Journey to the East

So, to wrap up my blogging on the trip to Xinjiang, I thought I would post the best of the rest of my photos from the trip. To enlarge a picture click on it, and click again on the picture in the screen that pops up. Enjoy!

A typical Uighur mid-day meal: Polou, cold vegetables and tea.

No experience in Xinjiang would be complete without eating. In fact, one of the greatest parts of heading waaaay out west is the food. So, I thought I’d give a quick look at Uighur food, and the cuisine of Xinjiang.

In general, Uighur food is much like the food of the rest of Central Asia (Afghani food is particularly similar, apparently). Thus, Xinjiang cuisine is renowned for its use of huge portions of lamb and beef. Particularly famous are its enormous, meaty, spicy kebabs. Unlike their eastern Chinese cousins, which are much smaller and meant to be eaten in large numbers, Xinjiang style kebabs are massive. Each would probably constitute a single serving’s worth of meat if assembled whole on a plate. These juicy cuts of lamb (and sometimes beef) are doused in chili, cumin, and an array of other spices, impaled on large (almost knife-like) metal skewers and roasted over a searing flame. They are absolutely delicious, and make for a great dinner and an even better late night snack. Breakfast also features heavy portions of meat, especially in the form of polou (or pilaf, as it is known in much of Central Asia), a bed of pan-cooked rice with shaved, stewed carrots, roasted onions, (occasionally) chopped dates and raisins, and (of course) a huge hunk of bone-in, roasted lamb. You have to be on top of your timing to get polou, though, as it is rarely found after 1PM local time. By noon, most restaurants have stopped serving it, or have sold out. Also, like many of the culinary traditions of Central Asia, bread plays an important role in Uighur cuisine. It’s a real treat to be walking around in Kashgar, in the Old City, in the early morning to smell the naan ovens firing. Some of them make regular flatbread, which is decorated with ornate spiraling patterns, making it both intricate and delicious. Others make the equally delicious samsa which are baked meat dumplings filled with big chunks of lamb. These are incredibly filling and are a wonderful morning snack.

However, centuries of interaction with East China has clearly influenced the cuisine of Xinjiang. Nowhere is this more apparent than in Xinjiang’s various noodle dishes. Handmade noodles crossed the Silk Road into the region from the East, and were quickly assimilated into the local diet. Now, anywhere in Xinjiang you find huge plates of steaming, stewy noodles. Often this is called laghman and is served with big chunks of meat in a sauce of tomatoes, carrots, onion, peppers, chickpeas, and spices (cinnamon, anise, etc.). The total effect is a hearty, aromatic, spicy and filling lunch.  Eating laghman is also a great visual experience, as all of the noodles are handmade. As you wait for your food, you can watch the kitchen staff pulling large strings of the noodle dough, stretching it again and again to make the long strands which you’ll eventually eat. The people who do this are pros, and there’s sort of an artistry about the whole process, which seems highly acrobatic. If nothing else, the freshness of the meal is incredible. Similarly, the tea culture of Xinjiang bears the mark of cultural fusion. Tea is an important beverage in this area as the halal dietary code of Islam forbids the consumption of alcohol. In the place of wine or beer, tea is often consumed. Here again, Xinjiang has fused the customs of East and Central Asia into something completely unique: traditional Xinjiang tea is served, like in China, without the addition of milk (as is the case in much of Central Asia, and especially India and Pakistan). However, unlike in China, Uighur tea is usually brewed with a blend of spices (the most bold flavor being that of cardamom), and thus have an incredible fragrance and delicately sweet flavor. In the afternoons, it’s nice to find some respite from the desert heat by climbing up to the balcony of a teahouse and having a bowl or two (yes, tea is served in small shallow bowls here) with some naan. From these high vantage points, one can sip tea and simply watch the world pass, which– in Kashgar– is an experience unto itself.

One other culinary advantage of Xinjiang’s arid climate is that dry weather allows for a really spectacular array of fresh fruits. Throughout China Xinjiang’s orchards are renowned for their apples, grapes, pears, dates and melons. On nearly any street in Kashgar’s Old City you’ll be able to reap the rewards of this, as everywhere vendors hawk dried fruit or fresh melons. Similarly, Xinjiang is abundant in nuts and almonds. The end result of all is of this is that Xinjiang has distinctly more dessert options than does Eastern China. These come in varied forms: Sesame hard candy made with local honey, peanut or almond brittle, chilled pressed dates in a sweet syrupy broth, fresh sliced melons, and –most importantly– home made ice-cream sweetened with honey and served by the spoonful into pint glasses. This frosty desert has the most wonderfully subtle and sweet flavor and is an amazing escape from the hot sun. Often, when walking in Kashgar, you’ll see dozens of men camped out under and awning in the shade, talking and enjoying a big cup of the stuff.

