Hello from Linkebeek, a 'suburb' of Brussels/Bruxelles, where I'm in the home of the greatest musical stars of Madagascar, N'Java. The sun is straining to peek out of the clouds, the trees are swaying in the cool wind, the house is quiet with the sisters at their boutique, D'Ame D'Amour, singing their hearts out as they arrange the traditional items in the shop for the holiday rush we all hope for.
The ladies, Monika (wife of Daniel, my friend and 'producer') and her sister Lala - both with deliciously wild hair and temperaments, have been asking me to join their accapella ensemble which is about to break into the limelight of the World Music scene. I'm a bit awed that they would even joke about asking me...though I have to admit that their brother Maximin (with even more amazing and wild hair) did recording wonders with a red-wine induced session I sang on a few summers back when I was visiting - the match of the chathartic, open-throat, heel stamping and soulful belting of African voices, and my silky, Indian-inspired rifts weaving in.
The clouds have succumb to the power of the sun and there's a heavenly moment that seems like it will last forever, like it won't actually start to get dark at 3pm ever again, like Belgium is bright and lively with a wonderful and balanced music scene where I could come to live afterall....
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Roma through Pakistani eyes for 9 hours
24 hours after leaving down the bamboo ladder at Pilu's house, piling my bag and sarangi into a cycle rickshaw and then into a taxi, waiting in an endless and chaotically unstructured line first for boarding passes then for security (one elderly couple waiting behind me had been at the airport for 8 hours, their flight was running 6 hours late due to the security check line suffering from the airport remodelling effort restrictions), a flight to Milan and then another to Rome....I called to the Pakistani Export shop of a friend I met in Korea about 5 years ago. It happened that this friend, Fayyaz Bhai was actually again in Korea with Qadus Bhai (my very first friend in Korea, aside from my roommate and co-saving grace, Brad), but Fayyaz's brother gave me directions to take a train from the airport and his other brother met me on the platform. They gave me a take-out plate of the best Indian food to be found in all of Rome, and then the younger brother journeyed with me out to the Colloseum and a walk along ancient sites, and then for the best cappacino I have had in many, many years. A half hour more sitting around at the shop as the older brother internet-ed his life away and the younger brother hid in the back, then I was dropped back at the train, and got to the airport for the flight on to Brussels where a tired and somewhat sick Daniel was awaiting.
My Pakistani friends and their random shops around the world really are wonderful in these times of urgent need to both pass some time and eat well. What a blessing!
My Pakistani friends and their random shops around the world really are wonderful in these times of urgent need to both pass some time and eat well. What a blessing!
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Hi from Karachi Airport
Hello from the airport...the recurring delays of this morning's flight to Delhi has given me the gifts of complimentary breakfast and internet use! "PIA Flight 272 is delayed due to technical reasons." Hearing this, a couple of people standing nearby joked, "Yes, technically, the plane is not here."
So where to start...I arrived back from my week in Oman (the first 4 days of which were spent resting my stomach which was invaded by microbes of rotten raita at the fanciest restaurant in the Karachi neighborhood I stay in) last Thursday. Friends and family were suggesting I avoid going back to pakistan due to the state of emergency, and I went to a travel office in Nizwa, Oman, to change the ticket - but due to the Diwali holidays there were no seats available to delhi from there, and so bravely I returned. And, as every pakistani I had spoken to had said, it actually feels safer and more stable than before, somehow. Anyways, I had had my ticket changed from the 17th to the 12th...meaning I wouldn't take my trip to multan and couldn't go to see my dear sweet 10 year old friend Erum. Anyone who knows me, knows I'm not going to sacrifice that trip...I'll be back across the border by road in 2 weeks time and go to the ancient Sufi centre of Multan and I'll get to see my Erum!! It will probably be faster from Delhi than from here, distance-wise it's closer from there.
In the 4 days back in Karachi, away from running hot water again, I set my mind to paintin one of the walls of Ikhlaq's family's house, there's a beautiful archway to the kitchen, and I had envisioned a traditional Mughal palace archway there...so 4 days I painted to complete a really lovely archway with arcs and flowers, hearts, and messages painted in for my family. It came out lovely, and I photographed everyone there. There was one picture of me and Papa, and when we looked at it we were amazed, our faces look exactly the same, we definately could be family, the same music spirit kindled in our eyes.
