The Decision
Since C. first visited China in 1993 he has seen nearly every historic city, natural wonder, and tourist trap listed in any guide book. The only place on his list that he had yet to experience was the famed Sunday Bazaar in Kashgar. It's no wonder C. had not taken an opportunity to go all the way out there before: as the western-most city in the western-most province Kashgar is a destination all on it's own, requiring five and a half hours of flight time from Shanghai. Since I had a week off from school, he could squeeze a few vacation days into his schedule, and this is a pleasant time of year out in the desert, we decided this was the perfect chance to explore the last stop in China along the Silk Road.
The Place
Kashgar (known as Kashi in Chinese) is a bit of a step-child kind of city. It is officially in an area called the Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region, in the northwest reaches of Xinjiang Province. It is extremely close to Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan, and Pakistan, and it is so far away from Beijing that most of the locals operate on "local time" - two hours behind the official Beijing time (all of China is conveniently in the same time zone). Our hotel breakfast that was offered between 9:00 and 11:00 Beijing time coincided nicely with our 8:00 local time meet-up with the guide.
When you see Kashgar on a map you'll notice that it's not close to anything. It's in the desert plains just east of the Karakoram Range, home of the second tallest peak in the world, K2. Everything is dusty, it's often windy, nearly always sunny, and the locals claim it is a great environment in which to grow old. The city has been around for over 2000 years, and was most notably a major trade stop along the Silk Road. The Old Town shows clear evidence of the city's ancient past, but unfortunately it is systematically being torn down and replaced with newly constructed homes and shops. The new city is filled with disappointing high-rises and the wide city roads are filled with sedans and motorbikes. C. regrets not having seen the city before all the demolition began, but we are both glad to have seen at least the remnants of what the Old Town was.The People
The reason Kashgar is in a special region is that the people in the area are all Uygur, an ethnic minority that has been in the region for thousands of years. They still speak their own language; very few people speak any Mandarin, though it is taught in the schools. Their language is more of an Arabic script, though all the signs also have Chinese characters too. Because of their minority status the people of Kashgar are not allowed to obtain Chinese passports. We encountered two people who had dreams that hinged on getting a passport. First, we met a friendly young woman at a kebab restaurant who began chatting with us because she had recently graduated from the Kashgar Teaching University, and is now an English teacher. She told us her dream is to visit any English-speaking country, but that is unlikely because "it's hard to get a passport since [she is] not Chinese." In the little village we met Eli, who also joined us at a table, insisting we try the meat pies and noodles. He studied English for a year in Urumqi, and lamented the fact that he could no longer practice the language in his village because no one else speaks it. He was so excited to talk with us and told us enthusiastically, "If I had a passport and a million dollars I will go to Washington (DC) and open a Uygur restaurant!"
A remarkable characteristic that we found in all of our encounters was the immense generosity and curiosity of the people. At the mutton shop two men began arguing over who would pay for our meal: the owner who invited us in, and another man who wanted to treat us. At the markets when we stopped to take photos people would put themselves in front of our camera, and then tap our shoulder to have a peek at the image on the playback screen. When we showed any interest in their activity, they eagerly invited us to try it out. We felt like celebrities because it seemed like everyone wanted to talk to us, to ask questions, to tell us about themselves, and there was never a sense of owing them anything in return.
Naturally, the little girl I met at the teahouse was very curious and wanted to learn all about my big digital camera. At first she just wanted to strike a pose and then see for herself how she looked. Then she realized she could capture images herself, and she caught on quickly after I guided her grimy finger to the shutter release a few times. She squealed with delight when she saw her mother, then the old men, and all the other random snapshots on the camera's screen. She got so excited pressing the buttons that before I knew it she was whizzing through all the photos on the camera, and she just kept scrolling and scrolling. I wished I had a polaroid so I could let her enjoy the instant gratification and have a keepsake too. I'm sure she doesn't even have a family photo, something so basic and yet so essential to one's identity.
I was particularly taken by the old Uygur men: their long white beards, their hunched but strong shoulders, their wrinkled necks and callused hands. I couldn't stop staring at the hats too; I learned that the taller dome-shaped fur hat was a winter hat, and the smaller green cap was a summer hat. We discovered that most men kept shaved heads, and if they had particularly long beards they may have been an imam at their mosque. I really could have just stood on a corner and watched the men walk by all day.
