By Lisa Carducci

It is in the "tourist Burqin" that is under construction where the talkative, loudly laughing, and sturdy 76-year-old woman lives. Far from being an advantage, living in her house, which is made of a row of adobe rooms, brings her stress. "Every day I am told that I have to move, that they will demolish it. I don't know when but for certain I will have to leave," said Jina. As she owns an apartment in town, she will not be homeless, but what is presently her little shop and her stockroom will disappear. "I want to be compensated. They should give me a place somewhere, or a garage," she claimed rightly. That will surely be done, but the uncertainty darkens her horizon.

Jina(L) and Lisa(R) [Foreign Languages Press]

Jina was born in Russia and she doesn't know exactly where. Her parents came to China when she was six years old. "They settled at Kaba ("Habahe" in Chinese), an hour from here by road. They said they left the country because of war. They were not alone," she added. "Many Russians came to live in Xinjiang at that time." In 1956, Xinjiang Russians moved again, mostly to Australia. "They all left. I remained alone. My elder brother went to Canada," she recounted, showing me an envelope bearing a Vancouver (a city in British Columbia, Canada) return address. "I was pregnant with my third child. My brother had no children and I wanted to give my daughter for him to raise, but he didn't wait around for her to be born," continued Jina in a disappointed tone. After her sister-in-law died in Canada, she never heard from her brother. "She was the one who wrote. Now, my brother is lost to me."

Jina grew up in Xinjiang where she attended school for one or two years. However, she learned to write Russian by herself and enough Chinese to read a book or the newspapers. "I also speak Kazak, and I can manage in Uyghur," she added laughingly.

She met her husband at the age of 17. "He used to pull on my long braids, and I rapped his hands. He was a handsome man, you know!"

Jina was a worker in a metal equipment factory. "The boss was a Kazak, and his assistant was a Han. I often acted as an interpreter for them." Then, she retired. "My two sons have two sons each, and my daughter is a mother of two girls. Four of my grandchildren graduated from university. Many children mean much money. To each of my six grandchildren I give 100 yuan monthly." That is why Jina decided in 1982 to start making kvas, a Russian word for beer. Her husband used to work with her until he died from asthma in 2000. "At that moment, there was no kvas in the region. Nobody had ever tasted it. Here, under this roof which supported the hops, there was a long communal table and people came to drink in the evening." Customers were all Kazak in the beginning; then, more and more Han people came. "The Kazak like the bitter taste of hops in the kvas, while the Han prefer the sweet taste of the honey." The number of foreigners will surely increase with the burgeoning tourism in Burqin, which is a crossroad of communications in Altay Prefecture. "Foreign tourists come from Europe and Japan, but I mostly serve local tourists, and many of them are Russian."

A decade ago, a night market opened in a neighbouring street. This is where Jina and her daughter-in-law, Yelia, go every day around 19:00, each pedalling a tricycle loaded with bottles. Till midnight or sometimes till 2:00, they serve kvas and fresh yogurt made that day. "Before, a bottle of beer cost 0.3 yuan; now, it costs 2 yuan. You can only have the empty bottle for 0.3 yuan now!" Jina makes more than 100 bottles a day. "Some bottles may remain, sometimes not. Other people have started to make kvas too, but customers seem to prefer mine. They say that the others 'Mei you eluosi lao taitai de weidao' – 'don't have the old Russian lady's taste.;" Eluosi lao taitai is also Jina's trademark. She handcrafts her own brand of tags and sticks them, one by one, on the bottles. She doesn't plan to industrialize her production or to register her brand name. "This beer must be drunk fresh; after two or three days, the taste fades. Moreover, fermentation makes the caps jump. You see, these little caps just have to jump in the air and don't hurt anyone. I tried to use big black caps I had bought and to make others by myself using old tires, but customers put them in their pockets!" At the night market, hearing the joyous explosion of a cap, the customers rush on "that" bottle, because they know the sound signals that the bottle is at its best. So, Jina pursues her enterprise at her own pace, with her daughter-in-law and a student who helps her during the holidays. She earns enough, as her investment was practically nothing. The water comes from the well in the courtyard and the hops come from the mountains; in addition to sugar or honey (according to the season), only time and labor are required. The process is simple and no special equipment is required. Five months out of the year, the climate doesn't allow the opening of the night market, which provides a rest for "the old Russian lady."

When she was young, Jina liked to swim in the Ertix. The whole family used to go, including their dog! Every year, Russians celebrate Orthodox Easter on the Ertix's bank with a huge picnic where families take their best homemade dish. Following the meal, they sing and dance to the accompaniment of an accordion and other musical instruments, and exchange hand-painted eggs. Several Russian have married Han, enlarging the ethnic family. Some Han who are not linked to the Russians take part in these celebrations, too. "There is also a Jewish person who comes and he sings very well," said Jina. Some people spend two days on the bank.

(Source: Foreign Languages Press)