[Old Stories of Yili] Qiu Xiaowei: Overnight Stay at the Han Street Carriage Shop#
Original Author: Wang Hongtao Public Account: Old Stories of Yili Published: 2018-08-15 0:14
Original Address: [Old Stories of Yili] Qiu Xiaowei: Overnight Stay at the Han Street Carriage Shop**
This original piece is by Qiu Xiaowei (Tianjin): Overnight stay at the carriage shop in Yining.
Issue 674
“Old Stories of Yili” (674) is probably around 1972. I helped the tractor station transport diesel for spring plowing from the Yining oil depot. A worn-out Qianlima tractor, driven by Bage, and me, often traveled back and forth between Yining City and Halatubai, during which many interesting stories occurred. This piece is about a small story that happened at the carriage shop on Han Street in Yining City.
— Author's Note
It was around 1972, I had returned to Halatubai after graduating from the Xinjiang Finance School for three or four years. Every spring plowing season, I participated in the work of the commune tractor station to transport diesel for spring plowing from the Yining oil depot. A worn-out Qianlima tractor, a strong driver named Bage, and I, a tall and thin person, often drove back and forth between Yining City and Halatubai, during which many memorable past events occurred. I invite readers to take a glimpse into the lives of people at the bottom of society at that time; although somewhat vulgar, it is the real suffering and joy we experienced.
The Carriage Shop on Xinhua East Road is right next to Han Street
Before dawn, Bage shouted in front of the dormitory: “Get up, we need to hit the road. If we wait a little longer for the sun to come out and the ice on the road to melt, we won’t be able to get out.”
So we drove the only old wheeled Qianlima tractor in the village, pulling an equally old trailer, and set off under the stars.
Every early spring, we had to travel back and forth between the small village of Halatubai and Yining City to transport diesel for spring production. It was a tough job, nearly 140 kilometers of road, with only the section close to Yining City being asphalt; the rest were muddy dirt roads or treacherous mountain roads where the winter snow had not yet melted.
During those years, I worked as an accountant in the township government and often enjoyed being with Bage. He was a student from Yining No. 4 Middle School who was re-educated in Halatubai (there were many classmates, but I’ve forgotten their names, only remembering some nicknames, like Guozi (Guo Zilin), Jianguo, Niuwawa (Zhao Ning), Laoniang, and Poniang, etc.).
Bage and I were about the same age; he taught me how to drive the wheeled tractor and was my mentor. When we were out on the road, he was naturally happy to have me lend him a hand. Bage was a genuine young Hui man from Yili, standing at 1.85 meters tall, weighing 100 kilograms, with a ruddy complexion and a sturdy build. He spoke Mandarin, Kazakh, and Uyghur, was cheerful, humorous, and a top-notch meat eater and drinker.
Once we left the village, we were on the grassland path in early spring. Even in spring, the nighttime temperature on the grassland was low, and the road that melted during the day would refreeze, creating a thin layer of ice that made the tractor skid continuously. The road was difficult to navigate, but we still tried to drive a bit faster, hoping to reach the gravel road leading to Yining City before the road completely melted.
By dusk, we finally arrived at the Yili Petroleum Company located on the outskirts of Yining City, but it was after work hours. We had to drive into the city to find a place to eat and stay. After a whole day of bumpy travel, we were tired, hungry, covered in dirt, and looking unrecognizable. We first went to the “Hongqi Restaurant,” but it was fully booked. At that time, there were not many affordable places to park and stay in the city. With nowhere to go, we had to drive towards the carriage shop.
Yining Mass Restaurant (Photo by Wang Minbin)
At that time, the carriage shop was right at the corner of Xinhua East Road and Han Street. Because it was close to the bustling Han Street, the carriage shop was a lively place, where many vendors, shoppers, carriage drivers, and street tourists would gather there early and late. The carriage shop had a large courtyard where various vehicles could be parked. When we drove our loud Qianlima into the courtyard, it was already filled with all kinds of horse-drawn carts and donkey carts, including rubber-wheeled carts, Kazakh-style carts (four-wheeled carts with iron-covered wheels), beautifully decorated six-pole carts, and smaller donkey-drawn carts.
