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Insect Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Fleas?

A question of priorities

A happy cat - whose name has not yet been decided upon. Bartholomé is a favourite right now. The predecessor was called Nicole Kidman. Don't ask.

Personally, I’ve never been too fond of Europeans worrying about street cats and dogs in countries where street kids are undernourished. But even though I feel I am not one of those people with strange priorities, I still seem to end up with the pet issues wherever I go. And I insist that the problem is not that I am too fond of animals – I just feel that if you decide to keep a pet, you should treat it right unless you want it to become a nuisance or even danger for you and you surrounding. A non-vaccinated pet can transmit diseases, an untrained dog is difficult to vaccinate and control, etc. With Stan in my mind, I was not terribly happy discovering a small cat in the kitchen two days ago.

Mice catcher? Flea catcher.

It is simple: Our house has mice. Nothing unusual in a old house surrounded by a garden. Cats eat mice. So a cat was needed. The neighbours had bought two kittens on the market and decided that we probably needed the second one more than they did. Strangely enough, Alymkan, my “guest sister” was also worried: She thought the cute little bundle was not very clean and Dengiz, her little cousin, would get dirty playing with it. She suggested we should wash the cat.

(Personally, I thought we should be more worried about the cat getting dirty playing with Dengiz. Every time I see the girl, she either tries to spread something edible evenly over the furniture or her clothes, is spitting out food or has a running nose)

Not so happy cat

With European fervour, I sternly lectured Alymkan on the incompatibility of cats and water. A couple of hours later, I ate my words when we discovered that the cat had fleas – and that a simple flea collar would not be enough: To jump start the exodus or genocide, a flea shampoo was needed.

The shower revealed the real level of flea infestation. The population began moving about and was now clearly visible in the wet fur sticking to the skin. And some of the “dirt” we washed out in the two rounds of shampooing was probably blood.

After the shower I had a shivering and visibly shocked bundle sitting on my lap and discovered the joys of manually hunting for fleas (the fat ones make a very satisfying popping sound when you squeeze them to death. But that’s probably more detail than most of you would like to have).

Anyway, after the shower our kitten was awarded a flea collar. And I have to admit that he looked a bit cleaner and a lot fluffier than before the shower…

Still a bit shower-shocked

One Hundred Degrees of Separation – China and the Uyghurs

China and her Muslim Minorities

A mosque in Kashgar's soon to be demolished old city

Most of you have probably heard of the recent uprisings in Ürümqi, the capital of China’s Autonomous Province Xinjiang. After fellow international UNV Giulio has drawn my attention to the images published by The Big Picture (some of which are really graphic) and after I made a phone call to an Uyghur friend of mine living in Switzerland, I feel compelled to write at least something about the situation. After all, my minor is Islamic Studies, I have spent two years in China, and am married to Chinese who at least officially belongs to the Uyghur minority.

Unfortunately, I can’t say that I am surprised about what has happened.

Three Uyghurs mend our bag in Kashgar's Bazaar

Xinjiang in 2002

I remember traveling for over a month in Xinjiang in summer 2002. While the landscape was one of the most impressive and diverse I have ever seen, and the hospitality of the local people was simply amazing, I am afraid that what struck me most about the province and its inhabitants was how separate from each other the Han Chinese and the Uyghur (and, to a lesser degree, the other minorities) live. In almost any city, there is the “new city” that looks like any generic Chinese city with skyscrapers, populated by Han Chinese. And then there is the “old town”, with crooked alleys and Central Asian/Middle Eastern style houses, where the Uyghur live. You rarely see a Han Chinese venturing into the narrow and quiet lanes of this part of the town.

Ethnic separation

The phenomenon that people of the same ethnicity and language tend to remain among themselves is of course widespread – even the language groups in Switzerland (often lauded for their integration) have a tendency to stick to each other. But what I found scary in Xinjiang was the tangible tension between the two groups – something that even a casual visitor could perceive. I remember two salesclerks in a posh Chinese mall noticing a Uyghur family approaching and overheard them saying “let’s charge them more”. I remember trying to spot just one group of passers-by in the street that was not solely Han or solely Uyghur – and failing miserably. I remember our “trycycle”-driver getting into a heated argument with a Han Chinese cyclist over who should move back half a meter to let the other pass through.

An Uyghur girl

The brave and lonely few

Of course there were other instances as well: the elderly Han chinese shop owner at the bus station in Khotan who was chatting in Uyghur with her Uyghur neighbour, for instance.  Or the Uyghur truck driver, who (like many, I think) felt that there were two kinds of Han Chinese – “Those that have come here many years ago, have integrated and often speak Uyghur are fine. We just don’t like all those that have newly arrived and do look down on us.”

