Friday, December 31, 2010

My Journey to the West (~8/21-9/8, 2010)

The long-awaited travelogue is HERE! If you were expecting more pretty pictures, don’t despair – all of the photos that I thought were semi-worth keeping can be found at Feel free to follow along with the relevant album as you read about my travels.

For now, most of the content below is a recounting of events; in future posts, I’ll be exploring some more thoughts, ideas, and analyses that I jotted down while I was on the road.

But let’s get to it:

As with many great adventures, this one unfolded in a westerly fashion. My belongings comprised nearly everything I had brought with me for the year, all packed into a large hiking backpack (yes, Yale classmates - the one I bought for FOOT); I left the laptop and some study materials with the cousin of a friend from HBA. My route, which spanned several thousand kilometers across the north of China, is pictured below.

Getting There, Stage A: The Train

My first stop was Xi’An (西安), the ancient capital of the Chinese empire. Because it was the weekend and Xi’An is both a popular international & domestic tourist destination and a transportation hub between ‘eastern’ and ‘western’ China, buying tickets three days in advance didn’t cut it: I got stuck with a standing ticket on a 14-hour overnight train. For those who didn’t read my posts from June, the capacity regulations on Chinese trains go a little bit like this: ‘Tickets are sold out if and only if an extra body cannot physically fit on the train.’  (This only applies to the cars with seats; the much pricier sleeper cars are meant to be more spacious, and deny entry to anyone without a ticket for a bunk.) This was also, by a tiny sliver, the most crowded train I’ve ever been on, and we were really pushing the aforementioned regulation to the limit. The following photo doesn’t do it justice, but take a look anyway – and when you do, keep in mind that all the seats are full, and that these people are neither boarding nor disembarking, but rather have likely been standing in roughly the same spot for ten hours. The guy second from front, who is probably asleep, sums it up pretty well.
Train attendants will periodically push a very narrow metal cart through the aisles, selling toys and drinks and overpriced food. In a feat of physics that I will never understand, they somehow get through, every time.

All that said… as it turns out, it’s not all that bad. The first twelve hours were surprisingly doable, and except for a half-hour nap I was standing the whole way. (Full disclosure: as any hardened train-stander knows, leaning against the sides of seats is a key survival tactic, and I made ample use of all opportunities to take the pressure off my feet.) As the clock slid toward 5 AM, though, I just couldn’t do it any more: I sat down in a vague replica of the fetal position and fell asleep for hours #13 and #14, though I was woken at least a half-dozen times by people going to the bathroom and I would often find myself pitching to one side as my head lost its balance.


Xi’An, formerly known as Chang’An (长安), was in various incarnations the capital of several Chinese dynasties, for a total of  almost 2,000 years [I’m a bit hazy on this number; history students, correct me svp.], and also the Silk Road gateway between China-that-was and the vast west. Its most famous attraction is the nearby home of the Terracotta Warriors (兵马俑), several thousand life-sized, hand-crafted, wonderfully detailed guardians of the resting place of the [秦始皇] (259-210 B.C.), the first emperor of unified China. The warriors are split into three pits, the largest and most famous of which has been enclosed in architecture reminiscent of an airplane hangar:
As you can see from the photo, the vast majority of the warriors are, shall we say, less than whole. These pits were not discovered until the late 1970s, and by that time they had sustained a lot of damage from water, air, and shifting earth. There’s still a lot of work being done to piece new soldiers together; you can see a few photos of what looks like a recently restored and tagged regiment in my Photobucket album.

As it turns out, the pits of terracotta warriors comprise just one piece of the emperor’s vast memorial. The grounds are set up like a small city, and have been the source of a wealth of historically significant artifacts, including tools, replicas, and skeletons (both human and animal). The most famous of these were found together with the warriors: two half-size scale models of bronze chariots, each made out of thousands of working parts.

