Leaving

Today I left Ottawa, after four years and a degree. Good friends saw me off; some shook my hands, some patted my back in one of those hand-shake-hugs, others full out hugged, some offered meek goodbyes and sarcastic but truthful "Have a good life," comments; some cried and made me feel good for them doing it.

Since Wednesday my brother had been up, and we had been drinking in the afternoons and eating at Wing's and Philly's, a dinner that has a cute small Indian girl as a waitress who, in the past 3 days in a row that we've been there, has memorized what I was always about to order.

I had become, in my three last days there, a regular. I haven't really ever been a regular anywhere, except possibly that small restaurant in Beijing near my apartment that I used to write in.

I'm going to miss Ottawa. I used to always feel torn between Ottawa and Toronto, thinking I had a home in both places. I eventually learned that I had a life in Ottawa but no home; and a home and life in Ottawa; this makes it hard to leave.

It didn't help that I was driven home - by my dad - at sunset, while CBC Radio played an Earth Day special with songs like, What a wonderful world, and REM's It's the end of the world as we know it.

Regardless. People I care about know how I feel, and how I will see them still; I also suppose they all know that all this hasn't hit me yet, and that I'll try really hard not to let it.

Aug. 5 - 8:38 a.m., Yinning, Xinjiang Province, China

Arrived in Yinning by bus and discovered a pile of rubble where the internet cafe is meant to be, which is somewhat good because tonight I'll be sleeping in a tent and something is unusual about using the internet and a tent in the same day.


Near Lake Sayram

I'm now eating a large leek/egg dumpling and a steaming bowl of niu nai (hot soy milk) -- which is reminding me of Tibet, if not for the 20-odd women doing taiji (tai chi) with swords over at the next building. A young Kazakh family, veiled and shy, just arrived at this outdoor eatery. Just now, a small Kazakh (I think) boy sat down at my table and is eating mutton dumplings.

My bus ticket to Bole is for 10:50 a.m., which means I'll get to "around" Lake Sayram before 4 p.m., hopefully -- one never knows this far from Beijing. But of course, this far from Beijing you can see the stars; last night in particular, as I woke several times on the overnight bus to see a gorgeous sky laid out, through the window, above me -- gleaming as if to remind me how long it had been since we last met. I think, maybe, it's been a year; since Tibet, I doubt I've seen that many stars, which I suppose makes sense.

Since Tibet also, I doubt I've had a beard this big -- which is funny because it's deliberate: I could have shaved in Beijing, but I hate shaving anyway.


My beard, circa August 2006

I suppose Xinjiang may be some elaborate ploy to grow a beard.

Regardless, Yinning does feel like a border town, but that might be because I'm by the bus station. Everything I write about Xinjiang requires an end of sentence qualifier because of my own ignorance.

Chinese restaurants and stores have popped up all over the place -- I wonder what places they came from that to them Yinning is a big city of wonder. I bet to them, Beijing and Shanghai carry the same sort of weight as NYC must to a small boy from Alabama.

Two men just read that (lines pointing to NYC) over my shoulder; maybe they just want my table? Ha!


Urumqi, actually, not Yinning.

I keep forgetting to mention that for the past few days I feel that I have resembled a bizarre traveller from eras gone by. I'm decked out in brown breeches (rolled up), a tucked in wife beater (sleeveless white shirt, expressed unfortunately) that's too big for me, tied in with a black belt, and a plaid short sleeve shirt; my feet are filthy and so are my nails, I'm unshaven and haven't washed my hair (rain not included) for a week. For a boy from a Southern Ontario suburb, that's not half-bad.

And when I started this second bowl of milk there were three bugs; there is now one, floating on top; floating like me, but dead.

The Uighur man across from me now, has about four or five crow's feet on either eye, stretching about an inch and a half each -- but they look like they're from squinting, not smiling.

Earlier, I saw a Uighur woman -- or an old, weird Chinese -- walking in a pink great coat and cowboy boots. A Uighur man just walked by hobbling, holding a bulge coming out of his left knee with his right hand, and walking on the toes of his damaged foot -- I believe he was holding in a broken bone, afraid it would burst out his knee.

Censorship Today?

...[T]he notion that news simply reflects raw events seems almost quaint -- on par with the belief that politicians just represent the voters who elect them, or that the free market gives people what they deserve.

- The Missing News, Hackett & Gruneau (2000)