The drivers in the courtyard were busy unloading iron feeding troughs from their carts to feed their horses. Some horses and donkeys that had just been unhitched rolled around in the courtyard to relieve fatigue, while others neighed longingly, as if saying, “Ah, the tiring day is finally over.” The horses that were eating were snorting loudly, chewing grass vigorously. The robust drivers greeted each other cheerfully, making the courtyard very lively—these various draft animals and their tough owners were becoming rare sights in Yining City (except for the six-pole carts used for tourism), but they were once the main force for short-distance transportation in the Yili region, with many people at the bottom of society relying on them to transport goods to make a living.
We parked the tractor in a corner, turned off the engine, and before we could jump down from the tractor, a plump young woman, dressed neatly and wearing a checkered headscarf, came over laughing and shouting:
“Hey, Bage, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you! Where have you been making money? Why don’t you go to those fancy hotels and guesthouses? Are you missing me? Otherwise, you wouldn’t come to our shabby carriage shop to stay!”
But I could tell she just came over to issue us a ticket and collect parking fees, and she clearly knew Bage. Bage didn’t rush to jump down from the tractor; he reached out and lightly pointed at the young woman’s fair face, saying:
“You silly girl, go find us a room that’s a bit cleaner and less crowded. I’ll pay you later; do you think I’ll run away in the middle of the night?”
Under the guidance of that young woman, we checked into a room that was not considered large at that time—it was a room that could accommodate about ten people, with a row of earthen kangs against the north wall, serving as a communal bed for guests, covered with large felt mats, and under the mats were reed mats. The thin cotton quilts had been washed but had lost their original color, looking dark and dingy. There were no pillows, so guests had to use their own cotton clothes as pillows; some even used their shoes wrapped in towels as pillows (the drivers, who wore riding boots, were afraid of losing them at night, so they would place their boots under their heads). Most of the old houses in Yining were built with large earthen blocks, and to resist the cold, the walls were built quite thick, so the room was not cold. Four or five people had already settled in the room, and they all looked like drivers.
“Hello, friends.” Bage and I greeted them one by one. The drivers politely stood up and shook hands with us—at that time, driving a wheeled tractor was considered a more respectable profession compared to driving horses. They were sitting around the kang drinking tea, with dastarkhan laid out on the kang, and the table had naan, dairy curds, fruits, and some snacks brought by the drivers from home. One of them, a burly driver in his thirties with a dark red complexion, thick eyebrows, and bright eyes, recognized Bage and warmly asked:
“Hello, brother. How’s your family? Where did you come from? Was the journey safe? Is the tractor in good condition?”
Before Bage could answer, he turned to me and said, “Hello, brother. My name is Harsan, and I’m Bage’s friend.” Then he warmly invited the others to make room for us on the kang and humorously said to me, “Come on, join us for a bite; see how great our food is. Fragrant tohaxi (a thicker round naan), tea as good as wine, come on, brother, after a hard day’s work, let’s enjoy dinner. Try the naan made by my wife; it’s the best in all of Yili.”
Thirsty and hungry, we joined them, chatting while drinking tea. During the conversation, I learned that Bage, Harsan, and the young ticket seller had all grown up in the alleys of Yili East Liang, so they were familiar with each other.
The Uyghur man sitting across from me, wearing a flowered hat and dressed neatly, was a driver of a six-pole cart. His name was Yiming, with a thin face, deep-set eyes, and bright, lively eyes, always smiling. The six-pole cart was specifically used for carrying passengers and was considered a high-end cart (now called Madi). Most of the people riding in six-pole carts on the streets of Yining were beautiful, cheerful Uyghur girls or older men and women who dressed up nicely to go shopping. Passengers were like gods, so Yiming was always smiling.