The little hillarious details about things like the tailor and the clothes that were supposed to be stitched the previous week, and then would be done by evening, and then would be done by next morning, and then by 1pm after the azhan, and then by 8pm, and finally we had to collect everything, and one sister stayed up finishing the stitches long past midnight! Imran Bhai honored my request to cook his special secret recipe chicken...which he said he'd give me the recipe for, but naturally didn't...so we all went down the street to his house for a midnight meal. Ikhlaq called while we were there, and the phone was passed to Papa so Ikhlaq could play some sitar strains and get Papa's suggestions on how to improve them - precious. When Papa listens to music, he practically dances, feeling the notes so deeply, and the spirit spreads, the appreciation radiates thickly from him until there's no way not to enjoy and feel the same power in every note.
Well, let's see if the flight is further delayed, if complimentary lunch is also offered, if the technical difficulties get solved and the plane comes and safely flies and lands in Delhi where other wonders are waiting for me.....
p e a c e
So where to start...I arrived back from my week in Oman (the first 4 days of which were spent resting my stomach which was invaded by microbes of rotten raita at the fanciest restaurant in the Karachi neighborhood I stay in) last Thursday. Friends and family were suggesting I avoid going back to pakistan due to the state of emergency, and I went to a travel office in Nizwa, Oman, to change the ticket - but due to the Diwali holidays there were no seats available to delhi from there, and so bravely I returned. And, as every pakistani I had spoken to had said, it actually feels safer and more stable than before, somehow. Anyways, I had had my ticket changed from the 17th to the 12th...meaning I wouldn't take my trip to multan and couldn't go to see my dear sweet 10 year old friend Erum. Anyone who knows me, knows I'm not going to sacrifice that trip...I'll be back across the border by road in 2 weeks time and go to the ancient Sufi centre of Multan and I'll get to see my Erum!! It will probably be faster from Delhi than from here, distance-wise it's closer from there.
In the 4 days back in Karachi, away from running hot water again, I set my mind to paintin one of the walls of Ikhlaq's family's house, there's a beautiful archway to the kitchen, and I had envisioned a traditional Mughal palace archway there...so 4 days I painted to complete a really lovely archway with arcs and flowers, hearts, and messages painted in for my family. It came out lovely, and I photographed everyone there. There was one picture of me and Papa, and when we looked at it we were amazed, our faces look exactly the same, we definately could be family, the same music spirit kindled in our eyes.
The little hillarious details about things like the tailor and the clothes that were supposed to be stitched the previous week, and then would be done by evening, and then would be done by next morning, and then by 1pm after the azhan, and then by 8pm, and finally we had to collect everything, and one sister stayed up finishing the stitches long past midnight! Imran Bhai honored my request to cook his special secret recipe chicken...which he said he'd give me the recipe for, but naturally didn't...so we all went down the street to his house for a midnight meal. Ikhlaq called while we were there, and the phone was passed to Papa so Ikhlaq could play some sitar strains and get Papa's suggestions on how to improve them - precious. When Papa listens to music, he practically dances, feeling the notes so deeply, and the spirit spreads, the appreciation radiates thickly from him until there's no way not to enjoy and feel the same power in every note.
Well, let's see if the flight is further delayed, if complimentary lunch is also offered, if the technical difficulties get solved and the plane comes and safely flies and lands in Delhi where other wonders are waiting for me.....