Xi’An proper has, to my knowledge, just one really interesting tourist site to visit (the Bell Tower and Muslim Quarter being fairly unimpressive), and that is the city wall. Thick as a 4-lane divided highway and supplemented by a moat to deter attackers, it makes the Great Wall seem like a token gesture. (Which, to an extent, it actually was; speaking of which, this fact will blow your mind.)

I rented a bike near the South Gate – also very impressive, with two layers of defense to keep enemies from taking advantage of the weakness of the gate itself – and spent a few hours on a bumpy ride around the wall separating the old city from the business and residential areas enveloping it.

The Photobucket album also has photos of the Bell Tower, which is nice but didn’t knock my socks off. Unrelated experiences that don’t merit full sentences of their own:
·      the acquisition an excellent backpack which I bargained down to $8.00 USD
·      the accidental-rubbing-of-spices-into-my-eye incident
·      some glorious Indian food, and the artistic shooting of the next YouTube sensation at the hostel
·      a fountain show at the Small Goose Pagoda

In all, Xi’An was rainy and gloomy and not exciting, so I moved my train ticket up and was on my way only a day and a half after arriving.

Getting There, Stage B: The Train, Revisited

The day-long train ride to Dunhuang in northwestern Gansu Province was leagues more comfortable: I had a seat, and a lot of people got off halfway (at Lanzhou/兰州) so I was able to stretch out. This would be a good place to mention that I actually love long rides on Chinese trains, especially when I have a seat. The city may force us to rub shoulders with our fellow humans, but the train adds the crucial component of time. Rare is the traveler who will sit for ten, fourteen, twenty-four hours and never ask where the rider seated opposite him is bound. This is even more true when the train is packed to the gills: besides the obvious physical closeness, people also develop that bond that comes from enduring hardship together – that same bond that is the unspoken goal of fraternity and society hazing and initiations.

By the end of longer train rides, you can even pick out groups that have formed over the hours – people who barely know each other playing cards, or talking about their futures, or sharing seats. More than once, I have mistaken two people who had never met each other before for relatives or good friends; more than once, I have ended up sharing seats with or leaning on someone I barely knew. I’m still in touch with two of the students I’ve met on trains, one of whom rode 9 hours on yet another train to see me off before I left the mainland. When I inquire about ticket prices these days, no matter how long the trip, I never even ask about the sleeper cars; if I were given one, I’d just end up trading it for a seat anyway.
 Mini bundles of mischief, met on the train to Dunhuang

Product warning: Most of this charm disappears if you’re already sick or otherwise uncomfortable, and you definitely lose sight of it from around 3AM to 7AM.

Dunhuang (敦煌)

Dunhuang, a relatively small Silk Road town, was a must-see on this journey because of the Thousand Buddha Caves. The caves house a trove of Buddhist sculptures and wall paintings, some of which date back as far as 400 A.D., not long after Buddhism began to enter via what is now Tibet. Also, thanks to the climate (arid/desert; it rains a grand total of 40mm per year in Dunhuang) and a lot of luck, many of the caves have been very, very well preserved. Below is the third-largest Buddha in China, and the Photobucket album also has a shot of the ‘Reclining Buddha.’ Excuse the quality of the photos, as they were taken surreptitiously.

Unfortunately, what Dunhuang is most famous for among scholars – the thousands of Buddhist sutras, prayers, commentaries, etc that were hidden in the small Library Cave – were bought/pillaged (depends on who you ask) by a Daoist monk/foreigners (also depends on who you ask) when they were discovered near the beginning of the 20th century. This of course is just one case of many (see Peru v. Yale over artifacts from Macchu Picchu): before Developing Country X realized that Artifact Y amounted to a national treasure, Artifact Y was sold to someone from Developed Country Z, usually at an unreasonably low price. In this case and others, the story is further complicated by the fact that Merchant Q had a questionable/non-existent claim to the items themselves, and being long dead can’t really be held to account for his actions; now whose property are they? A final twist: scholars in Developed Country Z will often claim that Developing Country X simply does not have the requisite infrastructure/interest/experience/stability to properly care for the artifacts, an argument particularly relevant in China given corruption and the Cultural Revolution of the 1960s.

