I put together a mix a few days ago of the songs that get a lot of repeat time on the iPod. Some bring back vivid memories of mountain passes, camp, and solitude.
[8tracks width=”400″ height=”400″ playops=”” url=”http://8tracks.com/mixes/532872″]
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Why you should always have an extra set of Passport photos.
I’d be leaving Urumqi this week if I had had the photos.
Because of the eye infection and surgery, I was unable to get current photos. Which in turn, has set everything back by 2 weeks. Now, because of Chinese New Year/Spring Festival, the country shuts down for 7 days. Anything that is in process gets to sit in an empty office for a week.
Right now, I’m about to lose my sanity. It’s draining my funds and every morning I ask myself what the hell am I doing here…again!
Please…please…please please please…I want my Passport/Visa…pretty pretty pretty paaaAAAAaaalleleeeeeeeeeeeeese.
“I can’t BELIEVE he is dating her, she doesn’t even brush her hair!”
Recently, a young girl posted a Hate video on YouTube asking for the boycotting of Girl Scout Cookies because they allowed transgender girls in troops. Well, it’s been bringing a lot of memories to mind – of girl bullies. Held up in Urumqi, I’ve got some time to think about stuff, and then write it – to you.
There are times, when I realize that I’ve broken past gender stereotypes. In my lifestyle and friends, it’s really not all that common. Not a lot of skirts, pink, shopping, etc. Although, I love a good pedicure and I already miss my RED lipstick and violet eyeliner.
“Tomboy”
It was a label I carried all through childhood and into early college. I never thought too much about it but I knew that some say this without the best intentions. But whatever, I wore the label – who cares?
Growing up, most of my friends were boys. I was the only girl in my neighborhood. I could climb trees as good as them, fight like the rest of them (defending my little brother), start a fire as fast as them. Most of the time, I was just accepted into the boyhood games.
Except, when we played “Army” or “War”. I was always the Nurse. I hated being the nurse. Why? I had to stay behind in our fort and wait for an injured. BORING!!!!!!!
When we played “Ninja”, I always had to be the “Pink Ninja” – gross.
My best friend growing up was Laura. The school system kept us separated from the same classrooms because we were trouble when you got us together. You couldn’t keep us apart for long. We had dance classes and Girl Scouts together, and spent every weekend together – alternating from one home to the next.
We may have played Barbies or Dolls…maybe…once or twice? Mostly it was cooking something with our moms, or playing outside, harassing our little brothers, or when Nintendo came out – Paperboy! I was accepted into her family, and she into ours.
Now, don’t get me wrong…I had quite a collection of Barbies, doll houses, the whole thing. I played with them. It was usually alone when I got bored of being the only girl in the neighborhood. I’d retreat to my room and dress them up and make up (HILARIOUS in retrospect) situations.
If you looked in my closet, it was mostly jeans and tee shirts. Perhaps a couple of dresses my mom made – but they were just uncomfortable. When I did wear them, it just made me stand out more…I actually felt like I got more negative attention. The neighborhood boys would tease or joke me because it was like I was playing dress up. I always walked home from school up into high school, so pants were always the best option.
Luckily, I was a strong and independent little girl – thanks mom! But we all had awkward adolescent years, looking for that sense of belonging.
So yeah, Tomboy, that was me.
In 8th grade, in an attempt to “fit in” I tried out, and was accepted, for the 8th grade football cheerleader squad. Ha!
First, I got in trouble for taking the hem out of my skirt so it would be longer.
Second, I got reprimanded for not shaking my butt enough.
Third, they would joke me about how you can hear me over everyone else. Yeah, I didn’t mime it like my short skirted, booty shaking comrades did.
Middle school, everything began to change. I knew I wasn’t getting invited to the parties, especially not the make out parties. We all got to hear about them the next week. What a great way to make insecure little kids feel even more insecure.
My first “boyfriend” was in 8th grade. This is too funny.
We had grown up together and played on the same little league team since I could remember. Basically, just pretty damn good pals.
Well, he was the captain of the 8th grade football team and we started “dating”. I mean, holding hands and talking on the phone for hours every night.