p e a c e
Friday, November 2, 2007
Frankincense Tea
Yesterday morning with rumbling stomach and only a few hours of sleep, after embracing the sisters who were awake and my Pakistani Papa, Faisal Bhai got me a taxi and reluctantly let me sit in the front seat. Amrit Bhai rode his motorcycle along with us, picking up a too cool for his own greased back hair guy sporting a cigarette somewhere along the way; parting at the entrance to his work at the DHL department. We passed a very beautiful old church (St.Christopher’s) within the airport complex. There was a VIP departing at the same time as we arrived, so the taxi had to finagle its way to the curb. I got my sarangi out of the “diggi” (trunk) and was expecting Faisal would leave with the taxi, but for some reason he let the taxi go and a few minutes later said goodbye and probably had to find another taxi, or who knows…
There was luggage inspection directly inside the doors, and some very nice and impressed inspectors who asked me a million questions about sarangi. The computers were down at the Oman Air desks, still unbelievably people were trying to budge through the line, a porter putting them in place and apologizing to me, “very sorry, Madame”. Was happy to see female immigration officers at Karachi airport, the first international flight I had from there since my first visit several years earlier when I was overnight in transit in Karachi and had my passport confiscated. I was told it was law for transit customers to have their passports held before leaving the airport for the transit hotel. It was all the more dramatic after a day of sufi episodes meeting an Italian Chistiya sheika who judged I was following a false spiritual path and made parallels to a roof not being supported without columns, and a person not being able to leave the country without a passport…. Back at the airport when I went to get my boarding pass I was asked for my passport, when I said I was supposed to collect it from them, I was asked to step out of line and wait. Nearly boarding time, I was called back to get my boarding pass, but wasn’t given my passport. From one desk to another, and finally shoved into the immigration line, the officer looked me up and down and asked where I was from, and wasn’t I Pakistani, I looked so beautiful with a scarf around my neck, and wouldn’t I pull it up to cover my head, how beautiful I would then look. I finally lost decorum to the subtle point that I was capable to someone in such control of my life at that moment, and said, “No, Sir, I am not in prayer now, I’m only praying that you give me my passport back.” Neighboring officers turned heads, and the man sobered and pointed me to the next desk and I was given my passport and the lines opened up for me to pass through.
Waiting for boarding time, I went over to get some chai and the chai wallah struck up a conversation complimenting my urdu and uncertain if I was actually Pakistani or not, his second guess was Turkish, as he didn’t really buy my line about being without a country and being from the Universe. Time passed, I boarded the plane bound for a country of women clad in black robes and veils. I wear clothes the color of my eyes and skin – turquoise head scarf, kurta, Lahori embroidered shoes light sea green dupatta and white silwar; off to see what awaits.
Arrived to dusty mountains and dusty air, men in long white robes with tightly wrapped low turbans or high embroidered hats, and women clad in black. There was a mysterious visa process with lines going to immigration and lines going to a money changer and an information window that was issuing pre-arranged visas. I had to go to the money changer and he collected the fee, then I showed the receipt to the immigration officers – two rather young and dashingly turbaned guys who were pretending to be all stern as they smiled and practiced their English and acted perplexed over an American female arriving from Pakistan, I nodded and agreed it was strange. Passing through and collecting my sarangi, then had it opened by a female customs officer who insisted on plucking the strings over and over and trying to interest the other officers to look (which they didn’t have time for). Outside my friend Ma’at was nowhere in sight, so I figured out the system of buying a phone card and making a public phone call and reached her. She and two friends were being held up by overexerted Indian hospitality, and were finally given the excuse they needed to leave when my call came.
As I waited I pondered endlessly over the mystery tassel at the front right collar of the men’s ankle length robes, wondering what esthetic or useful purpose it could possibly be there for. Looking around at “Magic Wok” and “Costa Coffee”, the dark skinned Nepali faced ladies in bright, bright pinks across the way, the men in their robes; I was trying to gauge whether it was a 3rd world country or 2nd world, but the cleaning lady, in her black toe-socks, asleep behind the bathroom door gave some of the answer away. A short-haired white woman in a short-sleeved tee-shirt finally came into the airport arrival hall and called out to me, walked me out to Ma’at (aka Justine) who was driving a beautiful white car through the arrival lane. A third lady, Fatima, from Hyderabad India, was also with the receiving entourage, and we drove off to the Muscat Mall to grocery shop at a fancy place where international items were plentiful.
As my stomach was rumbling and I felt in the thick of a flu, Ma'at suggested I get some tea at "Mood Cafe" and put medicinal-grade frankincense into it. What a taste! Hunza apricots, and Omani frankincense tea...what a life I lead!! I know why the wise men brought Frankincense to baby Jesus, not for the smell, to keep him alive through the cold winter nights! It was about a two hour drive back to Nizwa, we stopped at a little town off the main road, where the ladies put on their tourist shopping hats and stocked up on ceramic items (from little turned up shoes to vases to decorative Arabic plaques).
For the first time in perhaps weeks, I had a full night’s sleep, and a nearly hot shower – though Ma’at’s gas ran out and being Friday no one is working so it can’t be replaced so no stove cooking or hot showers til then. I took a walk out to the Shell station where there were purportedly samosas to be found…but being Friday…. It was a lovely 20 step stroll, gazing at the jagged, crumbling mountains all around. Something in the very nature of the stone seems restless, maybe they are just a mirror for me, though.
