pried open the goat’s stiff lip, took a glance at its teeth, bought it
, and stomped off in a huff.

  “Well… If that’s the way you feel about it, you can have it, lady,” Bree called after her, still standing there with her empty hands outstretched.

  “Obviously that was the best buy of the whole pile, Bree. You never told us you were such an expert at picking out goat heads,” Ammon said.

  “I don’t get how you can tell which are the good ones,” I said. “Is it, like, ‘Aaaw, this one’s cute’, or ‘This one’s nice and ripe’, or maybe it’s, ‘I like the expression on this one’s face, I think he must’ve been a happy goat’.”

  “I dunno, but I want to ask you guys a question, because it completely baffles me. Why would someone buying a freshly slaughtered goat head inspect its teeth?”Ammon voiced what we were all thinking. We never really got an answer to that question, but people kept choosing heads from a bloody wagon, picking them up by their horns and long ears and placing them in homemade bags the same way we would buy a loaf of bread at a grocery store.

  “And we’re stuck with Costco,” Ammon laughed in amazement. “This is way more fun.”

  “Just imagine having to get change back from him,” I said, staring at one of the merchants. His hands were wet with red chunks, and his handful of money was understandably filthy and stained. His wagon was mucky with tongues, pieces of spinal cord, and brains hanging out of the heads. I could all too easily imagine brains slipping out onto the ground from the heads he offered to his customers.

  Shish kebabs of goat livers alternating with goat hearts sizzled on open-fire grills in the roadside restaurants. Steaming pots of goat stew featuring heads, spongy stomachs, and strings of intestines bubbled away as people sat at long wooden tables, gnawing at the creatures’ jawbones and teeth like we would eat corn on the cob. These small restaurants were the last stop for some of these animals, and we had witnessed their arrival, the selection process, the slaughter, the dismembering, and now, finally, the cooking.

  As interesting as seeing that process up close had been, we were more comfortable eating fresh bagels. The man who sold us a bagful held up five fingers to indicate the price. Because his pointer finger was missing, he improvised by placing a finger from his other hand behind the stump, and then he laughed heartily. Instead of being shy, scared, or embarrassed by this small handicap, he made light of it. We were thrilled by his ability to make the most of what he had instead of letting it get him down.

  Look at him laughing and joking. He seems to be sincerely happy. I really should remember his attitude the next time I feel all depressed about something stupid.

  This real life example had Mom quoting her favourite quote for our benefit: “It’s like I always say, ‘Attitude is the difference between an ordeal and an adventure’.”

  “Well, I think this market tops anything I’ve seen yet, for originality, if nothing else,” I said.

  “In a word, ‘Wow!’ This was an amazing experience I won’t soon forget,” Ammon said, as we made our way home. “The even crazier thing is that this is a normal weekly job for these guys.” I could see how much he loved being part of the excitement and, in a sense, being transported to another time.

  “I’m so glad you guys were good to go today. I really wouldn’t have wanted to miss this. We seriously need more days like this,” Ammon said as he lifted his camera for yet another photo. He couldn’t emphasize enough how much he was enjoying himself. “We got some great pictures, but they’ll never completely reflect the atmosphere of this place. Oh well. It’s truly another one of the wonders of China that shouldn’t be missed.”

  It was a day of gratitude; I vowed to be thankful for what I had instead of moaning about what I didn’t have. The locals were not crying or suffering in their seemingly harsh world. The sixteen-year-old girl might have been fresh and blossoming if she’d been raised under different circumstances, but instead, she was living with the face and figure of a sixty-year-old. She’s only a year older than me. If I had grown up in her environment, would I have had the courage to be that cheerful? She was happy to spend the day with us, practicing her English and sharing her culture. Our presence and help had made a positive impact, and we parted with warm hugs. I started to see how relaxing it was to just live without judgment – mine or theirs.

  I contemplated all the efforts I’d considered necessary to appear beautiful on the outside in order to be accepted by my peers. Here I was in the mud, looking and smelling gross, yet I felt more comfortable in my skin than ever before. Simply being present and friendly and putting a smile on my face helped make the people around me happy, and that’s what it was all about. That was the way I wanted to live – accepting others and being accepted for who we are instead of being judged on the basis of superficial things like braces and headgear or manicures and designer clothes.