Let me explain to you what I looked like in 8th grade. It was 1993…we were listening to Pearl Jam’s “Ten” and Nirvana’s “Nevermind” was getting played ALL THE TIME – but I was more of a “Bleach” fan. I had long straight hair, wore my father’s flannels, jeans with holes in the knees, and Birkenstocks or Chuck Taylors.
Basically my boyfriend and I dressed the exact same, except he had short blonde hair and all the girls swooned over him. Yes, I was dating the boy all the middle school girls wanted…and I was scared to death of kissing. I worked my way out of that situation ALMOST every time.
There was a group of girls. These were the same girls that brought curling irons and hair dryers to school to fix their hair after they sat on the benches in gym class. Oh gym class…I would hide in the bathroom to change because I wasn’t ready for a bra. Still not!
I heard rumors how they all had devised ways to get him to be with other girls, a couple that I know of. I mean, SHIT, why should I be dating the most popular boy in school??
I didn’t even brush my hair!
Yep, little ol’ me. I brushed it in the morning and went about my day. By the end of the day, it looked a little stringy but it’s not like any of my real friends (boys) were like, “Hey Ellen, you should really brush your hair!” I got comments like, “you should learn to play the guitar” or “we should start a band” or “lets write some lyrics” or “i made you this mix tape”.
This is a very vivid memory and development point for me. Since that moment, I did everything I could to break out of the mold. To go against what was expected of me.
In high school, my parents started letting me spend the night at one of my guy friend’s house. Yep. Pretty awesome mom. The worst thing that ever happened there was probably too much beers or one of my friends lighting his, um, gas on fire. It would be me and generally 4-6 of my guy friends. Completely platonic and hilarious.
Senior year in high school. A lot of guys and friends thought it would be awesome to nominate me, the Tomboy Art Grrl, for Homecoming Queen. Yep. Well, I made it to the top 5 and they had to have a re-vote because there could only be 4. Either way, I could see light at the end of the tunnel…people were beginning to see people for who they are and not what they look like or what type of stereotype they fit in. (I remember there being some angry mothers who’s daughter didn’t make it to the top 5 – oh – get over it already!)
I’m going to own up and say that there were moments I wasn’t nice to people in high school. It’s all a defense mechanism and I’ve found these people and tried to make amends for my stupid behavior.
Now, I do love more feminine things. But, I laugh sometimes on tour. I think about how my last hair cut was a year ago. The smell of “vinegar/musk/lamb/man coming from my armpits…brushing my hair once a day and putting it back in a simple braid. The grooming of eyebrows and bleaching of the mustache is not tended to either. How about my weekly shower, or my record of 21 days without. Or how about riding a bus through Tibet with a police escort and knowing I have my own vomit and diarrhea all over my pant legs.
I wonder what those bullies are doing with their days…probably passing it down to their young daughters – as they wake them at 6 am so they can curl their hair for school. Gotta keep the hate in a vicious cycle.
So you know, thank you bullies…you girls…for making my life hell and only making me a much stronger, beautiful, and independent WOMAN! And much love to my real friends that have always supported and loved me no matter what – no matter what I wore or how awful my first steps into make-up were.
This is my story for the day. Peace, dudes!
(If you want to know what I looked like growing up…imagine “Blossom” and “Ellen” from “Pete and Pete” – it’s pretty much it)
December 1 2011 – HongKaiZi to The Super Mario Brother’s zhusu
As soon as there was rustling about and the room was lit with sunlight, little sister and I went out back to the “cesuo” (toilet). I hate this type of morning, when my sides ache from the pain of holding my bladder. It feels as if it gets all blocked and takes a few minutes for my body to realize it’s time…to relax.
I can’t help but gazing towards the mountains during these few minutes. It’s cold and I can see the peaks of the little mountains. Damn, if it wasn’t so cold, and I was a little more insane, I’d ride my bike up there to take a look. Disappointed, as I imagine what that range looks like in the Spring – probably a fairly easy day ride with a nice camp. Not now, on December first.
