My Altay

Li Juan

Flower City Publishing House

July 2021

45.00 (CNY)

This book is a representative work of Li Juan’s Altay series. It is divided into two parts. The first part， In Memory (2007--2009)， captures the fragmented yet resilient life scenes in Kavut and Akhala villages. The second part， In the Corner (2002--2006)， authentically depicts the daily life of Li Juan， her mother， and her elderly grandmother as they migrate and move with the nomads. The delicate and bright prose showcases the rich and profound survival landscape of the nomadic people in the borderlands.

Li Juan

Born in 1979 in the 7th Division of the Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps， Li Juan spent her formative years moving between Sichuan and Xinjiang， including a period living on an Altay pasture. She has received several prestigious awards， including the Lu Xun Literary Prize， People’s Literature Award， Shanghai Literature Award， Tianshan Literary Award， and Zhu Ziqing Prose Award.

We discussed it for a long time. Early the next morning， we set out to pay New Year visits (although strictly speaking， the Kurban Festival cannot be considered a “New Year，” this was how the Han people here referred to it).

During this important festival， the local custom was for relatives and friends to visit each other for three days. On the first day， mostly men go out， while women stay home to entertain guests， cook meat， and prepare feasts. On the second day， children and young people go out to play. The third day is reserved for the housewives. It is said that during these days， families with year-long grievances often use the visits as an opportunity to resolve their differences.

We decided to first visit the house of the mother and son we wronged and explain the situation to put both sides at ease.

We left the village， crossed the snow-covered fields， and then walked along a two-kilometer tree-lined path. In winter， all the trees were covered with thick snow， but it was still clear that willows were planted on the left and poplars on the right. As we walked， we discussed what to say and occasionally consulted each other. The sky was a deep blue， shimmering with the reflected light from the snow-covered ground. The snow path had become slightly wider and firmer due to the recent increase in foot traffic. It curved smoothly as it ascended the hill. We climbed the hill， panting， and saw Harabagai village below us.

This road was nearly ten kilometers long. Along the way， except for the white snow and blue sky， there was nothing else in the world. Due to the heavy snowfall that year， the snow was thicker than ever， over twenty meters deep on the mountain slopes. The snow walls on both sides of the road were about two meters thick in some places， and the road itself， trampled smooth by horses and sleds， was over half a meter thick， deeply sunken into the snow-covered fields.

We thought about how the child walked along this road last night， anxious and aggrieved， heading to our house. Did he feel lonely because of the misunderstanding? This path of innocence…

Spring arrived. The snow melted into a mess， making it hard to find a place to step outside. The days grew longer. At night， sometimes， when I looked up， the Orion constellation was no longer visible.

After spending a year here， I realized I still hadn’t gotten to know many people. I mean， I hadn’t remembered many names， but I did recognize who was who， and I no longer confused people with similar beards.

Our family business was neither good nor bad. Whether to stay or leave here was a dilemma. I didn’t mind either way since I was used to moving， and to me， it was the same wherever we went. But my mother was very reluctant to leave and listed the many advantages of Kavut:

First， the taxes here were collected based on the busy and slack seasons， which is reasonable for our small business (generally speaking， the year was divided into a seven month off-season and five month busy season);

Second， the place was small， and people were warm and friendly， making interactions easy;

Third， because of its remote location， spending was simple and limited， and it was easy to save money;

Fourth， also due to the remoteness， the goods in our store could be sold at a higher price， yielding more profit than in the city.

We initially came to Kavut because it was a key stop for pastoralists moving up and down the mountains， and we thought we could do some business with them. Unexpectedly， after counting the earnings from a year， my mother said， “It’s the people of Kavut who have supported us!”

Farmers were not as wealthy as herders， but their lives were relatively stable， and they lived carefully. They always felt uneasy without some small items. The house needed to be well-equipped， this and that， and nothing could be missing. So， the store’s business continued daily. At least， soy sauce， sugar cubes， tea， tobacco， and alcohol were sold daily.

Thus， our business proceeded smoothly with everyone else’s. We were neither starved nor were overstuffed， just slowly getting by. Life was too stable， too reassuring， making us dependent， even lazy. Nothing new ever happened， and no new ideas were born.

In Kavut， everyone was like this.

We saved some money and rented a better house. Later， we saved more and rented an even better one. Then we saved enough to buy a cheap， not-so-great house with half the down payment. Though it was not good， at least it was ours. We thought that in the future， we would save more money and buy a better， bigger house. But then we realized that in Kavut， things wouldn’t get better. There was no sudden wealth or growing accumulation. Kavut only allowed you to enter its order and then face stagnation. The things it let you gain were all things that tied you down， making it impossible to leave， until the very end.

It is said that Kavut was initially a den of bandits. The elders say that the place where we now live was once wild land， filled with shabby yurts and tents. Later， the army came， farmland was reclaimed， and a large area of neat earth pits was dug on both sides of the river. Earth pits were where people lived back then. A pit was dug in the ground， covered with a roof， and a sloping path led to the pit， keeping cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

But today， this place was no different from other villages. Rows of tree-lined paths， each household with a big yard and two rows of mud-walled houses， surrounded by vast wheat fields and alfalfa fields.

In spring， we went to the nearby mountains to pick Awei mushrooms. We climbed the highest mountain， where it was cold and windy， and little white flowers bloomed. From there， we looked down at the whole of Kavut and saw that it had not changed. It was inherently like this. It was closed. It could not get better. But it was not something that shouldn’t be... It was sufficiently harmonious and balanced.

By the way， about that mountain-climbing trip to pick Awei mushrooms. We searched four big mountains and found only two button-sized mushrooms. Because Awei mushrooms are such a rare “mountain delicacy，” we dug them out even though they were small. And because they were so rare， we used them to make a big pot of soup， even though they were only the size of buttons.

Anyway， spring has arrived. The river swelled， and the land was wet. Huge clouds moved quickly from west to east in the low sky. The sunlight moved through the gaps in the clouds， casting bright beams on the ground. The shaded areas were cool and clear， while the sunlit areas were bright and dazzling. This colorful， vast world. We stood on the mountain and looked down. Kavut lied beyond what we thought we knew， forever beyond the understanding of people of our kind.

We decided to leave. We wanted to make more money and live a better life. But to make more money， we must go to more remote places and live a worse life. Thinking about it， those worse lives combined with the possibly better future lives average out to a not-so-bad daily life--just like the current life in Kavut. But what were we thinking then? We still decided to leave. Here’s what happened next: In the spring， when the pastoral brigade moved into the mountains， we sold our house and followed the sheep into the mountains with a full cart of goods. However， that year， frequent mountain floods disrupted the roads， making it hard for herders to travel. Our tent shop in the mountains didn’t make much money. So， when we descended， the money we made was just enough to move us and our goods a few dozen kilometers. We settled in a broken mud house near a crossroads in a farming village a few dozen kilometers away. After spending the winter there， the next year， when the pastoral brigade passed by， we followed them into the mountains again. That year， we made a lot of money. But the money was only enough to buy the broken mud house we temporarily lived in or to return to Kavut and rent a house for another year. We thought it over and over. Just like that， Kavut was abandoned.

Later， due to various trivial matters， we returned to Kavut several times. At that time， we didn’t know we would be leaving Kavut forever， so I don’t remember the last time we left clearly. I will however always remember the first time. Since then， my stories of life began and never ended.