Ma’at, and apparently all of her expat friends here, want me to come and teach, and the University even agreed to us splitting a year’s contract, where I work 6 months, then she works 6 months, we live in the same lovely, fully furnished and livable apartment. Before we arrived to Nizwa, I determined if before leaving this week I find a very advanced North Indian musician, a recording studio/producer to work with, and the love of my life….I’ll definitely take the job. I have to admit, I think the love of my life is everywhere, and it need not matter where I go…if the love of my life does not travel along with me I will be bound to find the love of my life where I go….insha’Allah. Though already in NY I have those 3 ingrediants, and as Papa says, “Why go to Multan, Sufi is here!?” He is right, but also I must go, and he knows, and he allows me my journey.
There was luggage inspection directly inside the doors, and some very nice and impressed inspectors who asked me a million questions about sarangi. The computers were down at the Oman Air desks, still unbelievably people were trying to budge through the line, a porter putting them in place and apologizing to me, “very sorry, Madame”. Was happy to see female immigration officers at Karachi airport, the first international flight I had from there since my first visit several years earlier when I was overnight in transit in Karachi and had my passport confiscated. I was told it was law for transit customers to have their passports held before leaving the airport for the transit hotel. It was all the more dramatic after a day of sufi episodes meeting an Italian Chistiya sheika who judged I was following a false spiritual path and made parallels to a roof not being supported without columns, and a person not being able to leave the country without a passport…. Back at the airport when I went to get my boarding pass I was asked for my passport, when I said I was supposed to collect it from them, I was asked to step out of line and wait. Nearly boarding time, I was called back to get my boarding pass, but wasn’t given my passport. From one desk to another, and finally shoved into the immigration line, the officer looked me up and down and asked where I was from, and wasn’t I Pakistani, I looked so beautiful with a scarf around my neck, and wouldn’t I pull it up to cover my head, how beautiful I would then look. I finally lost decorum to the subtle point that I was capable to someone in such control of my life at that moment, and said, “No, Sir, I am not in prayer now, I’m only praying that you give me my passport back.” Neighboring officers turned heads, and the man sobered and pointed me to the next desk and I was given my passport and the lines opened up for me to pass through.
Waiting for boarding time, I went over to get some chai and the chai wallah struck up a conversation complimenting my urdu and uncertain if I was actually Pakistani or not, his second guess was Turkish, as he didn’t really buy my line about being without a country and being from the Universe. Time passed, I boarded the plane bound for a country of women clad in black robes and veils. I wear clothes the color of my eyes and skin – turquoise head scarf, kurta, Lahori embroidered shoes light sea green dupatta and white silwar; off to see what awaits.
Arrived to dusty mountains and dusty air, men in long white robes with tightly wrapped low turbans or high embroidered hats, and women clad in black. There was a mysterious visa process with lines going to immigration and lines going to a money changer and an information window that was issuing pre-arranged visas. I had to go to the money changer and he collected the fee, then I showed the receipt to the immigration officers – two rather young and dashingly turbaned guys who were pretending to be all stern as they smiled and practiced their English and acted perplexed over an American female arriving from Pakistan, I nodded and agreed it was strange. Passing through and collecting my sarangi, then had it opened by a female customs officer who insisted on plucking the strings over and over and trying to interest the other officers to look (which they didn’t have time for). Outside my friend Ma’at was nowhere in sight, so I figured out the system of buying a phone card and making a public phone call and reached her. She and two friends were being held up by overexerted Indian hospitality, and were finally given the excuse they needed to leave when my call came.
As I waited I pondered endlessly over the mystery tassel at the front right collar of the men’s ankle length robes, wondering what esthetic or useful purpose it could possibly be there for. Looking around at “Magic Wok” and “Costa Coffee”, the dark skinned Nepali faced ladies in bright, bright pinks across the way, the men in their robes; I was trying to gauge whether it was a 3rd world country or 2nd world, but the cleaning lady, in her black toe-socks, asleep behind the bathroom door gave some of the answer away. A short-haired white woman in a short-sleeved tee-shirt finally came into the airport arrival hall and called out to me, walked me out to Ma’at (aka Justine) who was driving a beautiful white car through the arrival lane. A third lady, Fatima, from Hyderabad India, was also with the receiving entourage, and we drove off to the Muscat Mall to grocery shop at a fancy place where international items were plentiful.