Granfalloon and ethnic markers

The presence of my husband added an additional layer to my observations – something I sorely missed during my last visit two years ago, when I seemed to have much less interesting contacts with the local population. The layer has mainly to do with the absurdity of what the brilliant late writer Kurt Vonnegut has christened “granfalloon“: The mistaken belief of people that just because they share some (outwardly) characteristic, they are somehow connected through a common goal or purpose.

An Uyghur and his son in Kashgar

Let me explain. According to his ID, my husband is Uyghur – mainly because his parents, who officially are Han Chinese, decided that he should benefit from the Chinese government’s affirmative action program regarding minorities when entering university (they need a lower score, apparently). The claim is not entirely bogus, though: His grandmother’s father is indeed an Uyghur from a small village in Taoyuan County, Hunan. So he is allegedly a descendant of a group of Uyghurs the Chinese Emperor resettled when they were still Buddhists. Nowadays, there is very little that would make anyone assign them the ethnic marker “Uyghur”, though: They look Chinese, speak Chinese and, as mentioned, are not Muslims.

To make things even more difficult, my husband doesn’t look very Han Chinese – but not very Uyghur either: Many Japanese mistake him for one of theirs.

Uyghur women from a village near Kashgar

Japanese – Chinese – Uyghur?

Being with a obviously foreign girl, most Uyghurs at first assumed him to be Japanese and were very friendly. Apparently they fondly remember the Japanese because they fought the Chinese government in World War II – and if you know what the Japanese Army was doing at this time, this might send a chill down your spine.

The reaction of some elderly men with whom we were sharing a meal in Kashgar nicely summarizes the common reaction: We were chatting away in broken English until someone found out that my husband was in fact a Chinese national. Then they visibly moved away, ignored him and told another elderly newcomer, who wanted to sit down next to him, to come over to their side instead.

My husband then usually tried to show his “Uyghur” ID. The reaction tended to vary: While some Uyghurs had never heard of those strange Uyghurs in Hunan and found it odd that an Uyghur would not be Muslim and able to speak their language, others embraced my husband with joy and celebrated the return of a long lost brother.

Defaced government poster with Han school boy

It was one of the most fascinating social experiments in ascription of group membership that I have ever witnessed. And the constant shifting of identity would have been comic, were it not for the fact it made me feel very uneasy about the future of Xinjiang…

Peace. 和平. سلام

The Return of the Killer Mosquitos

Yesterday, my friend and “guestsister” Alymkan used my computer in my room – and she is now displaying worrying symptoms of an invisible ninja insect attack on her arms and hands. You’d think that one would notice a swarm of mosquitos or a horde of fleas starting a full-scale attack on one’s hands…

Anyway, we suspected the newly-bought Shyrdak and subjected it to extensive chemical shower. But then the windows were open as well, so our ninjas might also be mosquitos.  Either way, this morning another round of “Cobra” was an order. We will win this war.

Unrests in Uyghur region of China

And on a more serious note: Many of you have probably heard of the riots taking place in Urumqi, Xinjiang, China’s Muslim Northwest. For those of you looking for a summary of the most basic background information, check out Michael Dillon’s excellent article on BBC: Uighur resentment at Beijing’s rule.

The Attack of the Invisible Ninja Mosquito Squad

You’re not a hypochondriac if you do have an illness

In my last post, I discussed foreigner’s adverse psychological reactions to the local environment. However, most of us also display adverse physical reactions to our new environment, delicate plants as we foreigners tend to be:  Stomach troubles (from small revolutions within a few weeks of arrival to  more persistent issues), strange rashes, bouts of insomnia, hypertension – you name it. All of it pretty common. I am, however, so far the only known case of a what I’ve tentatively christened the INIS (Invisible Ninja Insect Squad) syndrome.

Syrian weapons of mass destruction uncovered

It all began in Syria during my Arabic classes there. I stayed with a local family and soon discovered plenty of itchy bites all over my body. The other Swiss girls living there had some problems as well, but never on my scale. We wondered how to solve this problems without embarrassing our guest family too much (we suspected fleas), and finally settled for “Pif-Paf”, the locally available insecticide, with which we flooded my room and especially the mattress.  The bites disappeared after a while and I didn’t think too much about it.

The return of the killer bugs

Remembering the incident, I bought a big bottle of “Pif-Paf” on my way from the airport when I returned to my Syrian guest family and sprayed the whole room as soon as I arrived (and then went for a long walk). A couple of days later, I counted 220 insect bites. And to add insult to injury, my body decided to completely overreact by turning every single one of them into a bright red dot the size of a fingernail. I looked as if I had chickenpox or some other highly contagious disease.

I actually took pictures of myself to document this. I sent them to a local photo shop to develop, and never saw neither the negatives nor the pictures themselves again. I assume the Syrian Mukhabarat (secret services) decided that images of me in underwear and bright polka dots were detrimental to the public moral or health. Or else the Mossad intervened to prevent a new class B weapon falling into Syrian hands. We’ll never know.