Little sister and her husband wash up for the morning. Afterwards I’m led back over to her in laws for tea and hard breads. As she and I get ready, I get a couple of “how much did that cost?” Please, please…lets not play that game. It’s such a typical Chinese thing and I don’t find it among the minorities so much…please, don’t do this.
Her brother in-law is asleep in the corner. Three additional Kazakh men enter to join us for breakfast. They are quite nice and we go through all the basic questions and comments again. I still can’t get over how adorable her father in law is. Just adorable…in his thick army green pants.
The bread chunks are hard and you have to let them soak in the tea. The tea is different here. They add a yogurt to the milk tea. So there are little chunks of yogurt floating on top of the tea. Watching little sister, I see her scoop up the yogurt with the hard bread. I mimic, delicious.
We all head out, as it’s time for the family chores to be taken care of. Her husband heads out on his motorcycle, father is moving the sheep out of the stable, and mother begins her milking duties.
There is a litter of puppies behind the house. I can’t get over how adorable they are, with their snorting and crying. It’s hard for me not to ask if I can buy one. It’s too cold and they are too young…just would be cruel.
I spend some more time with little sister and I get a few more “how much did that cost?” questions. Okay. I can’t do this anymore.
She asks me if I’m going to stay another day and I just get a strange vibe that maybe I should go on. I know I’m welcome to stay but decide to tell her I will leave and see how she reacts. “No, I really should get going, it’s getting late.”
Not receiving a response that I sometimes get when people REALLY don’t want me to leave. I pack up and set out around 12am. With one final “how much did your bike cost?” Please, little sister…don’t do this to me……..
I give her a hug good-bye and push off. The mama dog decides NOW she wants to attack me. Hearing the barking getting louder I stop in my tracks and see her running towards me. Little sister runs to hold her back.
A wave from the tarmac and I’m off. Within a kilometer I pass her husband on his motorcycle, after putting the sheep to pasture, and I wave goodbye. Good-bye Mr. Handsome!
It’s a long day of riding up. Cold. Very little traffic.
I see the first sign of life around 3 in the afternoon. It consists of a tire fixing place and a restaurant.
Pulling the bike up to the restaurant, removing my sunglasses, and sliding my hat off, I make eye contact with the little toddler in the doorway. I say “Hello!” in my cute child voice for her. She smiles and goes in.
Two older Kazakhs walk out and they are very friendly looking at me and the bike. Harmless, wonderful, people.
I enter into a very old room with a small table and 4 chairs. The cooking area takes up half the space. There is a room to the right that has about 8 Kazakhs and children around a large table. The t.v. is on and some are sitting on the old iron framed bed.
The color palette of the place is browns, reds, dark yellows, and greens. Just a very dark place but I feel warm and the people seem welcoming.
I have a hard time communicating with the woman that’s cooking. I order fried noodles. The folks in the other room ask where I’m from. “I’m American”.
“Ohhhhh, American!” With smiles, nods, and just a feeling of acceptance.
The toddler and I are playing hide and go see around the table and other general child games of looking at each other.
A young man enters and takes a large tray of beef into the small room. When I say “tray of beef”..I mean…it’s basically broiled/roasted whole cow with the skin and organs removed. It actually looks and smells quite delicious.
About 5 minutes later he brings a big chunk out, about 12mm x 12 mm, sets it on a clean plate and drops it in front of me. He smiles, “Chi!”
The cook turns around and smiles while handing me a knife. Well, I guess I just go at it. I’ve had some training in Inner Mongolia and I try not to destroy such a beautiful hunk of beef.
As I cut into the meat, the juices drip down my hands and steam rising from the fresh cut. It may be one of the most delicious meals I’ve had.
My noodles are served with chunks of beef and hot green peppers.
I try to converse with the woman but there is a language barrier. She tells me that the road is mostly flat to the next city. I know to never really believe this stuff completely.
The place is warm and the people are kind. I take a deep breath and relax for a moment. Then filling up my water, I say thank you and head on my way.
From the km count she gave me, I will not be making it to the city unless it’s all downhill.
It’s not. I have a pretty damn good mountain pass to get over. Is it the cold? These climbs just drain me, not like when the weather is fair. I think about how this would of been nothing 4 months ago…but maybe the weather really does drain someone more than you would imagine. I push Nelly the last kilometer.