In all, eating in Xinjiang is a rich and incredible experience. Any description of it would be, however, incomplete without some visual aides. Here are some pictures:

Every kind of kebab imaginable is available at the Wuyi Night Market in Urumqi.

Xinjiang's famous lamb kebabs on the grill.

Kebabs are a popular nighttime snack. This stand was in the old town in Kashgar.

Naan flatbread: an absolute staple of Uighur food.

Making laghman, pulled noodles

Making Kebabs in Kashgar's Old City.

Late afternoon sunlight falls on Kashgar's Old Town.

When I decided to take a holiday in Xinjiang, Kashgar was always the one place in my mind which served as a final destination. As the cultural heart of Xinjiang it is a place that has long captured my imagination. Any trip to the province without going to see Kashgar would seem, in the end, to be somewhat incomplete. Thus, as we set out on the 24 hour train ride from Urumqi to Kashgar, I was incredibly excited. I will say this: the city is worth it. Worth the hype. Worth the distance. Worth the time. Worth the effort. There is, quite simply, no other place in the world quite like it.

Like much of Xinjiang, Kashgar bears the stamp of being a true border town. This is apparent everywhere: in the city’s architecture, religion, food, music, art, culture, daily rhythm, etc.. Kashgar looks and feels much like it neighbor cities, all of which are located in countries ending in “stan.” Where else could you find a place that can boast such strong flavors of  Central Asia (it was used as a stand-in for Kabul when filming the movie version of Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner… and indeed, when you are here, you can almost imagine what it would be like to be in a peacetime Afghanistan) while still remaining within territorial China? This city is a world unto itself.

There is a certain romanticism hanging around Kashgar, especially in the Old Town, which surrounds the famous Id Kah Mosque, the city’s beating heart. Here the sense of community among Kashgar’s majority Uighur inhabitants feels very strong. There is a liveliness and a vibrancy reflected in the local culture absent just eastward in Urumqi. This catches a visitor up in the swirling atmosphere of a place that seems truly magical when first viewed with fresh eyes. Certain aspects of this romanticism strike you immediately.

The smell: the heavy odors of sewage, pollution, garbage, etc. that one finds in Ji’nan are almost entirely absent here. Instead, Kashgar is a place of much more delicate aromas: baking bread from the naan ovens all over the old town, charcoal and grilled meat, dried fruits and nuts, flowery tea, fresh-sliced melon, fresh market produce and the heavy smell of spices like cinnamon, cardamom, cumin, chillies, coriander and anise.

The sights are magnificent too. For instance, the architecture: graceful and delicate carved archways and woodwork that is almost Arabesque, slender twin spires of minarets which rise slightly above the slanting old rooftops rooftops, rounded domes of mosques (often times in Kashgar’s Old Town, one finds themselves lost and wandering amongst the buildings only to look up and see the crescent moon on the spire of a minaret and realize that you have stumbled on a small mosque), seemingly ageless oven fired brick homes the color of mud, wooden carvings on doors whose patterns almost match the complexity of the woven designs on the brightly colored carpets sold on the streets, brightly painted second floor balconies of teahouses.

Even such magnificent sights get lost amidst those that are happening in the streets, which are filled with a constant level of buzz. In the Old Town one often finds men pulling donkey carts. There are  barrage of people on scooters zipping down the narrow alleyways. Most of the things sold on the street (from ornate tea kettles and ceremonial knives to homemade ice cream and kebabs) are also produced there in the street as well. Thus, much of the Old Town’s industry is on immediate display. In front of music stores, men sit playing their instruments. The streets are crowded as food vendors push carts full of brightly colored fruit, green produce, baked bread or other sundries. Walking in the streets, one encounters women in brightly colored headscarves, men with long beards and traditional prayer hats, and children at play. You catch the gleam of copper from newly made pots and pans hanging in storefronts, or the absolutely brilliant array of color coming from a rug imported from Pakistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, or even Iran.