Next to Yiming sat a small, thin young man who was a driver of a long-frame donkey cart, which was specifically used to deliver bricks to construction sites. The drivers of such carts were both drivers and laborers, true hard workers. From his accent, he was from Sichuan and had just arrived in Xinjiang not long ago; the cart and donkey were borrowed from a fellow villager. Dark and thin, he said that after working hard for a while, he would save enough money to buy his own good cart and a donkey.
The donkey carts of Yili once thrived. Photo by Wang Minbin
As we drank tea and chatted, occasionally, Uyghur and Hui youths or women came in carrying baskets or tin buckets to sell their food, including boiled sheep heads, sheep hooves, beautifully prepared white-cut chicken, dairy curds, sour soup noodles, refreshing kvass (a homemade low-alcohol drink made from honey and wheat bran), hand-churned, heavily flavored butter ice cream, and fragrant lamb skewers... Each food item sold by the vendors was delicious, representing the best of Yili’s ethnic cuisine—at that time, there were few unscrupulous people selling counterfeit goods.
Perhaps seeing his friend Harsan, or perhaps because several people were getting along well, or maybe the vendors’ calls moved Bage, he generously called over a Uyghur boy selling food and bought two white-cut chickens, two sets of boiled sheep heads and hooves, and a few bottles of kvass. Everyone was delighted with such a lavish dinner.
The happiest among us was me, as I listened to the drivers chatting in Mandarin, then in Uyghur, and occasionally mixing in a few phrases of Kazakh, sharing all sorts of bizarre stories (except for the little Sichuan guy, we all spoke more than two languages), while enjoying delicious food, all the fatigue of the day disappeared.
The drivers, who traveled south and north throughout the year, were well-traveled and could tell many stories of life’s ups and downs, joys and sorrows. They especially loved to recount their hardships, the joys they experienced, and the charming women they encountered... Of course, some stories were exaggerated, as the saying goes, “no tax on bragging,” and some stories were a bit risqué, but compared to the “jokes” told by some current celebrities, they were not much more risqué, and they certainly didn’t shine as brightly as the stories from “Tian Shang Ren Jian.”
The little Sichuan guy felt embarrassed for eating for free and didn’t know when he ran out to buy two bottles of Yining Daqu. With the help of alcohol, the drivers’ spirits rose even higher. The little Sichuan guy acted as the wine steward, responsible for pouring drinks for everyone. When it was Yiming’s turn, he took the wine and jokingly teased the little Sichuan guy:
“Hey, brother, I heard that when you came to Xinjiang, you didn’t even have money for a train ticket and had to run here barefoot. What a shame for such a long journey!”
After drinking a couple of cups, the little Sichuan guy’s face turned red, and his mind became sharp, retorting to Yiming:
“Well, I’m better off than you. I’ve seen you driving when you encountered muddy roads, afraid of getting your only pair of riding boots wet, so you took them off and carried them on your shoulder, driving barefoot. You’re not much richer than me.” The two burst into laughter. At that moment, Bage changed the subject and seriously said:
“Harsan, do you think there are really ghosts in this world? Last time I drove the tractor back to Halatubai, I passed by the old graveyard at the ‘Push Push Daban’ intersection. It was a cloudy night, very dark, but I saw a few green lights floating on the ground, dimly glowing, and they kept following my tractor. When I sped up, they sped up; when I slowed down, they slowed down. It scared me so much that my scalp tingled. Do you think I really encountered a ghost?”
“There are no ghosts. That’s probably the old graveyard of the sheep farm. Many people are buried in the old graveyard, and human bones contain phosphorus, which can ignite spontaneously. Maybe it was phosphorus fire,” Harsan confidently replied.
The little Sichuan guy became a bit nervous and quickly said, “Don’t talk about that; it’s scary. Yiming, tell us a funny joke.”
“If I tell a joke, you have to drink a cup of wine,” Yiming said.