Speaking of men, they always seemed to group together, and we saw many more men than women. I surmised that the women were at home taking care of the children and household chores. We saw a few groups of women at the bazaar, trading fabric and patterns for making the green hats. On Sunday night there were more women out with their families walking around, but it was noticeable rare to see men and women mingling together.
The hero of our trip was Elvis, a local tour guide mentioned in the Lonely Planet as a carpet connoisseur and traditional music aficionado. He approached us as we strolled up to the large mosque our first evening there, and in less than a minute we had his phone number and a plan to meet the next morning for a full day around town. His English was quite good, and like the other people he was incredibly friendly and so upbeat. After a successful day in Kashgar we asked what else there was to do. He suggested we take a little drive out to the village market, so he arranged that too. He shared his skepticism of the taxi driver he hired when his regular guy was busy. His instinct proved correct: the driver didn't get gas ahead of time, stopped at the wrong filling station, then didn't respond to his phone when it was time to go back to the city. Fortunately Elvis flagged down another driver heading back to Kashgar, who turned out to be a traditional medicine man (and a much better driver than the taxi). To complete the incredibly generous tour, he gave us several CDs of local music, wall posters, and a large sack of local tea to take home, and all he asked for was a kind mention on the Lonely Planet forum.
There are a few Han Chinese in Kashgar, basically sent there by the government to represent the capitol. The hotel receptionists and airport personnel were all Han, and I'm sure many teachers in the local schools are also Han. It can't be easy for them to move out there; they become an expat in their own country. I just wonder if they're forced to stay out there and build a family, or if it's more like a fixed assignment that is then rewarded with a promotion when they return to their hometown in eastern China.
The Markets
How can I possibly describe the feel of the markets, the boisterous energy, the pungent and fragrant smells, the exotic goods? We started at the Sunday Bazaar, a market that is actually open every day of the week, but busiest on Sunday. Elvis was somewhat apologetic that it was actually very quiet while we were there, with hardly any shoppers wondering the maze of stalls. We were still overwhelmed with the sheer magnitude of the bazaar, and then endless rows of scarves, knives, carpets, teas, jewelry, teapots, and any other goods you could imagine. Perhaps it was a bit early in the day, and Elvis informed us that tourism had steadily declined in recent years, with the busy months of June and July bringing only a few visitors.
Outside the covered bazaar (the roof was only recently built about five years ago) we encountered even more interesting sights, sounds, and smells. The prevalence of sheep carcasses hung under dirty umbrellas or canopies was at first disturbing, but eventually mundane. I didn't care to take a close inspection of the meat, but there was a surprising absence of flies or maggots, which I took as a good sign. We had to scurry out of the way when a donkey cart came barreling through, the driver yelling "Boish! Boish!" to clear the road. C. got to try his hand at turning the wielding stone for a knife-sharpener, and I enjoyed a fresh slice of cantaloupe. We learned how the master corn cake maker trained younger men that made cakes at the night market, and we saw how effective a straight blade is when it comes to getting a close shave. Again, it seemed like mostly men at the market, but no shouting or loud haggling - just hordes of people trying to accomplish their shopping and get on with their day.
Then we drove beyond the outskirts of the city to the weekly Livestock Market, which only takes place on Sundays. What a completely different world. Cars were replaced with motorized rickshaws and horse-drawn carts. The dust formed a tangible grit in the air, which helped the primal stench of animals permeate our nostrils, hair, and clothes. We moved into the crowd amid curious glances and incredulous stares. The busy traders generally ignored us, carrying on with their subtle negotiations and careful inspections of prospective livestock purchases. This was the place to be if you needed a cow, sheep, donkey, horse, or camel. I was grateful the Muslim Uygurs have no need for pigs - that may have just put me over the top. Fortunately all the trading was for live animals, so there was minimal carnage at this market. Regardless, several of the cows seemed to be fully aware that they were not in a happy place. The randy donkeys and ignorant sheep seemed much less bothered by the whole affair.
Just inside the gate to the market was a row of restaurants and food stalls selling noodles, mutton and rice, and meat pies. The massive ovens were ablaze with red-hot wood, and steam rose up in dense clouds from huge steamer baskets and massive woks. Who am I to pass up a culinary experience, so we went into the first place with the mutton and rice. Honestly, the rice and vegetable bit was quite tasty and very filling, and the mutton was mutton. I felt bad for not finishing the entire dish after Elvis pointed out that this meal would keep a person warm and full all day long.