Indiana Jones will always wonder whether, if he had brought Incan artifacts back to America and refused to return them, he could have gotten his face on a U.S. postage stamp like Hiram Bingham.

To be honest, though, the best part of Dunhuang was not the caves, or even the thrice-per-year sandstorm we encountered on the drive back to town. The morning I got in to the hostel, I ran into 3 British students, two from Cambridge and one from Oxford; they had all spent the summer teaching English in Beijing. A combination of the four of us ended up sticking together for the next week. Tom is one of the Cambridge kids; he and I got along really well, and during our first (and last) night in Dunhuang, he and I decided to spring for a camel ride and camping trip in the desert. At first the wind was a killer – sand in the eyes, impossible to get the tents to stay up – but when it died down the night was absolutely perfect.
Riding into the desert. From left: Tom, me, some Chinese woman.

We had a brilliant full moon, and Tom is really into climbing things, so after asking the guide if the area was safe we headed out to tramp around the dunes. The first few were much shorter and easier to surmount than they appeared, so of course we got it into our heads to “walk up that big one over there, it will only take minutes.” An hour later, I would count it as the hardest climb of my life. It’s amazing how climbing in soft sand just takes everything out of you. It feels like not just your legs that are tired but also your entire body; once you’re spent you’re spent, and even waving your arms is out of the question. By about halfway up I was measuring my progress in 20-pace spurts, after which I would just collapse into the dune and rest for thirty seconds. Tom rows crew during the school year (whereas I do… nothing), so he wasn’t quite as destroyed by the climb as I was, but he had to take his share of rests as well. But finally, thanks to nothing else but sheer stubbornness, we made it.

Just as we conquered the mountain we heard the voice of a very angry guide calling us back. Going down probably took us all of a minute and a half, and then it was my job for the next ten minutes to placate the man, who had followed our footprints and was pretty much beside himself at the possibility that a wind would blow up and we would get lost and die. I reminded him that he had told me it was safe nearby, but admittedly, that the definition of “nearby” included that monster of a dune – which he told us the next morning was probably the tallest in Dunhuang’s Singing Sands – was kind of questionable, so I quickly gave up arguing with him and went into apology mode. At any rate, it all worked out and we’re both still alive, with some fantastic memories of adventure and conquest to boot.

Not having intended to climb a massive dune in the middle of the night, we did not bring our cameras and thus have no evidence to offer – but I did take this sweet shot of the sunrise and a camel.

Getting There, Stage C: The Bus

I was fine with getting out of Dunhuang on the second afternoon, but taking the so-called 16-hour (reality: 20-hour) bus to Urumqi on our way to Kashgar was definitely not my preferred method of transportation. At that point I had gotten it into my head that I wanted to hit the Southern Silk Road (the Silk Road splits into two routes around the Taklamakan Desert just west of Dunhuang), which has some smaller towns, is less traveled, and would get me away from the massively touristey trip that this had become. Unfortunately, I was stymied right from the start: the only bus route to the first town on the main road headed south simply wouldn’t take foreigners. I told her I was Spanish and not American, to see if that would make a difference, but I just got a “sorry, buddy” type of response. I don’t know what the issue is there, but I suspect that the tiny town in question is either a) near the site of some semi-secret rocket launches, or something of that sort (northwestern Qinghai Province has a population density approaching 0); or b) a region with a high ratio of Tibetan residents, possibly one in which some incident or another has happened recently. Qinghai, just east of Tibet, has a few Tibetan Autonomous Regions scattered throughout, as well as a significant population of Tibetans, some of whom are still nomads.

That road closed, and the new British friends having decided that the train would be inconvenient, I figured we were all going the same place anyway so I might as well buy a bus ticket too.

The Chinese sleeper bus was a new experience entirely.

