With news of violent flare-ups in Xinjiang again hitting headlines, many are understandably apprehensive about visiting. But a few isolated incidents, horrific though they were, shouldn’t overshadow its fascinating – and largely peaceful – culture.
Travelling through the province accompanied by Abdul, our Uighur guide, we receive nothing but smiles, and the only time we come across anything approaching a heated atmosphere is at
Kashgar’s Sunday livestock market. Here, we find 40 men crowded in a circle. Some are wearing the skullcaps worn by Muslims throughout the world, some the embroidered hats typical of Uighurs in this region, and others flat caps that wouldn’t seem out of place on British farmers. All have their heads buried in animated debate. Gathered close, it is hard to see what they are talking about. Then they part and the subject of their fevered discussion is revealed: an enormous sheep with an even larger behind.
We’ve just witnessed one of the market’s haggling sessions. In our case, the prized mutton is parted with for 2,000RMB and a handshake. With these negotiations, we’ve witnessed something else too – evidence that, despite great changes in Xinjiang over the past decade, tradition lives on.
Having no need of an animal, I head instead to food stalls set up at the side of the market to purchase something else that has been sold here for decades: Uighur-style ice cream, made by churning eggs and cream in iced wooden barrels. Nicely cooled down, I take the 6km road back to the old town in the city centre. Much of it – some say up to 85 per cent – has been or is being knocked down and rebuilt, but untouched enclaves remain where there are still traditional mud-brick houses.
Wending through a labyrinth of back lanes, we meet Tutigal, a Uighur matriarch with gold-coated teeth that could out-bling rappers. She invites us back to hers for milk tea and won’t take no for an answer. Inside her one-up, one-down home, brightly coloured carpets cover every inch of wall and floor. She offers us Uighur bagels, shares stories about the 65 years she has lived in this house, and saddens when Abdul whisks us away so we can reach Id Kah Mosque before the evening prayer.
Almost every other street in Kashgar has its own small mosque, but 569-year-old Id Kah is China’s largest. Every Friday, thousands of worshippers pour through its arched entrance. Tourists can’t enter during main prayer times, but when we visit there are still a few who didn’t make it to afternoon prayer in time, prostrating and whispering holy words.
The atmosphere is different at our final stop in Kashgar. This too is a place of communal congregation, but instead of kneeling in quiet prayer, the people here flaunt Bollywood-esque twirls while a singer blasts out Uighur ballads. Yes, we’re in Oscar nightclub, Kashgar’s answer to Latte. Here, overly expensive bottles of whisky line up behind glass cabinets, but most clients stick to the fruit juice, and only a few (we presume married) couples dance together. Mostly, men partner with men, and women with women. We find partners (same sex, of course) to show us the moves and thoroughly enjoy our last night in Kashgar before we move on to our next destination:
Karakul Lake, where Muztagh Ata mountain appears, through reflection, to descend down into the earth as well as push 7,546m up into the skies.
On the drive out to Karakul, we’re served scenic appetisers: first, the Ghez Canyon – its walls a fiery red; then the giant sand dunes known to the locals as Kumtagh (Sand Mountains). The passport checkpoint near the Ghez (we’re travelling towards Pakistan) also offers an interesting sight: the most diverse group of people I’ve ever seen. Uighur men wear pillbox hats – Uighur women, veils; Kyrgyz men are decked out in tapered top hats and Kyrgyz women in headscarves; Tajik women balance enormous domed hats on their heads, while tourist groups sport matching baseball caps.
By the time we mount our horses for a ride around the lake in the late afternoon, we have the landscape almost to ourselves. We sleep over in a yurt so we can pretend we’re nomads for the night, but breakfast with a local Kyrgyz family whose yurt is the ultra-portable real deal. In winter, this family stays in a stone house on the other side of the lake; in summer, they assemble their wooden yurt frame, dating back four generations, on grazing ground for their animals. The family sees us off with a round of tea, and we’re departing again, this time towards the great Taklamakan Desert.
With dunes that can soar above 500m and temperatures that can top 50C, the Taklamakan is a hostile environment; you need good reason to want to cross. In the past, merchants seeking their fortune on the Silk Road plodded by camel from oasis to oasis. Most of the Silk Road oasis towns disappeared along with this trade route; Khotan is an oddity that survived. It seems ironic that this town lived on while others perished if you consider the part it is supposed to have played in killing off the Silk Road. Legend has it that a Chinese princess brought silkworms as her dowry when she married the king of Khotan; from here, the secret of silk production was smuggled out west and so the Silk Road lost its purpose.
Today, Khotan is still renowned for its sericulture. We make sure to visit Atlas Silk Workshop in Jiya, just outside the town centre. We see the boiled remains of the worms and watch in awe as a septuagenarian throws his 263-year-old shuttle from side to side across his loom.
We can’t leave without trying another Silk Road tradition: camel trekking. The camel man meets us at dune 8.2 (yes, the dunes by the roadside are signposted). I’m expecting flowing white robes, so I’m disappointed when I spot him in a polo top and shorts ensemble. My disappointment ebbs as I mount my two-hump steed and we venture into untamed parts of the Taklamakan.
The camel is uniquely adapted to the desert, with a nose that humidifies the dry air and fur that reflects the sun. Sadly though, this beast was not designed as a comfy ride. When we disembark two hours later, my posterior feels like it’s swelled to the size of the sheep’s we saw in Kashgar. We erect our tents and enjoy dinner accompanied by sunset. Later, as I lie back on the still-warm sand and look up at the stars, I think to myself: Thank God I wasn’t around in the Silk Road era. I’ve enjoyed this tranquil piece of desert living but I’m quite happy journeying back to Beijing by plane.
Essential info
The author travelled with
WildChina, which is running a nine-day trip to Xinjiang departing October 1 (23,120RMB). See www.wildchina.com for info. For updates on safety in Xinjiang, see relevant embassy websites.
中文版