This Desert Life
It's market day! Kashgar swells with the influx of traders and tourists alike. We've met just a few backpackers during our days spent here, but today there is a noticable presence. These packers are a hard breed, here for the adventure rather than for any kind of relaxing holiday. The province we are in is one of the most remote in the world and the combination of vast deserts, treacherous mountains and a paranoid government keep the casual tourist at bay.
Most of the packers are lean and dishevelled with more than a touch of the bohemian. They are here for different reasons. Some are seeking something. Like the Irish photographer, on his way to Pakistan to sneak into a refugee camp and take some snaps worthy of publishing. Others, like the Norweigen cyclist, who having peddled from Europe (via Iran) and is now on his way to Tibet and elevations over 5000m, are just plain insane.
Despite the presence of these westerners, the market, when we arrive, is flooded with Asian faces. It's a sprawling shopping kingdom, more like a small suburb than a market. Hawkers line the seemingly endless alley ways. Traditionally, the market was an add-hoc affair: hawkers would throw down a blanket, spread out their wares and the bartering and bargaining would commence. Now however, the current Chinese fashion for brute force modernisation has had an impact.
The center of the market has been built into a concrete fortress, with row upon row of garage-like stalls. Admittedly, it is much cooler and cleaner inside these grey caverns than out on the street, and it is hard to fault the Chinese intent. Something, however, is missing. The stalls feel lifeless and cold and relatively few Uygher shoppers stray into these halls. The real market and the crowd of noisy Uygher shoppers flood the streets outside, and it is here that we spend our time.
The thing about markets is that, when you get right down to it, they are basically large shopping centers. Glover and myself are casual shoppers at best. In fact Glover's wardrobe consists solely of hand-me-down clothes and T-shirts given out free from previous places of employment. His biggest purchase in the last year is a pair of jeans -from K-Mart. So you can well imagine how enthralled we are by the endless stores of imitation T-shirts, hand-made knives and Uyghur hats.
Still, we do our best to get into the spirit of things. Glover decides to buy one of the hand-made Uyghur pen knives. He chooses a small, well made blade and requests the price. Sign language is used to indicate that it costs a whopping 15 yuan (around AU$2.50). Glover, a bargaining genius, counter offers with 5 yuan. The tradesman has barely shook his head however, before Glover leaps forward and ups his offer to 10 yuan. Amazed by his good fortune at finding such simpletons, the tradesman quickly agrees. We walk away with our only market purchase.
The stalls selling goat heads (apparently used to make soup) hold our attention for a little while but we soon lose interest in these markets. We hop a cab to something more appealing. A few kilometers away, on a dirt road to nowhere, we reach the Kashgar animal market. This is where the local farmers come to trade livestock, and the Chinese officials have seen no reason to modernise or sanitise this market in any way.
A huge, dusty oval contains row after row of bleeting sheep, and nervous cattle kicking up dust. Crowds of Uygher men gather around various animals, checking the quality of the goods. Mostly there are cows, donkeys, sheep and goats. The sheep provide the most interest. According to the Uyghurs, the best part of the sheep is the fatty rump. For the past few centuries they have been breeding these sheep to have the fattest, juiciest arses imaginable. Great big flabby arse cheeks wobble up and down as the sheep are herded around the oval. When purchasing the sheep, the men make a point of grabbing the flabby arses and testing them for firmness. Personally I think these guys have alterior motives.
Market day comes to an end, though the bartering apparently goes well into the evening. The following day, there is a max exodus from Kashgar. The various travellers we have met during our stay are all heading off in different directions. Only a French man, named Francis is heading in the same direction as us, along the remote and even less travelled Southern Silk Road.
Glover and I have taken to calling this French man 'Frank', because you just can't share a room with a man called Francis. He is one of those travellers who likes to organise things, even to plan. This is a little unusual for Glover and I. Frank even has this strange foreign custom he calls 'booking ahead'. It's all very unusual, and I fear Frank may despair of us before too long. He is at times a slightly fussy eater. Glover and I have a merry time watching him try new foods, spitting them out and declaring them to be "dizgusting"!
Frank is both a source of great humour for us and at the same time seems devoid of any sense of humour himself. He has travelled through Asia for almost six months yet still flushes tons of toilet paper down the dunny rather than the bin (Asian plumbing requires this). After spending an hour unclogging the dunny with a (very long) stick, I suggest to him that this is not such a good idea. He responds with a thick French accent, "Oy yez, but thiz buckit iz dizgusting'. He has a point, however in my opinion an overflowing dunny is slightly higher on the list of disgusting things to see and do while in Asia.