The basic premise behind a sleeper bus is that you will be lying down the whole way – which, in general, you are, because only the aisles have actual headroom. In most buses there are 3 rows of bunks with two aisles in between; each row has about 6 double bunks. The bottom bunks are slightly more expensive, probably because they’re not as hot, it’s easier to get in and out, and there’s less shaking; personally, though, I prefer the upper bunks, especially if I can get one near a window. (That said, the middle is also decent if the temperature cooperates, because due to the construction of the bus the upper middle is the only place where you can legitimately sit up without banging your head.) Space (lengthwise) varies, and on the trip to Urumqi the two British guys and I quickly discovered that if we stretched out we almost – but didn’t quite – fit. The British girl, too, made a discovery: that they don’t actually clean the bunks in between use. We all felt horrible for her, as she turned out to have an allergic reaction to her bunk (or something in it), and by the end of the ride had red bumps all over; Tom and I parted with her and her boyfriend in Urumqi, but I heard that the rash didn’t go away until several days later.

For myself, I was fortunate to escape contracting the Scarlet Fever, or anything else for that matter, but I must admit that it wasn’t my favorite trip ever: I quickly discovered that trying to read Chinese characters on the top bunk of a lurching bus makes me feel ill, so I gave up and became a log for the rest of the trip. There’s not much else to do: the setup isn’t nearly as conducive to conversation as is a train. So by the end, all you’ve done for the past 20 hours is sleep, eat horrible Chinese snacks (there is not a single good on-the-go food item to be found at your average Chinese grocery store), and step out to stretch your legs now and then. I swear we must have stopped for bathroom breaks a total of thrice the entire trip; this is also where I gained valuable ‘relieve yourself by the side of the road and in the close proximity of your bus-mates’ experience.  But despite all of that time spent lying on a bed, when you finally arrive at your destination, your body still manages to muster the audacity to feel tired.
 One of Urumqi’s two major bus stops. It is unclear where the cow innards came from,
or why nobody is looking shocked that they are there.

Urumqi Stopover

We stayed in Urumqi just long enough for me to dislike it: The various taxis (as I found out later) are in the middle of meter fare readjustment, a process that might take up to a year, and in the meantime, to avoid people taking advantage of what have become very low fares, many taxi drivers (particularly those whose meters have not yet been adjusted) insist on bargaining for rides. Add to this a clear lack of supply, and you have yourself a traveler’s nightmare; one of the Brits had to wait about half an hour before finally giving up on getting to town from the train station without being ripped off.

But my main purpose for being in Urumqi was to transit to other places. First, I bought my ticket back to school – I had planned it so that I would get back to Urumqi from Kashgar in a week and then leave on the two-day train to Beijing. This is when I discovered that the rumors about early September being a really busy season for the train were, if anything, understated. It turns out that university students returning to school are allowed to buy tickets as far as a month in advance, and what’s more, certain blocks of tickets are set aside especially for them. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had the foresight (foreknowledge!) to bring my acceptance letter or university invitation with me when I went traveling, so the best I could get was a ticket for a hard seat on a train that left two days earlier than I had hoped. Then I bought two bus tickets to Kashgar, and Tom and I were on our way by late afternoon of the same day.

Getting There, Stage D: The Bus, Revisited

The bus from Urumqi to Kashgar, nominally under 24 hours, really runs around 26 or 27, if memory serves. Although Urumqi itself is mostly Han, it seemed that all of our fellow passengers were Uyghur, the Muslim, Turkish-descended minority ethnicity that populate the majority of Xinjiang Province. If you’ve heard of the Uyghur people recently, it has probably been in the context of the Urumqi Ughyur-Han riots two summers ago; there is definite separatist feeling among parts of the Uyghur community, and clearly a certain amount of Han-Uyghur ethnic tension. It’s a very, very sensitive issue – for example, when I click the above link from inside the great nation of China, all of Wikipedia becomes mysteriously inaccessible for 5-10 minutes.