As my stomach was rumbling and I felt in the thick of a flu, Ma'at suggested I get some tea at "Mood Cafe" and put medicinal-grade frankincense into it. What a taste! Hunza apricots, and Omani frankincense tea...what a life I lead!! I know why the wise men brought Frankincense to baby Jesus, not for the smell, to keep him alive through the cold winter nights! It was about a two hour drive back to Nizwa, we stopped at a little town off the main road, where the ladies put on their tourist shopping hats and stocked up on ceramic items (from little turned up shoes to vases to decorative Arabic plaques).
For the first time in perhaps weeks, I had a full night’s sleep, and a nearly hot shower – though Ma’at’s gas ran out and being Friday no one is working so it can’t be replaced so no stove cooking or hot showers til then. I took a walk out to the Shell station where there were purportedly samosas to be found…but being Friday…. It was a lovely 20 step stroll, gazing at the jagged, crumbling mountains all around. Something in the very nature of the stone seems restless, maybe they are just a mirror for me, though.
Ma’at, and apparently all of her expat friends here, want me to come and teach, and the University even agreed to us splitting a year’s contract, where I work 6 months, then she works 6 months, we live in the same lovely, fully furnished and livable apartment. Before we arrived to Nizwa, I determined if before leaving this week I find a very advanced North Indian musician, a recording studio/producer to work with, and the love of my life….I’ll definitely take the job. I have to admit, I think the love of my life is everywhere, and it need not matter where I go…if the love of my life does not travel along with me I will be bound to find the love of my life where I go….insha’Allah. Though already in NY I have those 3 ingrediants, and as Papa says, “Why go to Multan, Sufi is here!?” He is right, but also I must go, and he knows, and he allows me my journey.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
20 Sleeping Legs
Hello, after a very long pause visiting the internet. I am ALIVE!! And well in Karachi. Though you may have been worrying about me being here, due to the bomb blasts last week....there's nothing to fear, though you can not imagine the driving conditions here...me sidesaddle on brother Amrit's motorcycle racing through the night.
It has been fine here 2 weeks and 2 days now, but I'm going a bit stir-crazy. Every morning I step my way through 20 sleeping legs to get to the squat toilet. It's probably the longest I've been without running water...though there are mysterious times of the day when it does run and all of the water tanks and sinks overflow with water spilling through the house! Excitement all around.
Ikhlaq's father is patiently guiding me along with music and sarangi, and honors me with picking up the sitar...and I wish I didn't have to try to focus so hard and figure out how to replicate what he's teaching, but could just sit back and enjoy the beauty of it.
After the bomb, actually before the bomb, the door outside of the apartment was officially closed for me - as crowds and chaos ensued in the nebulous outside world. Then there was a strike that lasted another 3 days or 4, and even after no one wanted to let me go out and greet the sun. I'm very eager to take a vacation from my vacation, at this point. Finally last night after 2 weeks and only going out of the house once to try to get my ticket to oman, I was driven to see my friend Luqman (nephew of ustad mashkoor ali khan of calcutta, and friend of mine from korea! we both did time there). I had lost his #, so we had to drive around trying to find it, but we did, and he was very beautifully surprised to see me, and I met his daughter of 9 months, and his sweet wife and sisters and mom and gma.
Tonight I may do some shopping for material...I'm encouraging one sister to do some of her amazing stitching work for me to sell to friends back home - her work is beautiful, and if my idea works it will be the first time that she has ever had a means for making an income!! (More on the idea, email me if you have any interest in buying indian cloths!) Also heard something about going to Ala-Din, some game arcade that's all the rage.
Thursday is Ikhlaq's nephew, Sonu's concert at Alliance Francais; surely he'll play amazingly like the superstar he is.
Plan to go to oman for a week on the 1st, and then sometime the following week start to wend my way north and then back over the border that separates one land from itself....I have actually a lot more interesting plans than I'm letting on, but I'll have to save something for later... and still hope to update the last part of my china journey, when there's time.
For now, sending my love out to all my friends, hope all are safe, happy, healthy!
It has been fine here 2 weeks and 2 days now, but I'm going a bit stir-crazy. Every morning I step my way through 20 sleeping legs to get to the squat toilet. It's probably the longest I've been without running water...though there are mysterious times of the day when it does run and all of the water tanks and sinks overflow with water spilling through the house! Excitement all around.