I’m holding the top of the pass for the remainder of the day…once again, as usual, racing for light.
I don’t know why I do this. Sometimes I think I should just set up camp in the snow but there is a part of me that just says, “keep going keep going, you’ll find something”. At the top of a pass, a nice 20rmb room sure does sound nice.
There is a truck stop on the side of the road. The only “zhusu” has all the windows broken out. I avoid staying where there are truckers like that anyhow. I take a little road down a hill towards a village. No luck. Power back up the hill, past a police station, see 2 officers taking a stroll and I pull clothing over my face. Less trouble.
The pass is a good 15km and I’m not really enjoying it. “Keep the eyes on the prize keep the eyes on the prize keep the eyes on the prize”
Towards sunset I begin the descent. I hate descents in the winter and at sunset. It’s just so damn cold, although the sky is always the most beautiful. I’m trying to get to somewhere warm, take photos, and just not freeze. It’s quite a balancing act.
I’m freezing, it’s near dark and there is no traffic. Luckily, this helps me hold onto my night vision.
With about 10 minutes left of residual light, I spot a hand painted sign with something about “zhusu” and “1.5km”. Oh hell yes!
I pick up the pace and I see a restaurant with “zhusu” attached to it. It’s tucked into a wooded area with only an outhouse and some cows.
Of course they see me and greet me at the door.
“30rmb!? Really? Well, I guess I don’t have an option. Okay.”
We roll my bike into the room and they reassure me it will be warm, safe, no other company…and the sheets are clean. Okay.
In the restaurant, I order a couple of dishes. As I’m sitting there and I notice that these two men are not typical Chinese men. They remind me of 2 people, with their mustaches. Oh, it’s Mario and Luigi! of the Super Mario Bros. fame.
They don’t have rice so I’m given some breads. Cold bread. I only eat one but they insist that I take all the breads, “a gift”, for breakfast. I’m beginning to think that these men have a relationship – they are not brothers.
Sure, not going to turn down free breads.
Back to my room, it’s dark, I have only one candle to last me the night.
I curl up on top of one blanket and cover with 2. It’s silent. For the past couple of nights, all I hear is silence. I love it. The light begins to flicker, as the the flame extinguishes I can hear the sizzle.
Goodnight.
“HhhuuuUUUUUu….wwooOOOOoo…ack!”
After 3 years, the spitting has just become second nature to me. I try not think about it, try not to listen to it…but…
Staying in an “International Youth Hostel”, I can’t NOT take note that every morning and night I get to hear the beautiful serenade of every Chinese male that blesses me with his presence. They have ranged from the “local” men to educated and well-traveled 20-something – they all have one thing in common. They are like beautiful peacocks but their strut and colors…is the beautiful song they sing to me every morning and night. Oh, woo me with that tune…
Last night, my current roommate is speaking extremely loud into his cell phone – after taking a break from his QQ messaging and having to hear the alert every 1-3 seconds – he’s dropping his loogs into the wastebasket. I’m wondering if he drools when he talks because he’s actually just standing over the wastebasket dropping them in, silently too. Okay, thanks for the courtesy.
So, what did I do? I googled, “Why do Chinese men hack spit”?
The responses and threads I found, were…predictable. I was hoping for a WebMD article of health benefits. No. All I found were “sexpats” and “FOB Laoweis” complaining about their time in China. Side note: Your complaining about China on expat forums are as un-tasteful and have no health benefit as the constant spitting and kids pissing on the street corners. How about this, spend your time studying the language and educate people?
What I found that was interesting was this:
A banner raised during the Boxer Rebellion in 1900 read: “Certainly foreign soldiers are a horde; but if each of our people spits once, they will drown.”
I’ve actually used spitting technique as an insult to people. “Oh, you are going to run me over with your car while you stare me down…you get saliva on your window – hope it’s up!” – depending on how feisty I am that day. “Want to rip me off or make comments about how I’m a stupid laowei with perverted gestures” (I can understand Chinese fool!)…you get a hack near your feet and the stink eye (maybe an added finger gesture). Sometimes I even cruise through the streets with prepared ammo, waiting for the next target, aka kill the cyclist offender.