The center of all of the action is the Id Kah Mosque, a spectacular building right in the center of the Old Town. The structure is built in the Arabic style and painted a beautiful and bright yellow with bright tiled flourishes. Every afternoon the square in front of the mosque is crowded. Merchants set up stalls along the side hoping to sell prayer hats, prayer beads, copies of the Qur’an, tailored shirts, guidebooks, maps, water and myriad other items to would be pilgrims and worshippers as they pass. At 5pm you can hear (as you can all over the city) the afternoon call to prayer, and the proclamation “Allahu Ackbar” (or “God is Great” in Arabic). Venture inside the mosque, and you’ll find it surprisingly verdant. The grounds in between the front entrance and the main prayer hall are filled with trees. I remember a lesson from my Intro to Classic Islam course at Davidson in which my professor explained that in Islam, all things in their natural state are believed to be submissive to Allah. He pointed out that this had an incredibly natural connotation: life, when in a purely harmonious state, is completely in line with the will of God. At the center of the mosque in Kashgar, with ample shade and calm, this idea feels almost tangible. The lushness of the interior, and its general removal from the hustle and bustle of the streets make this a particularly quiet and peaceful sanctuary. I can only imagine that those who come here seeking something of the divine must surely be able to find part of it. Around the mosque, much of the city turns. At night, people gather in the square in front of the Id Kah Mosque and it remains a lively and buzzing place. Want to see the heart of Kasghar? This is the place to do it.

Part of the charm of the Old City lies in its authenticity. Unlike the “Ancient City” model of development and tourism being put in to place in other cities in Eastern China (in which the core of an old city is preserved and filled with tacky souvenir shops and cafes aimed at tour groups, particularly foreigners), Kashgar’s Old Town is not set up for the benefit of tourists. There’s not the element of show or spectacle in the Old City here. Or at least not yet. By contrast, Kashgar is local. There is an incredibly strong sense of community in the Old Town, where the population is still predominantly Uighur (a Turkic minority community in China’s northwest, which is the majority population for Xinjiang and find the center of their traditional heartland in Kashgar). Everywhere one sees examples of how much the Old Town feels small-scale, and close knit. The men who gather at local ice-cream stands to sit in the shade, eat ice-cream, talk and watch the frenzied pace of Kashgar’s streets pass by them every afternoon are regulars and old friends.  All of Kashgar’s merchants are Uighurs, locals, and have often worked in their trade for several generations (one of the largest rug dealers in Kasghar is a father-son operation which has been in business for nearly 40 years). The expertise of these merchants is real, and their goods are authentic, unlike the tacky souvenir swag sold in other places. But the good are not meant for tourist consumption (or at least not all of them). The copper pots being made in storefronts, the fresh produce in the streets, the sliced melon and fresh baked naan are mostly consumed by the people who live and work in Kashgar.

We were fortunate enough in our time in Kashgar to feel the warmth of that community personally. As guests we were made to feel very welcome in most of the places we went in the Old Town. Once in wandering the streets, my friend Chris and I heard live music coming from a short distance away. After following our ears, we came to apartment block where the music was streaming out. Naturally, we were invited inside by one of the residents to find a four piece Uighur music ensemble. The player were all very insistent that we join them, sit with them, listen to them, and drink tea with them, and their children who were gathered on a rug playing and eating a picnic dinner. We stayed for maybe ten minutes, thanked them profusely, and quickly left, feeling like we had just experience a completely singular cultural experience. Similarly, one afternoon, on we decided to take in the streets of Kashgar from the upper floor balcony of one of Kashgar’s teahouses (because liquor is strictly prohibited at most establishments due to Islamic standards, much of the dining culture here centers around drinking tea). Upon our arrival we were greeted by a local man and his son, who had come to drink tea and enjoy a sunny afternoon. Upon seeing that we had purchased a Uighur-to-English phrasebook, our new friend took a good deal of interest in us, and asked us to sit and chat with him. Of course, we were asked to eat naan and drink tea as well, and the encounter turned into a very friendly conversation about life and customs in Kashgar. Further chat (in a combination of broken English, broken Uighur and broken Chinese) revealed that this man was a local Imam, and of some standing in the community. Again, we felt incredibly fortunate that a man of such local importance had reached out to us, a group of foreign strangers.

In this way, Kasghar feels different from Urumqi. If our presence in Urumqi’s neighborhoods was at first greeted with suspicion, in Kashgar we were met with openness. If looks we received in Urumqi suggested “What are you doing here?” in Kashgar, they suggested “Welcome friend! Have a seat!” The openness of the people and the culture in this town make it an easy place to feel at ease. While much of the “tourism” here may revolve around such simple activities as taking a walk and watching people work, it is easy to feel completely enthralled with such activity, and to feel that in doing so, you’re seeing something very real and very special.