  Ch. 16-20 photos here

  Fowl Play

  21

  Ammon inquired about our health first thing the next morning and then put his foot down. “It’s time to get moving. We’re getting way too good at being lazy. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

  Because we were ill and because the bus was fully booked by domestic tourists returning home in time to start school, we’d spent a whopping nine days in Kashgar – our longest stay of the trip so far. When living a nomadic lifestyle, a week in one place can feel pretty permanent, and the longer we sat and waited, the stiffer we got. Travelling was a lot like hiking that way. You’re fine until you take a break, but getting back on your feet and finding that rhythm again can be gruelling. When I hoisted on my backpack for the first time in over a week from where it had sat in the corner beside my bed, it felt a lot heavier than I remembered.

  We didn’t know if we would be able to get tickets for the bus out of Kashgar, but we had to try. We sat at the station for hours until a guy came up to us and insisted we give up on the ticket office; his bus was leaving for Urumqi that night at 7 p.m. We could buy tickets from him now and catch the bus out on the highway. At first we rejected his offer. It seemed wiser to do business with the local bus station directly and leave from the station, so we waited, and waited, and waited…

  “This is so lame. We’re never getting out of here,” we started to whine six hours later, when we still had neither answers or tickets. As 6:55 p.m. rolled around, the same man reappeared. Given our limited options, Ammon decided to risk it and bought the tickets from him. In a frenzy, we gathered up the cards and stuffed other loose items into our daypacks and pockets. We all started jogging out to the road to the van that would take us to where we could catch the bus. Our shadows raced to keep up with us as we followed the man under orange-tinted street lights. After all that sitting around, I really had to pee, but there was no chance. I could not believe the timing, but it was nearly impossible to be prepared if you didn’t know what the day would or would not bring, or when.

  We made it, just barely, and jumped into the van with full bladders; minutes later, we were getting on the bus. We claimed four bottom beds at the rear of a sleeper bus, the first one we’d seen since returning to China. The Chinese know how to travel comfortably, but I couldn’t help but notice that it was almost completely empty, which made me nervous at first. Maybe they’d rented or stolen it to pose as a bus company to serve some diabolical scheme or another. The guy we’d bought the tickets from had come out of nowhere and promptly disappeared again, and we had no company name and no reference. Where on earth would we end up at the end of the next day’s journey? Had we pronounced the name of the city correctly? Did the driver actually know where we were headed, or were we about to get hopelessly lost?

  I tried to force myself to let go of my fears and worries. As long as there’s food, family, shelter, and a way to access money, I supposed it didn’t really matter all that much where we were; home seemed to be wherever the backpacks were these days, anyway. And if home happens to be wherever you’re standing at the moment, can you ever really get lost? When I thought of the word ‘home’, I struggled to mentally picture a particu
lar place. We’d moved so many times in my childhood that I wouldn’t have been able to pick one to envision as my real home, even if I could go back to any of them. Home had somehow become a really vague word. As much as I struggled to deny it, there was really nothing left for us in Vancouver but some good friends, and we were meeting more and more friends on the road every day.

  The only structure that had been the same my entire life was my Grandma’s house, but just a few months prior to our trip, she’d sold it. With all six children grown and Grandpa passed away, the house and its massive backyard were much too big for her to manage alone, so she moved into a beautiful, two-bedroom condominium. I knew that was where she’d be when we went home, but I always envisioned her in her old home rather than in the new, unfamiliar one.

  At this point, I had to settle for my backpack and my family being my home, though I spent a lot of time trying to persuade Mom to let me ditch it so I wouldn’t have to carry it around anymore. I was convinced I could manage with just my daypack, which carried my book, journal, passport, toothbrush, moisturizing lotion, and pens.

  These thoughts distracted me a bit from thinking about how badly I needed to pee when we hit every pot hole and bump in the road, and there were a lot of them. I was finally able to relieve myself on the side of the road a couple of hours later. We only stopped a few times along the way for toilet breaks and to buy cookies, bananas, apples, water, and some boiled eggs for dinner at a fruit stand, so we made really good time. We got to Urumqi in true Chinese fashion, which is to say, in one piece and precisely on time; my worries about who was operating the bus were all for naught, as usual.

  The undercarriage door of the old coach bus opened with a loud screech of metal on metal accompanied by the squawking of birds as they saw daylight for the first time in twenty-four hours.