Please, reader, do not think I’m being a rude young lady traveling through China – as an ambassador of America. Spitting is also used to express disgust here, if you pay attention you will see it too.
This is your spit for thought today.
November 28th – SanTan Hu Xiang to Balikun (Barkol)
I awake well rested around 9:30.
When I go around corner to the WC, in the part of the town that’s crumbling to the ground, there is already company in the two women “ce suo”. She exits and I can hear her and another woman whispering about me, from about a 1 meter distance. Can I please use the bathroom in privacy, let alone having to listen to you two clucking gossip about me, in a not very welcoming tone.
Back at my room, laobanniang brings me some bread and congee. I keep it heated on my stove. Not too anxious about the day because I know have a steady 8km climb out of this town…a fair incline. Enough to make me not want to go.
I leave behind the Hami melon they gave me and some grain, that’s not rice, that didn’t work for my sweet porridge last night.
Push the bike out the door at 11:30, the sun is bright, sky clear, and not too chilly. The rock man and his son are there, the son helps open the gate for me. I give the man a hug goodbye, not really the Chinese woman thing to do, but hell…I needed to meet this fellow last night. A nice American style hug, smile, and thank you.
2km out of town is lined with coal trucks, on both sides of the road. China has seasoned me and I know after lunch, these trucks are going to be riding behind me.
The 8km out isn’t too bad, after a good rest and food…it feels good. Truck drivers obviously go slack jawed and stare at me with the typical, “it’s a foreigner”. On the way up and out, Stone man pulls up and gives me his written phone number on a band-aid. Yes, it’s a wrapped new band-aid…not a used band-aid. I was really kind of hoping for a lift, no go, and his truck is well loaded anyhow.
Up the climb and on the edge of town, I strip down to two baselayers and NO GLOVES. Damn the weather is good.
I’m looking ahead and see about a steady, slight, 10km ride to the mountains, covered in snow. Why do I EVER think it’s still going to be warm where there is snow…really? Ellen?! Come on…it’s not like that!
With one potty break, I’m pretty stoked on my steady speed and ride up out of the basin. Around 1pm all the trucks begin barreling from behind. See! I do know what I’m talking about. The wind draft nearly sweeps me over a couple of times.
If I do well today, I’ll complete a mini mountain pass and I hope to find a luguan before getting to Balikun. I assume I won’t get to Balikun until tomorrow. It’s a near 85km ride, and if I have a pass, it may not work out.
At the beginning of the pass, I have to throw all my clothes back on.
Especially the little rides down with the frigid wind blasting against my face.
I’m out here with only an occasional truck. I do a see a few Kazakh men with their extra thick pants and their funny looking big hats. There is a Kazakh woman walking along the side of the road, from seeing other places, I’ve noticed they are collecting coal dropping off the truck.
Around 2, it’s beautiful up here – covered with white snow and blue sky. On occasion, I can see motorcycles riding through the fields herding their flocks.
There is a shepherd on his horse, coming down from the hill to my right. There is another shepherd to my left. As I pass through the two, I look at the one man on my left who has just lounged on the snow. He looks at me and I smile and return it with a “Hello!”…he follows me with his eyes. Perhaps I should of stopped…but I’m freezing and I’m racing against the sun, like everyday.
Just a view from the top.
There are a couple of hours of riding over the pass. My face freezing, hands, and feet. I have to get off to push the bike for a short while to get feeling back into my feet and fist my hands up into the palm of my gloves.
As I descend the pass…appears to be an ocean of snow ahead. This picture does no justice to what it look like from the top of that mountain.
About a 10-15km descent…FREEZING. Minimal traffic of trucks.
There is a town at the base, the sign reads 18km to Balikun. I know it would be cheaper to stay here for the night so I look around.
Men are selling animal skins at the 1 intersection of town. The roads are muddy and sloshy from ice and snow melt. It almost appears as if a massive rain storm just rolled through, except it’s cold.