It is late on Monday morning, when we depart from Kashgar. We are headed to a remote town south and east, called Karghilik. It's a five hour bus ride on one of the cramped mini busses that we are becoming all too familiar with. Frank has gone on ahead, unwilling to wait for us malingerers. He is adamant that we will not find accomodation and onward buses unless we leave at the crack of dawn.
The bus has barely left the station before the engine starts sputtering and coughing. Glover and I exchange glances, fearing another Karakul experience. Not to fear however, as our bus is equipped with an on-board, mobile mechanic. He pulls open the engine lid (conveniently placed next to the feet of Glover and myself). Hot engine fumes fill the bus as the mechanic reaches in and fiddles with the motor. All the while we are still speeding along the motorway, the driver weaving in and out of traffic, hand firmly on the horn.
The landscape passes by. Once again we are surrounded by empty, barren desert. The wind has picked up slightly over the last few days, and stray dust devils play mischeviously in the sand. Our journey takes us along the edge of the great Taklamakan desert. The name of this desert apparently means: "you go in, but you don't come out". Watching the dead, hellish land stretch out all around me, I can well believe it.
Tied to the ceiling of the bus with hockey straps is a beat up old TV and video player. About an hour into the journey, just as the clanging of the engine and the rocking of the bus have become mundane annoyances, the driver jams on a video. I'm guessing but I think it is the Uygher Top 40 video hits from the early 1950's. The quality of the tape is so bad I can barely make it out, though the high pitched whine of the singers is at full volume. Glover, who has been dozing up until this point, wakes with a start. He looks out the window at the empty land, looks up at the painfully loud music video then turns and says, "Did we have a bus accident. Is this hell?" I'm unable to answer, unsure myself.
Sometime later there is a noise from the baggage rack above us. It's a gentle meowing noise, like a cat makes. As the owner pulls the bag down from the rack to adjust the ties we realise that the reason it sounds like a cat is because it is a cat. We watch as the poor animal struggles in its hessian bag.
Still a little disbelieving I confirm that it is indeed a cat by drawing a few pictures and showing them to the bag's owner. He is kind enough to cut a whole in the bag so I can see. This is obviously the first air hole the cat has had in some time and it jams it's nose into it desperately. The owner quickly ties up the hole and stuffs the bag safely under the seat in front of him, where it stays for the rest of the trip.
We arrive in Karghilik and find Frank. First impressions are that we have arrived at the arsehole of the world. It's a dusty, desolute place. Later however, as we head further into town, away from the bus stop we discover a reasonably pleasant country town. Once again it is seperated into a modern Chinese part, and a traditional Uygher part. Unlike Kashgar however, the two are in slightly more harmony. We wander the streets of the old town. It's much cleaner than Kashgar's old town, and more spacious. The buildings are generally in good condition and it feels less like a slum and more like a place people want to live in.
As we meander through the streets, the local residents eye us warily. It's amazing how far a smile can get you however. After we greet them with an "asalam aleykum", the traditional muslim greeting, meaning peace be upon you, they break into broad, toothless grins and often laugh. A few are brave enough to return the greeting.
The adults are shy, the children are not. They come running from all corners to point and make jokes about these strange, tall white men. Before long we have a small army of Uyghur kids following us down the old streets, playing a game of tag around us. They chant the few English words they know: "Hello!", "Nice to meet you", "Goodbye". They break down into hysterics when we respond with hellos of our own.
We spend the rest of the day wandering around the old streets, exploring. We discover the most amazing park only minutes from our hotel. Inside this vast fenced area we come across winding paths through lush green trees, leading to ponds. Nestled amongst the trees are dodgem cars and ferris wheels. In this rural oasis, surrounded by dead, empty desert, this green wetland is as out of place as ice cream on pizza.
We stay only the one night in Karghilik and the next day we find ourselves on another five hour bus ride to the larger town of Hotan. Our driver is a madman. The roads are rough at best, and alternate between bitchemen and dirt. A stream of dust tails us the whole way. Motorists, heading the other way, are treated to a dangerous game of chicken. Our driver swerves wildly only at the last minute and only for the larger vehicles. Motor bikes and donkey carts are run off the road.
All the laws of science and probability are defied when we pull into Hotan without accident, in a cloud of dust. Glover and I leave the bus on shaky legs and head for the nearest hotel. We are now wandering the streets of Hotan, another surprisingly well established and well serviced town.
We are in the most isolated part of China and our destination, the east coast of China, is many thousands of kilometers away. North of us our way is blocked by the Desert Of No Return. South is dominated by the mountains of Tibet with an average altitude of 5000m and which is off-limit to tourists from this side of China. The road directly east is filled with long, death-cheating bus rides. The most sane route is back the way we came, however we have a cunning plan to get us where we want to go. A few things need to be worked out before I can give you the details but I'll let you know when I can. It may be some time however before we come across internet again.