Most of the other passengers lived in the west of the province and had no need of Mandarin in their daily lives, so besides the bus driver, I probably spoke the best Chinese in the vehicle. That made it a bit difficult to communicate, but Tom and I took this excellent 27-hour opportunity to nail down a few key phrases in Uyghur (the language, this time) that Tom found in his Lonely Planet guidebook. (Fun fact: Lonely Planet is also banned in China, because it shows Taiwan as a separate country on its maps and has a separate guidebook for the island. The Taiwan section of the Lonely Planet web site is also inaccessible.) This brought the children in the bunk in front of us no end of amusement, but in the end we nailed down a pretty solid base vocabulary: greetings, hello, goodbye, where are you going, what is your name, my name is, good, bad, yes, no, how much, coming through, plus a few common food names.

This bus was also, for whatever reason, much more humane than the last. We stopped several times for bathroom/smoke breaks – dare I say that the density of cigarettes in Xinjiang is greater than that in eastern China? Is that even possible? – as well as a couple of times for meals, though all of these were before down or after sunset because Ramadan had not yet ended. By the end of the trip, I was already fairly well acquainted with the Uyghur pulled noodles (thick and absolutely delicious) and the Uyghur version of na(a)n bread, which is much bigger, thicker, and harder than the Indian variety.

We also stopped innumerable times for inspections, one of the several measures put in place following the 2008 riots. (I will mention others below.) Although I have to admit that I felt pretty uneasy when I was called to the front on one occasion to confirm my citizenship, and I was too worried about getting my camera confiscated to even leave the case lying around in plain sight, the inspections themselves were a strange mix of rigor and laxness. The main purpose was to check everyone’s national ID cards (which can now be read electronically, unlike the old and easily forged old versions), probably looking for separatists and terrorists and troublemakers (these labels are pretty interchangeable as far as the government is concerned). However, in a few cases people had simply forgotten to bring theirs and they got through after only a minor fuss. A young guy who had forgotten his ID simply had his mother call in and vouch for him; a college girl who had forgotten hers was given the green light to keep traveling simply because she seemed harmless. For my part, I was happy to be able to present a Spanish ID to the authorities: there is some, likely government-inspired, sense among ordinary Chinese that the American government, media, and people all support Xinjiang/Uyghur separatism. To be fair, this may have a grain of truth to it, but the Chinese seem to think that this support goes further than mere sympathy, and I maintained that I was a Spaniard throughout most of my time in the province.


If, come next summer, you offered me a plane ticket to any of the places I visited during this two-week whirlwind adventure, I would without a moment’s hesitation pick Kashgar. Maybe it’s because on a very basic level I simply 喜新厌旧 - love the new and detest the old… and o Kashgar! how well you cater to that vice!

We got in at night, and the first thing I noticed was that the city center looks like a mini version of my mental image of Las Vegas. The streetlights comprise at least 6 colors of ever-changing neon bulbs; the bridges and tall buildings around the downtown lake are all lit from top to bottom; there is a Ferris wheel with a moving psychedelic rainbow radiating from the center.

The hostel Tom wanted to stay at had been shut down in the past year, so we were somewhat at a loss, but by complete chance an American café owner happened by on his motorbike and was able to give us a map and point us in the vague direction of a different hostel, which turned out to be a lovely place with cheap rates and an open-air courtyard.

We got up early on our first day to drive down what is easily the most beautiful road I’ve been on in my entire life: the Karokurum Highway, which is the road to Tashkurgan Pass and the Pakistani border. I took over 100 photos, 80 of which I’ve decided to keep.

About halfway to Pakistan is Karakul Lake, itself a jaw-dropping wonder. All I can add to the photos is to say that the largest visible peak is over 7,000 meters high, not much lower than the (nearby) 8,800m Everest itself. Here you can stay in a yurt with a local family, for something like $5 USD per day, including food. In fact, one of my new mini-dreams is to return and spend at least a few weeks of some summer doing just that – books by my side, beauty all around, and not a care in the world.