There is an old 3 story brick building off the main road. The “bingguan” sign is barely holding onto the exterior and there is a local grocery on the first floor. It looks pretty damn hopeless, especially with the busted glass and it looking abandoned on the 2nd and 3rd floors. I’ve surely lived in worst places then this fine establishment. The town is hell…a brown, muddy, sloshy, cold mess. I can deal with cold, or wet…but not both.
I have my hat, hood, and sunglasses on and my face is covered over my nose.
Let me state, that my Chinese friends have told me that Chinese people are very helpful and kind to foreigners, but not to other Chinese. This moment confirms this.
I speak in Chinese and ask her if this is a bingguan. And she completely ignores me and I excuse myself and ask again. A short and rude response. Never have I had this happen to me. I asked her if she could help me and she wanted nothing to do with me. Screw this, 18km and I’m going to get a decent dinner and place that isn’t going to give me pneumonia.
God, hell of 18km. I was warned that Bali is one of the coldest places in the area. It’s getting colder. My hands are frozen and my feet frozen. I always do this, race into town completely frozen in hopes to beat frostbite. Yeah, now I race to beat frostbite.
It’s a beautiful ride in, passing little Kazakh establishments and one village.
I arrive to Balikun.
First local hotel won’t allow foreigners.
Second, which they recommended, is over priced AND they won’t allow my bike inside. I don’t even mess with that anymore…no bike no go.
Third, a little more than I wanted to spend but they help bring up my Nelly fully loaded and I can stash her behind the desk.
Top floor, no other guests, heat…HEAT!…and a shower.
I eat instant noodles and cookies for dinner…and that chocolate bar. After the surprise in my noodles it’ll be awhile before I eat much of anything.
Out of the desert and couldn’t be happier. Well, I could if it wasn’t freezing up on these mountains.
Skiing the Silk Road
www.skiingthesilkroad.com
I hope you all, dear readers, you’ll take time to watch the most rad vid I’ve seen in a long time. Fortunately, I got to bring in the New Year with all 10 of them and even got some skiing lessons, in trade for my translation services. These folks are beyond words of awesome and kindness. Much love, all around. And now I totally believe the hype wrapped around the awesome’ness of Kiwis.
Click here to watch it:
A revisit – I’ve had enough of desert and basin dwellers. Thank you. Story from Summer 2010.
This happened in, I believe, July of 2010 in Hulun Buir. Some of you may remember this. It was approximately 410km with one town in between. One stop…and this is where it happened.
A young Mongolian boy locked me in a room and threatened to kill me for 3-4 hours if I were to make a sound or tell anyone. He is cracking his knuckles repeatedly, snapping his head to the left then right – crack, crack. He and his friends carry knives and he has scars and tattoos all over him.
He got very frustrated with my crying and pleading to let me go, for him to go. Finally he took my phone away from me as I’m sending emergency texts to who ever I possibly can think of.
Yes, he was going to rape me…he had every intent to rape me. Yes, he did get on top of me, he did attempt to kiss me gently, and as I begin see my life flash before my eyes, and the idea of contracting AIDS or Hep…knowing it was all going to be over…as he begins to hold me down, force me down…as I’m crying and pleading and begging in English to please stop, trying to pry his head away from me…I stick my mouth next his ear, breath in as much air as possible and as soon as I feel his erection through my clothes I let out the loudest, shrillest, longest, most blood curdling scream you could ever imagine. It throws him off of me and I unlock the door behind my head and run into the laoban’s room shaking and crying hysterically holding onto the woman. At the scream I could hear the entire place wake, gasps of air were heard, and doors opened.
He ran away, I told them he wasn’t my friend and I didn’t know him…they reassured me it would be okay and to stay and be quite. He returned, banging down the door. He claims he left his phone there, he didn’t…I’m crying and begging for them not to let him in.
He finally leaves, there is silence, I sleep for 3 hours, I catch a car to get me through the desert as I have visions of him waiting for me behind the dunes. The taxi driver takes me for every rmb on me, there is no half way decent luguan in the next town, over priced hotel where I wait 3 hours for hot water to wash this filth off of me.
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