I have to go to the
bank everyday this week because I need to pay rent for the whole year in cash.
I brought enough cash from the States to pay for it, but apparently foreigners
can only change $500 USD a day.
None of the banks in
my immediate neighborhood change foreign currency. So I have to walk a mile
each day to get to a bank that does change foreign currency. Technically I
could take the bus, but since they’re doing construction for a new subway
station down the street, the traffic is so bad between my house and the bank
that it would take longer to take the bus than to walk.
When I get to the
bank, the friendly security guard with large yellow crooked teeth at the front door
greets me with an amiable smile. He recognizes me from yesterday and helps me
copy my passport. I make my way to the “foreign currency and accounts
department,” which is comprised of a bespectacled Han boy who looks about 16
years old sitting behind a small desk.
He is currently
talking to an old man with a doppa and an old woman wearing a beautiful dark
green headscarf adorned with swirls of gold ornamentation. I stand directly
behind them, and in typical local fashion, I pay no attention to personal space
or privacy concerns, and lean against the desk, staring at them and listening
to their conversation. When in Rome, do as, right?
They want to send
100 USD to America. Another bank employee is brought over to translate. She
tells them that if they want to send 100 USD, it’s going to be more than 6,000
kuai. The old man pulls out a huge stack of 100 kuai bills. He’s a few bills
short of 100 USD, so he pulls out his wallet for a few more. The skinny boy
behind the desk prints something out and the woman asks him, “boldima?” which
means, “Finished up now?” in the Uyghur language, but the boy doesn’t
understand her.
They leave and I
step forward but a man walks right past me and sits down in front of the desk.
I say to him in Uyghur, “men saqlap turgandim…” or “I was waiting…” He turns to
look at me briefly, and says, “It’ll just be a second,” and proceeds with his
business. The skinny boy doesn’t say anything, but instead just looks at me and
chuckles.
“Shenfenzheng bama?”
the chuckling boy asks the man as he throws me a side glance. “Do you have your
ID card?”
“What?” The man
asks.
“Shenfenzheng!” The
boy says, louder this time. “ID Card!”
The man produces it
and arranges money to be sent to Turkey.
When it’s finally my
turn, I sit down and the boy says, “You didn’t respond to any of my WeChat
messages.”
I had given him my
WeChat name the day before. I actually hadn’t seen his messages, nor did I have
a strong desire to talk to him on WeChat.
“I don’t look at my
phone when I’m really busy,” I respond.
As he’s processing
my transaction, he asks me which state I’m from, and do I know about the CFA
exam, and do I know that there are minorities in Xinjiang, and how did I learn
Uyghur, and do I have a Uyghur boyfriend, and when will I be returning to the
States, and what kind of food do I like, and would I be interested in playing
badminton with him sometime?
After he prints out
an authorization to change money form for me, I escape to the next window,
where a woman who reminds me of my mom processes the currency exchange from
dollars into RMB. I explain that I have to pay my rent next week, which is why
I have to come here to change money everyday. How much is your rent and for how
big of a house and how many people are living there and what do I pay per month
and where am I living? she inquires.
After everything has
been processed, I thank her and collect the cash and my belongings, making sure
that everything is secure. I walk home along South Liberation Road, through the
Grand Bazaar and the main shopping district of the Uyghur neighborhood.
As I walk, I smell delicious
fresh lamb meat roasting on the BBQ. A girl of about eight or nine with
stunning blue eyes and her hair covered in a satin pink headscarf walks by me,
her hand holding a young boy toddling beside her. Speakers are blasting techno
pop music while megaphones with recording circuits yell, “Baha chushti! The
price has decreased! 10 koy, 10 koy, 10 koy!” over and over again. A sea of
people envelopes me as I join the bustling market place, a crowded swath of
customers and hawkers alike, that make it possible to only take small steps
forward. I hold my purse tightly. I smell BO.
Stores on either
side of me sell dish soap, soccer jerseys, baby clothes, Turkish tea, snake
oil, neon orange and pink tennis shoes, imported foods from Turkey, carpet
cleaning services, teapots, curtains, and vases for washing guests’ hands.
Street vendors are selling stolen phones, anti-cockroach poison, socks, raisins
by the kilo, and cut up cantaloupe, watermelon, and honeydew for 1 kuai a
slice. I walk past a Halal butcher where a recently slaughtered sheep rests on
the ground, its head lack and its blood flowing from its neck into a metal pan.
Full sheep hang from the butcher shop. I ask for 10 kuai worth of meat and the
butcher cuts off a slice of the sheep and weighs it before putting it in a
plastic bag for me.
Each store’s sign
has both Chinese and Uyghur, and sometimes also Russian, English, Turkish, or
Korean. I hear cars honking and a pair of trumpets blasting a happy tune in
time to a drum, competing with the sound of jackhammers blasting the road ahead
for the subway. All around me people are talking, sharing their stories, their
worries, their fears, their loves, and their dramas. I hear Chinese and turn to
see a group of tourists eating kabob for lunch at 10 am local time and drinking
pomegranate juice out of season. As I walk past the construction, it smells
like burning plastic and gives me a headache.
As I keep walking, I
see five middle-aged women sitting near each other, each with small white
Styrofoam platforms in front of them, selling what looks like bok choy. I
consider asking them how much it is because they look like pretty good
vegetables. I ask one of the women what they’re selling. They’re selling a
special type of dye, made out of this bok choy-like vegetable, for the purpose
of drawing on a unibrow. I then realize that all of the women have a dark
unibrow drawn on. “OH, your eyebrows are so beautiful!” I exclaim. They nod in
agreement. I tell them no thanks and keep on down South Liberation Road.
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