“Okay, friends.” Yiming slyly smiled and began:
“Once, it was probably a Sunday, market day. The villagers wanted to earn some pocket money to buy tea leaves, so they all went to Han Street to set up stalls, selling fresh vegetables, sweet fruits, live chickens, and ducks. There were many people at the market on Han Street, bustling with activity. An old man wearing a long gown walked through the crowd; his wife had asked him to buy a goose to make pilaf. However, he was actually a poor man, and he didn’t have enough money to buy a goose. After wandering around for a while, unwilling to return empty-handed, he decided to steal one, not daring to go home empty-handed. So, taking advantage of the vendor’s inattention, he quickly grabbed a big goose from the stall and stuffed it into his oversized pants, then left the vendor’s stall as if nothing had happened. But his actions were seen by a nearby woman selling live chickens, who told the goose vendor. The angry vendor chased after the old man. The old man desperately ran through the crowded Han Street, but he was old and frail and soon couldn’t run anymore. Moreover, running with a goose stuffed in his pants was not convenient. After running for a while, he had to squat down in front of a nearby stall, pretending to buy tomatoes (the Yili people call tomatoes ‘yang shi zi’) to hide from the vendor’s pursuit.” At this point, Yiming paused and asked the little Sichuan guy:
“Hey, brother. What do you think will happen next?”
The little Sichuan guy shook his head in confusion and said, “I don’t know.”
“You silly guy,” Yiming continued:
“The goose was uncomfortable in the pants and, taking advantage of the old man squatting down, poked its head out. Seeing the tomatoes in front of it, it happily started eating the tomatoes, causing the onlookers to burst into laughter.”
With that punchline, the little Sichuan guy doubled over with laughter.
I laughed along but felt it was somewhat absurd. However, I thought again, what could those bottom-dwelling onlookers, who toiled year-round in harsh conditions and earned little money, find joy in? Using some absurd stories to entertain themselves when someone treated them to drinks was probably their way of relieving stress and seeking happiness.
Perhaps Bage felt it was time to change the subject again and said, “Harsan, brother, sing us a little tune.”
Hearing that someone was going to sing, I became excited. I knew many old Yili people could sing beautiful folk tunes, most of which were original ecological folk songs from the northwest, belonging to the Han, Uyghur, Kazakh, Hui, or Russian ethnic groups. They were mostly humorous, witty, and popular among the people. Excited, I called over a boy selling snacks and gave him some money to buy two more bottles of wine, and I gave him another yuan saying, “Good boy, hurry up; this is your running money.” The boy happily ran off to buy wine.
Harsan had already started singing softly, a beautiful Uyghur folk song “Black Eyes.” I couldn’t fully understand the Uyghur lyrics but could grasp the general meaning:
My black-eyed girl
Ah, my girl
I would give my life for you
Ah, my life
……
A young man willing to sacrifice his life for love
Young man
Ah, how much pain you have added to me
The drunken driver Harsan sang with all his emotion. His voice carried the weight of the northwest, rough yet not frantic or loud, very beautiful. He infused the originally melodious and delicate Uyghur tune with his own experience and deep feelings, making the song very touching. The ticket seller woman was also drawn in by the singing and came to our room. This time, she didn’t shout; she tidied her headscarf and quietly sat beside Bage, listening to Harsan sing, smiling and silently attentive.
Harsan sang one song after another—of course, they wouldn’t sing like that without wine—most of them were songs that were both sad and sweet. Naturally, there were also some less refined tunes, such as “The Little Horse Rides on the Gun Rack, Two Guns Placed at the Door, The Big Girl Rides on the Horse…”
Or “The treacherous Ma Bufang, I curse your mother, you captured Ding and robbed grain…” and so on.
When Harsan sang the Russian song “The Driver’s Song,” the little Sichuan guy shed tears. He felt embarrassed and tried hard to control himself, saying he had wandered far and wide, suffering all kinds of hardships, and still hadn’t made something of himself, not even qualifying as a donkey driver, claiming he was only crying because he missed home. After a while, he comforted himself, saying it was nothing, just missing home, and who wouldn’t miss home?