Ikhlaq's father is patiently guiding me along with music and sarangi, and honors me with picking up the sitar...and I wish I didn't have to try to focus so hard and figure out how to replicate what he's teaching, but could just sit back and enjoy the beauty of it.
After the bomb, actually before the bomb, the door outside of the apartment was officially closed for me - as crowds and chaos ensued in the nebulous outside world. Then there was a strike that lasted another 3 days or 4, and even after no one wanted to let me go out and greet the sun. I'm very eager to take a vacation from my vacation, at this point. Finally last night after 2 weeks and only going out of the house once to try to get my ticket to oman, I was driven to see my friend Luqman (nephew of ustad mashkoor ali khan of calcutta, and friend of mine from korea! we both did time there). I had lost his #, so we had to drive around trying to find it, but we did, and he was very beautifully surprised to see me, and I met his daughter of 9 months, and his sweet wife and sisters and mom and gma.
Tonight I may do some shopping for material...I'm encouraging one sister to do some of her amazing stitching work for me to sell to friends back home - her work is beautiful, and if my idea works it will be the first time that she has ever had a means for making an income!! (More on the idea, email me if you have any interest in buying indian cloths!) Also heard something about going to Ala-Din, some game arcade that's all the rage.
Thursday is Ikhlaq's nephew, Sonu's concert at Alliance Francais; surely he'll play amazingly like the superstar he is.
Plan to go to oman for a week on the 1st, and then sometime the following week start to wend my way north and then back over the border that separates one land from itself....I have actually a lot more interesting plans than I'm letting on, but I'll have to save something for later... and still hope to update the last part of my china journey, when there's time.
For now, sending my love out to all my friends, hope all are safe, happy, healthy!
Friday, October 5, 2007
What Time? It's 9 o'clock AND it's 7 o'clock ??!!
XinJiang Autonomous Region (perhaps not very autonomous after all) has 2 concurrent time zones, making time itself seem a silly thing. One time is local XinJiang time, and the other is Beijing time - 2 hours ahead. Official things, like breakfast at the Chinese Tourist Hotel, and plane departures happen on Beijing time, and answers to 'what time is it' happen on local time. To make things equally exciting there are two languages spoken. I soon realized, as all the local Ughyurs get stuck with the worst jobs, all the taxi drivers are Ughyur. I got in a taxi saying, 'ni hao' and got a glare, realizing my mistake, the next time I got into a taxi I said, "Salaam Aleikum" and the driver replied with a heartfelt smile and "wa'aleikum a salaam". But, try to Salaam the Han nationals, and the same glare comes back, or rather a bewildered look as if we're speaking latin.
Watermelon season. Jujubes. Fresh flower peaches, grapes, apricot kernals.
We went to the shrine of Apak Hoja, the air of Sufis, somewhere beyond the mud walls. Akimjan, from the morning after the after missing official breakfast-time experience - peanuts cold pork rind and sugary white bread to dip in sweet and sour sauce, eeks..., guided us to China Air and to China Bank and back to China Air and suggested we eat chicken noodles at Entazaar Restaurant (delicious), took us to parts of the Old City, where the cobbler sewed my boots back together, lingering over the details to irk a bossy woman who then had to wait with her fists clenched for him to finish both of my boots zippers and back seam. There were some guys singing operatic 'happy birthday' across the way on the computers next to the W.C. We saw more bowed instruments, something called 'khoshtar' that had minah birds carved on the top. There were parrots in cages singing outside of the little grocery shops. Women wore skirts just below the knees with silk leggings and nylons over them; clicking high heels and scarves tied under the hair, men in mismatched jackets and suit pants, the pirs wearing Afghani style robes and long white beards.
Kashgar.
Watermelon season. Jujubes. Fresh flower peaches, grapes, apricot kernals.
We went to the shrine of Apak Hoja, the air of Sufis, somewhere beyond the mud walls. Akimjan, from the morning after the after missing official breakfast-time experience - peanuts cold pork rind and sugary white bread to dip in sweet and sour sauce, eeks..., guided us to China Air and to China Bank and back to China Air and suggested we eat chicken noodles at Entazaar Restaurant (delicious), took us to parts of the Old City, where the cobbler sewed my boots back together, lingering over the details to irk a bossy woman who then had to wait with her fists clenched for him to finish both of my boots zippers and back seam. There were some guys singing operatic 'happy birthday' across the way on the computers next to the W.C. We saw more bowed instruments, something called 'khoshtar' that had minah birds carved on the top. There were parrots in cages singing outside of the little grocery shops. Women wore skirts just below the knees with silk leggings and nylons over them; clicking high heels and scarves tied under the hair, men in mismatched jackets and suit pants, the pirs wearing Afghani style robes and long white beards.