The next day, we went to take a look at Kashgar’s weekly livestock market, a short ride away from the town itself. Although we got there a little late – apparently the place is bustling come dawn, since these are farmers, after all – there were still plenty of last-minute deals going down. The main items were cows, donkeys, and sheep, a good specimen of the latter going for about the equivalent $100 USD. That struck some of my friends as a bit steep, but I can completely understand: for livestock farmers, stock equals capital, and sheep are a type of long-term investment.

Bargaining is a very physical activity: the buyer will run his hands over various sheep, and then take out a wad of bills (daily interactions all over China are still conducted almost entirely in cash), slowly starting to place money in the seller’s hand. If the seller feels that the price is too low, he will push the money away or otherwise make as if to return it back to the buyer, who may then start to add smaller bills. Only when the buyer accepts the money back is an agreement considered unreachable; only when the buyer and seller shake hands is a deal considered done. To be completely accurate, I should say, “shake hands in earnest”: at one point I saw a seller grasp a stone-faced buyer’s hand and pump it while the latter maintained the dead-fish grip… clearly, no deal was reached.

We eventually got bored there, so then we were off to the Sunday Market – which, I warn prospective travelers, operates every day and doesn’t deserve its fame unless you’re particularly excited about getting a good deal on clothing or school supplies.

The day after, on the advice of a Taiwanese traveler we met in the hostel, we went to see the Tomb of the Fragrant Concubine (it’s a classic), which more importantly is the resting place of an important Uyghur imam and his entire family. One of the reasons I like Kashgar so much is that while I’m no art critic or museum fan, I really enjoy the geometry and the deep colors of Muslim art and architecture; you can see some of that in the photos of the tomb. I also loved both the chaotic alleys of older residences and the clean-cut look of the more modern buildings, all of which you can see in more detail in the Photobucket album.
 Tomb of the Fragrant Concubine/ordinary-smelling imam.

At the Tomb of the Fragrant Concubine, I took a crash course in food poisoning. It was definitely the naan I had eaten in the morning, since that was all I had had all day – it was, as I mentioned, Ramadan, so in the mornings we were always presented with the difficult choice between gargantuan naan and infinite-density bagel. Anyway, that afternoon I joined the ranks of just about everyone I know from home who has ever been to Xinjiang, and discovered that my bagel had a little extra kick to it. Tom, who is studying medicine at Cambridge, helpfully informed me that there are two types of food poisoning, one in which the “poison” (created by bacteria) is already in the food, and one in which the bacteria is there but hasn’t yet grown and begun making the “poison.” The second type can last for days because you have now become the host for the bacteria itself… but fortunately this particularly bacteria had apparently been hanging out in the naan for long enough that my body recognized the poison and reacted right away. So the constantly-throwing-up phase, while excruciating, only lasted a few hours, and I was back on my feet that night.
My last photo of the tomb grounds before I decide I’m probably going to be sick.

On the third day, I missed my bus back to Urumqi. I had, for no particular reason, been absolutely sure my bus would leave at 11:30 PM; and that afternoon, when (also for no particular reason) I took another look at the ticket, I discovered that in reality I was meant to leave in the AM, and had missed it. This also meant that I would miss my train from Urumqi to Beijing – and that I would lose my precious seat on that train, as the rest of the tickets for other times were standing-room-only.

The cost of the bus and train tickets put together wasn’t an easy loss to swallow, especially given that the reason was my own foolishness, but the upshot was that I got to spend an extra day and a half in Kashgar. I used that time to visit the Old City, a jumble of quasi-ancient structures and narrow alleyways with a hard-to-reconcile mix of Han Chinese tourists snapping photos of old local families living out their daily lives. One fantastic thing about the old city, and indeed about all of Kashgar, is that it is not difficult to find true artisans at work. Hats, headscarves, brass kettles and more are all being made in little shops here and there, and even the higher prices of a semi-commercialized place like the Old City present a sharp contrast with the situation in the touristy areas of city centers in the east – where every shop sells the same cheap trinkets, probably all made in the same factory somewhere near Canton.
 The Old City, viewed from across the street.

 Making spouts for tea kettles.