Yiming joked with him:
“You little Sichuan guy, saying it so nicely, you probably want to marry a wife, right?” The little Sichuan guy smiled shyly again.
At this moment, Bage also started to sing. The robust and strong Bage had a steady and powerful voice, though he was a bit intermittent due to drinking too much, but the young and strong him sang without sadness, sorrow, or loss. His singing was sincere and joyful. He sang a Northwest love song:
I send my big brother
To Huangyangpo
There are many yellow sheep on Huangyangpo
One yellow sheep, two horns (Yili people call sheep horns ‘yang ge’)
Oh dear
Big brother, you think of me
……
I send my big brother
To Qingshui River
Two geese by the Qingshui River
The male goose flies across the river
Oh dear
The female goose behind calls “gaga” (brother)
This time, the little Sichuan guy and Yiming both laughed easily.
I had known Bage for many years and knew he never got drunk from drinking, and I knew he could eat forty skewers of grilled meat (which cost five cents each at that time in Yili) along with a large plate of cold noodles (the cool soup for the cold noodles was different from those in Shanxi, Shaanxi, and Tianjin; it had a unique and delicious flavor of its own from Yili, which I still can’t forget, and I long to eat a bite of Yili cold noodles). But I never thought that the robust Bage could sing a complete and beautiful love song. That night at the carriage shop, I had the opportunity to witness it and admired this young man who had been re-educated in Halatubai, realizing that people at the bottom of society should not be judged by appearances.
In the carriage shop filled with the smells of sweat, livestock, grilled meat, and tobacco, in the crowded, unclean, and lice-infested carriage shop, staying one or two nights certainly wasn’t a civilized blessing. But at that time, there were few grandstanding scammers or robbers, and even fewer fashionably dressed, glamorous prostitutes. There was no frenzied desire for material wealth. Among those poor people staying in the shop, you could encounter simplicity, mutual understanding, and tolerance. People certainly couldn’t praise poverty or take pride in being destitute, but how could they not be moved by simplicity and sincerity?
Moreover, those wealthy people now entering and exiting high-end luxury hotels need not pity our youth for the hardships and extremely low accommodation conditions of that time. For us, we had our happiness back then. We were not desperate, did not seek luxury, and had never been disheartened.
That night, I slept very soundly.
The next morning, we started the tractor. As the loud tractor drove out of the carriage shop, I heard the ticket seller woman’s intermittent singing from behind:
“Going, going again
My dear brother
Riding on the horse and going again
The things in the saddlebag
Are getting fewer and fewer
The worries in my heart
Are getting more and more…”
That song was clearly sung for Bage, but we didn’t stop because the mountain roads to Halatubai were difficult. We had to hurry on our way, making sure to cross the Push Push Daban before dark.
Now, Yining, under the leadership of the Party, with the full support of inland provinces and the efforts of all ethnic groups, has developed economically, and various undertakings are flourishing, becoming a beautiful and prosperous border city. The people’s lives have greatly improved, and municipal services, transportation, housing, and so on have undergone a complete transformation.
I believe that simplicity and sincerity, harmony and unity will endure, and we will never allow those with ulterior motives to destroy the harmony and unity that all ethnic groups rely on for survival!
Today, the alley on Park Street in Yining City is bustling, and donkey carts have been replaced by more and more private cars.
What year was that?
In my heart,
There is no longer memory,
I only know
That year
I was a happy donkey,
Running,
Jumping,
Braying,
Pulling a heavy cart,
Passing through every block,
And you were the driver,
Shouting,
Cursing,
Loving,
Driving me,
Treading through all the
Mud and ruggedness,
For that bowl of rice,
We both
Cried,
Laughed,
Hurt,
Pained,
Walking, oh walking,
Until the day we could no longer pull,
Only then did we realize
That you were called life,
And I was called Yili.
Editor of this issue: Qiu Xiaowei
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