Kashgar.
Kashgar, China - what was supposed to be our destination
So here we are in Kashgar - after a 4 day journey which went quite smoothly. How great to be in a "luxury" hotel ChiniBagh after last night invading the Khyrgustani family's house - paying brutally for it and having only a few bites of bread and yak cheese, and no bathroom but the bright jagged and dusty stones under the freezing cold of the full Moon. Sweet Muneera. I'm coming up with a story, weaving a past life tapestry of me as a Hunza girl falling in love with a XinJiang girl who came to visit and perhaps brought me back to China with her...but I couldn't stay, I missed the apricot valley too much.
We walked around the block to the old Id Ka Mosque from the 1400's. There was a 20 yuen admission (nearly $3) just to walk in, but it was lovely and peaceful, poplar lined and yellow archways. The to the KahLa (public bathroom - not a pretty site and required admission fees too!), into the handicrafts music store where a guy demonstrated the local violin which sits raised on the left knee facing out at arm's length, elbow holding it in place. There was even a double bass version, way cool. Talking calculators were passed over so we could type a price in, hillarious, really. At the little supermarket near the hotel I bought Colgate watermellon toothpaste (thinking of Daniel whom got me into the wonder of buying foreign toothpastes), a red bean bread, Nutri-Express drink, Piko chocolate bar, coffee ice cream bar, and this cute Pooh bear notebook entitled "you laughter is the suns i keep look for each day your voice is music to my ears your smile helps light my way" all for a dollar and a quarter - 9 yuen. Some of my Chinese is coming back. At least I can say, "hello, thank you, goodbye".
To the Pakistani Cafe for dinner. Beijing-Pakistan photo exchange happening, as a young Chinese girl asked a Pakistani guy how to eat the food. The Pakistani's speaking amongst themselves thought I was Russian, but weren't sure because I didn't speak. It was a far cry from the Hunza people who whispered guesses as we walked up the Karimabad hill - first Peshawar, then they guessed I was from Kabul! I spoke in Urdu to the Ughyur ladies in the kitchen and told them it was delicious. Sweet people everywhere, no hassles, no real out friendliness either - except maybe the boys outside of Id Ka Mosque trying to sell their golden butterfly pins. It's cold. Can't wait to use my watermelon toothpaste,now is the time!
We walked around the block to the old Id Ka Mosque from the 1400's. There was a 20 yuen admission (nearly $3) just to walk in, but it was lovely and peaceful, poplar lined and yellow archways. The to the KahLa (public bathroom - not a pretty site and required admission fees too!), into the handicrafts music store where a guy demonstrated the local violin which sits raised on the left knee facing out at arm's length, elbow holding it in place. There was even a double bass version, way cool. Talking calculators were passed over so we could type a price in, hillarious, really. At the little supermarket near the hotel I bought Colgate watermellon toothpaste (thinking of Daniel whom got me into the wonder of buying foreign toothpastes), a red bean bread, Nutri-Express drink, Piko chocolate bar, coffee ice cream bar, and this cute Pooh bear notebook entitled "you laughter is the suns i keep look for each day your voice is music to my ears your smile helps light my way" all for a dollar and a quarter - 9 yuen. Some of my Chinese is coming back. At least I can say, "hello, thank you, goodbye".
To the Pakistani Cafe for dinner. Beijing-Pakistan photo exchange happening, as a young Chinese girl asked a Pakistani guy how to eat the food. The Pakistani's speaking amongst themselves thought I was Russian, but weren't sure because I didn't speak. It was a far cry from the Hunza people who whispered guesses as we walked up the Karimabad hill - first Peshawar, then they guessed I was from Kabul! I spoke in Urdu to the Ughyur ladies in the kitchen and told them it was delicious. Sweet people everywhere, no hassles, no real out friendliness either - except maybe the boys outside of Id Ka Mosque trying to sell their golden butterfly pins. It's cold. Can't wait to use my watermelon toothpaste,now is the time!
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