Before leaving Kashgar behind, I should probably mention one of the characteristics of Xinjiang, and especially Kashgar, that struck me most: government presence. It can be seen in the soldiers clad in riot gear regrouping after evening patrol in the main square of the People’s Park, across from the statue of Mao Zedong in his Lenin pose; it can be read in the slogans that find their way onto every building and side street, promoting inter-ethnic cooperation, anti-terrorism, support for the rule of law, support for the army, a civil(ized) culture, and love for party, country, socialism, and city. Locals have clearly become very accustomed to the banners and signs, and many feel that increased security presence is good for stability, but at its root the culture of Kashgar is simply not Chinese. It is clear that the central government realizes this, and is putting a lot of effort into inculcating the local people with the idea that despite ethno-national difference, China is one country; implied, of course, is the grim resolve that China’s territorial integrity will not be compromised.   

For more photos of Xinjiang propaganda (with translations), and a brief explanation of the “civilized/peaceful household” rating system recently implemented in Xinjiang, don’t forget to take a look at the Photobucket album.

Urumqi, Back Again

A third bus ride and a new train ticket later, I was back in Urumqi for another day and a half. I spent most of my time wandering down side streets, because it’s my favorite thing to do in cities and also because I had no particular plan of my own. I also expanded my DVD collection by about 100%, the first half having been bought in Hohhot – capitals of thinly-populated provinces, it seems, are great for that. Back at the hostel that night, I ran into Robert, the Taiwanese guy I had met in Kashgar, and the next day we went to see the city’s museum, which is supposed to be fairly famous. I’m not much of a museum guy myself, but I can appreciate that it had good description of the Silk Road and the early settlers of Xinjiang; some fantastically old and well-preserved corpses from the Astana graves; and some few-thousand-year-old artifacts from the most famous and important finds of Chinese archaeology.
 Alley behind the hostel in Urumqi.


As I still had a few days to kill, on the advice and with the expertise of a German guy I met at the hostel I took unfair advantage of the ‘effective within 3 days’ clause on my train ticket to spend a day in Turpan, while also recouping a small portion of the financial loss I had suffered because of my foolishness in Kashgar.

Turpan is well-known for a few reasons. For one, it’s a big producer of grapes and wine; unfortunately, we had just missed the grape festival and we didn’t end up getting any decent wine. Turpan also happens to be situated in a valley that, come summertime, records the hottest average temperatures in all of China, the south included. Because Turpan is so hot and dry, it is also famous as the home of some of the oldest and best-preserved archaeological sites in the country, including the ruins of a town (Jiaohe) dating from the BCs.

Fortunately, we happened to arrive just on the heels of Turpan’s annual rainfall (literally: they get only a handful of millimeters a year), so temperatures were reasonable; the German, the one British student who hadn’t gone home yet, and I were all able to rent bikes and head down to the ruined city together. Without a tour guide Jiaohe isn’t much more than a bunch of rocks and ruins, but we managed to find a guide who spoke a little English, and went on a merry little Chinglish tour of the town, the German and I translating for the Brit as well as we could.

On our way out, I got into my first shouting match in Chinese. A middle-aged man with an official-looking armband ran after us and grabbed the back of my bike as the three of us started to ride away, angrily informing us that he meant to collect our parking fee (3¥ the equivalent of $.45 USD) – which, incidentally, we had clearly agreed on our way in would not be collected because we were on bikes and didn't need him to watch them. On principle and with a supportive nod from some of the guys lounging on the side of the road, I was pretty stubborn about the whole thing; the German guy also got pretty angry and made as if to call the police, though I think we all knew it was an empty threat as Jiaohe is a small town and none of us wanted to tangle with local police over collection of local fees. The issue was resolved in the old man’s favor when his devious wife snatched my bike lock out of my basket and held it ransom, at which point I had no choice but to pay up the 3¥ and leave in disgrace.