It was strange, though: No one else in the house complained about anything. I never heard or saw any mosquitoes. And if 220 fleas are inhabiting your mattress, you’d really expect to see at least one of them, wouldn’t you? The bites disappeared after a month, most mysteriously, never to return.

The globalized Invisible Ninja Mosquito Squad

So imagine my joy when I discovered the Kyrgyz version of the INIS upon arrival in Bishkek. My husband and I were sleeping in the same bed, but he didn’t have a single bite. Winter came, and the attacks ceased. I returned to Kyrgyzstan the next summer – same result, but I didn’t stay long enough in Bishkek to really feel the brunt. 

But now, I do: Since yesterday morning, I’m sporting a nice collection of bites on my arms, hands, shoulders, neck and face, with only a handful on my legs or feet (do I even need to mention that none of the other about 10 inhabitants of the house, including plenty of foreign tourist, have noticed anything?). I even have some on the palms of my hands and the elbows. Which kind of self-respecting squad unit would attack the most fortified part of the enemy? Are those insects out of their tiny minds? Am I being attacked by a kamikaze fleas ? Either way:

This means war!

I am not a fan of chemicals, but with more than 20 itchy bites on each arm, I lost my patience. The area attacked was similar to that exposed to the air while I sleep, and therefore I identified mosquitoes (very small and very quiet ones, apparently) as the most likely culprit. I bought a big can of “cobra” (the local equivalent of “Pif-Paf”) against flying insects. Heck, to be on the safe side, I also bought a big can of “cobra” against crawling insects. I flooded the room and went for aerobics classes – not before putting on a copious amount of DEET. I aired the room in the evening and put on some more DEET before going to bed.

Hard to tell if it worked. All I can tell is that the two annoying flies in my room have stopped buzzing - the first civilian casualties in this war. I don’t see any new bites either, but then it’s hard to keep track once you cross 50. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. War never has a purpose, but is a goal for itself. And those invisible mosquito extremists have just messed with the wrong girl…

P.S.: I don’t care if they call me crazy – those insects are not a figment of my imagination. And they will have to die. I love the smell of insecticide in the morning…

Paradise regained

One of the most interesting things to do when you live abroad, apart from studying those strange animals called “local population”, is studying those even stranger animals called “foreigners” or “expats” – including yourself, of course, because that usually gives you the deepest insights into human nature.

Of Goldfish and Men

One common phenomenon among said animals is what I have dubbed “foreigner’s paranoia”. Humans tend to be goldfish. With the difference that instead of having to live in a little glass bowl with water plants and stones, they on purpose narrow their world down to such a vessel. Putting them into a bath tub, I guess, causes some kind of a low-level fear or at least anxiety until they realize that they can mentally reduce their world to the same cozy space as before.

In a foreign country, things seems unorganized and might not follow the same rules as back home. And until you figure out where the glass walls are in your new bowl (or, more accurately, where you and your surroundings agree on them being) you might just possibly see the world for what it is, untouched by the human mind creating meaning and rules (and gods).

Foreigner’s Paranoia

In tourists, the paranoia usually manifests in the belief that no one is ever giving accurate information and everyone is trying to cheat you. And if someone actually has offered something for free – a car ride or a cup of tea - then it’s just because you didn’t stay long enough to receive the ridiculously high bill. In short: Locals are blood-sucking fiends.

The international community further enforces the paranoia among expats: The average security briefing (or expat gossip, for that matter) leaves you with the impression that from dusk till dawn the locals are out to rob, mug, rape or otherwise assault you (or at least inquire inappropriately about “your man”, if you’re female), and the rest of the day their favourite pass-time is running down foreigners with their vehicles, or – barring the appropriate means of transportation – inflict horrible diseases through their disregard of hygienic standards.  

Card Problems

So when I discovered that I had lost my new bank card yesterday, I expected the worst. Okay, you need a pin to withdraw money, but given the criminal creativity that wrong-doers in Kyrgyzstan allegedly possess, I doubted that this would pose a big obstacle.

I had never given a phone number to call to block my card, so I headed for the bank, foreigner’s paranoia in full swing: Of course the cashiers had already closed, so no way of checking if my money was still there, but at least the customer service was still working.

and Solutions

Imagine my surprise when the nice gentleman there had a short look at the computer and instead of explaining the procedure on how to block the card and get a new one for a ridiculously high fee smiled and said: “Your card? Oh, it is here with us, you must have left it in the ATM when you last withdrew money. Could you please sign here and there to confirm that you have received your card back?”

And when I checked my bank account, all my money was still there. I like Kyrgyzstan. I like Bishkek. I like the world. It is a good place.