Most of the packers are lean and dishevelled with more than a touch of the bohemian. They are here for different reasons. Some are seeking something. Like the Irish photographer, on his way to Pakistan to sneak into a refugee camp and take some snaps worthy of publishing. Others, like the Norweigen cyclist, who having peddled from Europe (via Iran) and is now on his way to Tibet and elevations over 5000m, are just plain insane.
Despite the presence of these westerners, the market, when we arrive, is flooded with Asian faces. It's a sprawling shopping kingdom, more like a small suburb than a market. Hawkers line the seemingly endless alley ways. Traditionally, the market was an add-hoc affair: hawkers would throw down a blanket, spread out their wares and the bartering and bargaining would commence. Now however, the current Chinese fashion for brute force modernisation has had an impact.
The center of the market has been built into a concrete fortress, with row upon row of garage-like stalls. Admittedly, it is much cooler and cleaner inside these grey caverns than out on the street, and it is hard to fault the Chinese intent. Something, however, is missing. The stalls feel lifeless and cold and relatively few Uygher shoppers stray into these halls. The real market and the crowd of noisy Uygher shoppers flood the streets outside, and it is here that we spend our time.
The thing about markets is that, when you get right down to it, they are basically large shopping centers. Glover and myself are casual shoppers at best. In fact Glover's wardrobe consists solely of hand-me-down clothes and T-shirts given out free from previous places of employment. His biggest purchase in the last year is a pair of jeans -from K-Mart. So you can well imagine how enthralled we are by the endless stores of imitation T-shirts, hand-made knives and Uyghur hats.
Still, we do our best to get into the spirit of things. Glover decides to buy one of the hand-made Uyghur pen knives. He chooses a small, well made blade and requests the price. Sign language is used to indicate that it costs a whopping 15 yuan (around AU$2.50). Glover, a bargaining genius, counter offers with 5 yuan. The tradesman has barely shook his head however, before Glover leaps forward and ups his offer to 10 yuan. Amazed by his good fortune at finding such simpletons, the tradesman quickly agrees. We walk away with our only market purchase.
The stalls selling goat heads (apparently used to make soup) hold our attention for a little while but we soon lose interest in these markets. We hop a cab to something more appealing. A few kilometers away, on a dirt road to nowhere, we reach the Kashgar animal market. This is where the local farmers come to trade livestock, and the Chinese officials have seen no reason to modernise or sanitise this market in any way.
A huge, dusty oval contains row after row of bleeting sheep, and nervous cattle kicking up dust. Crowds of Uygher men gather around various animals, checking the quality of the goods. Mostly there are cows, donkeys, sheep and goats. The sheep provide the most interest. According to the Uyghurs, the best part of the sheep is the fatty rump. For the past few centuries they have been breeding these sheep to have the fattest, juiciest arses imaginable. Great big flabby arse cheeks wobble up and down as the sheep are herded around the oval. When purchasing the sheep, the men make a point of grabbing the flabby arses and testing them for firmness. Personally I think these guys have alterior motives.
Market day comes to an end, though the bartering apparently goes well into the evening. The following day, there is a max exodus from Kashgar. The various travellers we have met during our stay are all heading off in different directions. Only a French man, named Francis is heading in the same direction as us, along the remote and even less travelled Southern Silk Road.
Glover and I have taken to calling this French man 'Frank', because you just can't share a room with a man called Francis. He is one of those travellers who likes to organise things, even to plan. This is a little unusual for Glover and I. Frank even has this strange foreign custom he calls 'booking ahead'. It's all very unusual, and I fear Frank may despair of us before too long. He is at times a slightly fussy eater. Glover and I have a merry time watching him try new foods, spitting them out and declaring them to be "dizgusting"!
Frank is both a source of great humour for us and at the same time seems devoid of any sense of humour himself. He has travelled through Asia for almost six months yet still flushes tons of toilet paper down the dunny rather than the bin (Asian plumbing requires this). After spending an hour unclogging the dunny with a (very long) stick, I suggest to him that this is not such a good idea. He responds with a thick French accent, "Oy yez, but thiz buckit iz dizgusting'. He has a point, however in my opinion an overflowing dunny is slightly higher on the list of disgusting things to see and do while in Asia.
It is late on Monday morning, when we depart from Kashgar. We are headed to a remote town south and east, called Karghilik. It's a five hour bus ride on one of the cramped mini busses that we are becoming all too familiar with. Frank has gone on ahead, unwilling to wait for us malingerers. He is adamant that we will not find accomodation and onward buses unless we leave at the crack of dawn.