Then it was off to markets, where I ate one of the most delicious foods in all of Xinjiang and indeed the world: Kentucky-fried lamb™. Xinjiang lamb on its own is already delicious, because a lot of it comes fresh from in-province lamb herders. But to make it even better, try this: take a massive piece lamb, cook, fry, bread lightly, and cut to size on request. It’s like lightly fried supermarket chicken meets Outback Stakehouse, and it’s quite literally mouthwatering.

Finally, after a brief session of cheating the railroad company and getting cheated by the railroad company, I was waiting for the train back to Beijing.

Weariness Sets In

Two weeks had passed, and by the time I left Turpan, I was tired of traveling. In fact, I began to feel tired as early as Kashgar. Maybe it was the constant motion: I remember calculating that I spent something like 1/3 of my time away from Beijing either on a train or on a bus. Maybe it was the baggage: minus my computer and some Chinese materials from HBA, everything that I’d bought for the year was on my back or in my hands. Maybe it was loneliness: I was really lucky to run into the British kids, but it’s not the same as hitting the road with a good friend. Or maybe I’m just not cut out for it. My hope, though, is that I was just going a bit too fast and hadn’t stayed on the road quite long enough to get “in the zone.” At any rate (sorry, mother), I don’t intend to give up the practice.

The Road Home: The Two-Day Train to Beijing

Ever since I got it into my head that I wanted to go to Xinjiang over break – and this was probably back in April – I had been excited to take the Urumqi-Beijing train, especially after reading this article. I found my experience less picturesque than the article (you know how they are, those journalists), and admittedly it would have been nice to have a seated ticket, but in the end I was not disappointed. On the Beijing-Urumqi line, the potential for camaraderie that I described above increases with time spent together, and by the end of 40-some hours, in your head you actually start calling some of your fellow passengers “friends.” It felt different for me from the raw closeness that naturally arises on a road trip – on the train, the language barrier and the number of people diluted the ‘fellow travelers’ effect – but that said, by the time we arrived in Beijing I could barely remember a time when we were all strangers.

I was lucky. I ran into a group of college students who were more than willing to play musical chairs and let those of us with standing tickets take turns resting our legs. A few members of our cast of characters: the Uyghur university students, some of them going to take a year of “preparatory courses” to improve their Mandarin before attending regular university; the invincible quality control inspector, whose stamina was evident in his ability to both stand and talk for long periods of time and who like most middle-aged Chinese men had a lot of generalizations to make about our two countries; the 2nd-year student at a university in Harbin (哈尔滨, a city up in Manchuria), who had a fantastically sarcastic sense of humor and with whom I ended up going on a great midnight walk around Tiananmen and Qianmen in central Beijing while she waited for the next day’s train to continue her journey north.

The End

And then, it was over. I spent a night in the same hostel I had stayed at in June. The next day, I moved into the 4-star hotel rooms that double as one of MinDa’s foreign student dorms, and began the fall semester at ACC.

I apologize for any lack of depth, which I will add in later posts based on some of the notes I jotted down during the journey. At almost 7,000 words, this has already become longer than any paper I’ve ever written for any class (answering strings of questions for AP Government doesn’t count), and as I really don’t intend to make a book of it, I’m going to wrap it up right here. Congratulations to those who read through to the end; I hope you found it worth it, and even interesting. And last but not least, another plug for the Photobucket album, which has many more photos and translations for your viewing pleasure.

Wishing you a happy new year,


  1. Wow, what an incredible three weeks!
    Rail is my favorite mode of distance travel, for many of the reasons you've explained. I've only taken one sleeper bus ride in China, and recall it feeling eerily like a wholesale hearse ride. Horizontal is not the way to traverse a vast country!
    I agree with your praise of the Karokurum highway. Red ripples and azure skies, all the way up.
    The Kashgar ferris wheel, by the way, was not operating during daytime hours when I was there a few years back. The gondolas became scorching hot in the sun - like a giant human rotisserie (just a minor design flaw).
    I'm wondering if you've had a chance to exercise your new Uyghur vocab on local lamb vendors since your return to BJ. I'm sure they'd be delighted to let you practice a bit.