The Road to Kashgar
"...You Won't Come Out"
Faced with the uncrossable sands of the Taklamaklan Desert (the
name means "if you go in you won't come out") the caravans
traveled either north or south through the oasis towns edging the
desert. Today the Taklamaklan is no longer uncrossable -- the
Chinese have built a road that runs north to south. Still, most
tourists follow the northern branch of the Silk Road, and head
straight to Kashgar from Urumchi, often by plane. We were going
to drive across the Taklamaklan and take the last part of the
southern route through (K)Hotan. I was excited not only to cross
the Taklamaklan, but also to follow part of Peter Fleming's route
to Kashgar (a 1930's trip described in his classic "News From
Tartary"). We backtracked on the highway most of the way to
Turpan, before turning south, bouncing across piles of gravel and
connecting with a two lane road to Korla. After the lunch stop
(more noodles!) we started to drive through hills -- pink and
then yellow rock. Following a river bed we found ourselves
threading a dramatic section with black rocks half buried in sand
dunes.
Korla has the distinction of having no entry in the Lonely Planet
guidebook, but is a pleasant small city, one of the cleanest I saw
in China, with flowers as well as trees brightening the streets,
and with great kebabs in the night market.
The Taklamaklan is every bit as sandy and desolate as you could
imagine. We were definitely cheating -- not only did we cross on
the new road (put in to serve oil rigs, and maybe prison camps
and other unadvertised installations), but we did so on a grey,
overcast day, with a few actual raindrops falling during the
first stop. The drops mostly evaporated before hitting the
ground, but they were unquestionably rain.
The Back of Beyond
Minfeng, the oasis town at the southern end of the cross-desert
road, was least affected by modern (or Han) China of any town we
stayed in. Two roads intersected in the middle of town, one arm
offering bread for breakfast and the other kebabs for dinner. We
tried two different kebab operations, eating at tables in the
street. One had tea flavored with cinnamon, and tender, tasty
kebabs. The other had dining chairs instead of stools, and a
willow tree shading the table, but
the tea was plain green and the kebabs tough and fatty. We were
the only westerners in town -- in fact after Tian Chi we saw no
westerners until Kashgar, and there was only one lone Aussie
backpacker at the lake.
When the Road Becomes a River
After two long driving days to reach Minfeng we left at 9:30
(Beijing time, 7:30 unofficial Xinjiang time) expecting only a six hour
drive to Hotan. We crossed a gravel river bed, detoured over
a makeshift bridge where a river had eaten the road and passed
through a long oasis, seemingly untouched by time. Bikes and donkey carts
crowded the road through the village, the
drivers kneeling on the flat cart beds. Some of the
white-scarved women had small black cones on their heads. We were
driving through some more sandy and stony desolation when we
found ourselves at the end of a traffic jam. On investigation,
we discovered that the road bed had effectively ceased to exist.
The road ended in mud, crossed by a swift flowing river that
carved a channel that eventually reached thigh deep on our
Chinese driver. A wonderful assortment of people and vehicles
were trapped, and we spent the first few hours watching the
people milling around. The
interest was mutual: Karen, a blonde twenty-something
Englishwoman, collected a fan club of several men apparently content simply
to sit and watch her read.
As the waters spread wider, the Chinese did little to improve
matters: the road crew, in orange hats, just standing around.
Finally, a small bulldozer broke down the banks of the river a
little to provide a more gentle slope, and a number of vehicles
from the other side were successfully towed across by local
tractors. A convoy of Toyota Landcruisers carrying VIPs made it
under their own power. Then two buses from our side tried it
without the tractors and promptly stuck. One proved to have a
broken axle. Rather than carving a new path, the Chinese spent
a couple of hours digging out the other bus. Eventually it was
towed out backwards. The driver, visibly nervous, then made a
successful crossing behind a tractor using a longer than usual
tow rope.
Despite the presence of two police cars, there seemed
to be little organization, but as dusk neared we found ourselves
promoted to the front of the line. The front and back bumpers of the
coach had been removed, and the packs traveling under the coach
moved inside. We had the tractor we had identified as the best
(with two vases of artificial flowers on the dash), but still
nose-dived into the further bank. The tractor finally got us out
around 8:30 p.m., and then we had to put the bus back together
before tackling the remaining three hours to Hotan. The tow cost
a mere
20 yuan, but may have been reduced to that figure because the
coach didn't make it unscathed.
Our arrival in Hotan, after midnight, was enhanced by the
discovery that our intended hotel had moved our booking to a
different one, and we all had to get back on the coach. After an
indifferent meal I finally made it to bed at 2:30 a.m., but the
people-watching was absolutely worth it.
Buying Silk on the Silk Road
Hotan was much bigger
than I expected, boasting traffic lights with countdown timers
and the ubiquitous white-tiled buildings. One older section did
have nicely carved upper stories on the houses, which were being
used as shops. Hotan was also a tourist trap, although probably
not intended for westerners. We dutifully visited the jade
factory, a silk operation, and the carpet factory. I bought a
nice silk scarf at the jade factory, and a lighter, cheaper, one
at the silk factory
for use in Pakistan -- but it turned out that even after washing
the indigo dye came off on my fingers. Todd, the Canadian, was the only one to
succumb to the rug factory, spending $800 on a silk rug with
aggressively red pomegranates. Hotan jade is white, known as
mutton-fat and preferred by the Chinese, and their carving style
is old-fashioned compared to what I saw in Shanghai four years
ago.
The group lunched at a place recommended by Chen, our driver,
that followed the Central Asian practice of seating diners on
low, carpeted, platforms with short-legged wooden tables. The
pigeon was mostly bone, and the kebabs fatty. All-in-all, we
were glad to leave Hotan for fabled Kashgar.
Kashgar, the Reality
Kashgar is a name to conjure with -- China's westernmost city,
the last outpost on the Silk Road before crossing the mountains,
the site of British and Russian consulates during the heyday of
the Great Game for control of the territory north of India.
Kashgar today is a disappointment. a few remnants of the past
exist in the old town, and in the massive Sunday market, a draw
for locals and tourists alike. But the old town is ringed by new
development and has a ferris wheel
towering over it, and there are few camels and horses to be seen
in today's market, although
the parade of hats, beards and faces is still fascinating and
photogenic.
We stayed in the Chinabagh/Qinawake hotel in the grounds of the
old British consulate, and the women who made it an outpost of
Western civilization (grand piano, croquet, afternoon tea) must be
spinning in their graves. Three hotel buildings fill the old
courtyard, one huge but dusty old tree all that remains of the
gardens. The consular building still stands, but it is shabby
and run down, the main part occupied by a banqueting hall. The
Russian consulate, now the Seman Hotel, is in even worse shape.
Sunday was devoted to the market, but
Monday, four of us took a taxi to the Abakh Hoja tomb, which was
both beautiful and peaceful, and actually contained 72 tombs. I
was delighted to find that the driver spoke English -- finally a taxi
driver with whom I could communicate!
He was young and recently married, and had worked in the Caravan Cafe
(sandwiches, cinnamon rolls, espresso & cappuccino and a toilet that rated 99 out of 10)
to learn English, and since his marriage was driving the taxi in
the mornings and learning English in the afternoons. His
ambition was to be a business man in Dubai. We discussed the
poverty of the farmers, many of whom had filled the bazaar on
Sunday, and who seem to be outside China's "economic miracle".