As we continued on we stopped to take a closer look at some meat pies being made, and before we knew it we were being escorted inside with the promise of a tasty sample. That's when Eli joined us and began chatting about anything he could find the words for in English. He generously offered to let me try and make a meat pie (thank goodness I already went to a dumpling cooking class in Shanghai!), which I did as his brother deftly assemble five in the same time it took me to do one. I think C. really wanted a turn at throwing and twisting the tangle of noodles, but I'm sure those were too precious to let some foreigner destroy.
Just as I felt we had seen quite a glimpse into the local market life, we entered the sheep trading grounds. I really couldn't get over all the shorn sheep with their wooly rumps lined up row after row for inspection. The bleating was really intense; I didn't realize the four-legged fur balls could sound so much like children in distress. The mood in the sheep pen felt a bit more serious, with men gathering together for negotiations, large amounts of money coming out of threadbare pockets. We wondered around inspecting the sheep in our own way, at a safe distance through the zoom lens of our cameras. I wish we had asked Elvis more questions to learn more about the business, but I was too enraptured with the scene to take a break from capturing as many details as possible. We noticed that it was harder to take a step without bumping into a sheep or farmer, and it was apparent that more and more animals were arriving. Elvis discovered that many farmers stayed in the fields to plant cotton, and were just now coming in to the market. We decided it was best to get out of the way to let everyone carry on about their business.Even though I wished it weren't so, I couldn't ignore the reality that my bladder needed some relieving, especially before another hour in the car. I would have been perfect fine just ducking behind a shed, but I had a feeling even in this dirty and dusty place that would be frowned upon. I asked Elvis what the options were, and at first he looked stumped. Then he asked one of the butchers and apparently got clear instructions for where to go. We followed Elvis all the way through the rest of the market, past large woven mats (presumable the Flooring aisle), stacks of metal doors, bushels of tree branches, and a few haphazard pieces of cheap furniture (the village's answer to IKEA). We turned under a thatched awning, where a few cows and a donkey were hitched and making their own kind of stink (presumably the market parking lot). Elvis motioned to a primitive corner wall of mud bricks, with two dark doorways, and then promptly walked back to the main pathway to wait.
Oh boy. I figured I'd rather see the filth than get into any nasty surprises, so I went around the side that was sunlit. Whoa, BIG mistake: that was the pit dug into the ground beneath the "bathrooms." I did a 180 and then went into the first dark doorway, not really caring if there was a men's and women's side. It was empty so I scampered to the far "stall" and peered into the squatter hole. Again, BIG mistake. Not more than a meter below was someone else's very fresh dump of the morning's mutton rice. Before I could try make an alternative plan I just dropped trou and went for it, hoping to God that no airborne disease was coming my way. Then, wouldn't you know, C. yelled in, "Hey, you're in the men's!" to which I responded, "So what?! Tell them to wait or don't look!" and two seconds later I was out, walking as quickly as possible back to Elvis and "fresh" air. During the whole episode I could only think of the scene from Slumdog Millionaire involving an open-air squatter. Ewwww.We meandered back through the rows of dried goods and more barbers with their very trusting clients, and determined we were satisfied with our experience. Elvis had one last treat for us: a ride on a horse-drawn cart. C. was happy to stay behind and be the photographer, so I hopped on with a charismatic old man. The horse's harness jingled and jangled as he cantered along the road, passing other carts and getting passed by huge buses and even some SUVs. After about 10 minutes we finally turned around, and I think C. was relieved that he wouldn't have to figure out how to arrange a search party in rural Xinjiang Province for me.
Next Time
Our two-day adventure was an awe-inspiring glimpse into a truly foreign culture and way of life. I only wish we had more time to travel down the Korakoram Highway to see alpine lakes and (call me crazy) even the last border checkpoint before Pakistan. There are always more sites to see, more experiences to cherish, and more people to intrigue us. I just hope we can make another opportunity to venture out there again. Until then, please enjoy the moments we managed to capture in our photos:
Markets Portraits Food Miscellaneous
Perfect post! I whish there were more photos.
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