The bus has barely left the station before the engine starts sputtering and coughing. Glover and I exchange glances, fearing another Karakul experience. Not to fear however, as our bus is equipped with an on-board, mobile mechanic. He pulls open the engine lid (conveniently placed next to the feet of Glover and myself). Hot engine fumes fill the bus as the mechanic reaches in and fiddles with the motor. All the while we are still speeding along the motorway, the driver weaving in and out of traffic, hand firmly on the horn.
The landscape passes by. Once again we are surrounded by empty, barren desert. The wind has picked up slightly over the last few days, and stray dust devils play mischeviously in the sand. Our journey takes us along the edge of the great Taklamakan desert. The name of this desert apparently means: "you go in, but you don't come out". Watching the dead, hellish land stretch out all around me, I can well believe it.
Tied to the ceiling of the bus with hockey straps is a beat up old TV and video player. About an hour into the journey, just as the clanging of the engine and the rocking of the bus have become mundane annoyances, the driver jams on a video. I'm guessing but I think it is the Uygher Top 40 video hits from the early 1950's. The quality of the tape is so bad I can barely make it out, though the high pitched whine of the singers is at full volume. Glover, who has been dozing up until this point, wakes with a start. He looks out the window at the empty land, looks up at the painfully loud music video then turns and says, "Did we have a bus accident. Is this hell?" I'm unable to answer, unsure myself.
Sometime later there is a noise from the baggage rack above us. It's a gentle meowing noise, like a cat makes. As the owner pulls the bag down from the rack to adjust the ties we realise that the reason it sounds like a cat is because it is a cat. We watch as the poor animal struggles in its hessian bag.
Still a little disbelieving I confirm that it is indeed a cat by drawing a few pictures and showing them to the bag's owner. He is kind enough to cut a whole in the bag so I can see. This is obviously the first air hole the cat has had in some time and it jams it's nose into it desperately. The owner quickly ties up the hole and stuffs the bag safely under the seat in front of him, where it stays for the rest of the trip.
We arrive in Karghilik and find Frank. First impressions are that we have arrived at the arsehole of the world. It's a dusty, desolute place. Later however, as we head further into town, away from the bus stop we discover a reasonably pleasant country town. Once again it is seperated into a modern Chinese part, and a traditional Uygher part. Unlike Kashgar however, the two are in slightly more harmony. We wander the streets of the old town. It's much cleaner than Kashgar's old town, and more spacious. The buildings are generally in good condition and it feels less like a slum and more like a place people want to live in.
As we meander through the streets, the local residents eye us warily. It's amazing how far a smile can get you however. After we greet them with an "asalam aleykum", the traditional muslim greeting, meaning peace be upon you, they break into broad, toothless grins and often laugh. A few are brave enough to return the greeting.
The adults are shy, the children are not. They come running from all corners to point and make jokes about these strange, tall white men. Before long we have a small army of Uyghur kids following us down the old streets, playing a game of tag around us. They chant the few English words they know: "Hello!", "Nice to meet you", "Goodbye". They break down into hysterics when we respond with hellos of our own.
We spend the rest of the day wandering around the old streets, exploring. We discover the most amazing park only minutes from our hotel. Inside this vast fenced area we come across winding paths through lush green trees, leading to ponds. Nestled amongst the trees are dodgem cars and ferris wheels. In this rural oasis, surrounded by dead, empty desert, this green wetland is as out of place as ice cream on pizza.
We stay only the one night in Karghilik and the next day we find ourselves on another five hour bus ride to the larger town of Hotan. Our driver is a madman. The roads are rough at best, and alternate between bitchemen and dirt. A stream of dust tails us the whole way. Motorists, heading the other way, are treated to a dangerous game of chicken. Our driver swerves wildly only at the last minute and only for the larger vehicles. Motor bikes and donkey carts are run off the road.
All the laws of science and probability are defied when we pull into Hotan without accident, in a cloud of dust. Glover and I leave the bus on shaky legs and head for the nearest hotel. We are now wandering the streets of Hotan, another surprisingly well established and well serviced town.
We are in the most isolated part of China and our destination, the east coast of China, is many thousands of kilometers away. North of us our way is blocked by the Desert Of No Return. South is dominated by the mountains of Tibet with an average altitude of 5000m and which is off-limit to tourists from this side of China. The road directly east is filled with long, death-cheating bus rides. The most sane route is back the way we came, however we have a cunning plan to get us where we want to go. A few things need to be worked out before I can give you the details but I'll let you know when I can. It may be some time however before we come across internet again.
<< Home