Sadly, however that community is feeling the effects of development as well. While the core of the Old Town is well preserved, “modernization” is creeping in from the periphery. On the outskirts, Kashgar is evolving into a city of glittering multi-story shopping complexes and towering apartment blocs. It is in no way as close as Urumqi to losing that core of its true identity (and in some cases never will, as the Old City will inevitably be kept alive for the sake of tourism), but you can’t help feeling, as you walk in the streets in Kashgar, that what you see today may well be gone tomorrow. It’s yet another tale in the already thick anthology of communities which struggle between development and tradition. The city is a cultural wonder. I only hope it’s able to stick around.

As always, there are more photos from Kashgar than I know what to do with. Here are many of the best shots. Enjoy!

Welcome to Kashgar: A scene from the heart of the Old Town.

Streetside vendors like these ones selling fresh samsa (meat filled, baked dumplings) make Kashgar's Old Town an incredibly vibrant and interesting place.

Traditional multi-story architecture in Kashgar's Old City.

A major crossroads in the Old City.

Naan in Kashgar: The smell of baking bread was prominent in many areas of the Old City.

Traditional Uighur musical instruments for sale.

These presses are used for making the elaborate designs on naan. Even beyond being functional, they're actually quite colorful, and cool to look at.

Fresh, locally-grown watermelon, ready to be sliced (also, check out the size of that knife).

Uighur prayer hats for sale near the Id Kah Mosque.

A very tall minaret near the central square in the Old Town.

Dried fruit and almonds on sale at an open air market near the Id Kah mosque in Kashgar.

Traditional architecture in Kashgar's Old Town.

A typical sight in the streets in Kashgar: a donkey cart.

Kashgar's Id Kah Mosque: The spiritual and cultural heart of the city.

Locals gather outside the mosque before the 5PM call to prayer.

Seen from afar: the minarets of the Id Kah Mosque rise above the tree line.

Minaret at the Id Kah Mosque.

A shot from the interior of the mosque: These are the gates before the main prayer hall.

Inside the mosque everything seemed incredibly green and verdant.

Cooking up a local specialty: lamb kebabs.

Locals gather on the second story balcony of a teahouse to take in amazing views of Kashgar.

One of the very friendly locals we met at the teahouse was an Imam and his son.

A typical morning activity in Kashgar: Making naan.

Preparing the meat for lamb kebabs.

Kashgar city skyline.

An alleyway in the heart of Old Kashgar.

As seen in a Kashgar alleyway.

Late afternoon in Kashgar's Old Town.

A solitary hawk circles high above the frozen surface at Tian Chi, "Heaven Lake."

One of Xinjiang’s major attractions, aside from it’s diverse and vibrant culture (more on that when we get to the entry about Kashgar), is its raw natural beauty. Especially when compared to China’s east coast, where recent development and thousands of years of agriculture have transformed the land, much of the northwest in this country feels “unspoiled.” And there is true variety in the landscape as well. There are, of course, the deserts for which the region is famous, but there are also many other incredible natural phenomenon to be  seen in Xinjiang: the rolling grasslands of the central Asian steppe, the tall and foreboding forests of Asia’s north (think of Siberia here), and of course the Himalaya Mountains which tower majestically over everything. The land out here, like in all naturally spectacular places, simply appears unreal, too dramatic to be actually there in front of you. Such is the case with 天池 (Tiān Chí, or ”Heaven Lake”) near Urumqi.

Tian Chi is one of Xinjiang’s many “must see” natural attractions. It certainly lives up to it’s name. There have been few occasions when I’ve been absolutely stupified or dumbstruck beyond articulate language by a landscape, but my first glimpse of Tian Chi was certainly one of them. The lake itself is actually rather small (in fact a few of the advertisements I saw for the park had translated it’s name into the rather more diminutive “Heaven Pond” or “Heaven Pool”), but its size does nothing to detract from its beauty or majesty.

Rather, what makes Tian Chi impressive is its background. The lake is located at an already high altitude (4,500+ feet above sea level), and is ringed on all sides by the towering snow-capped peaks of the Bodga Shan mountains, the tallest of which is referred to as “The Peak of God.” The peaks are almost unfathomably tall and extend for miles into the distance behind the lake. Similarly tall are the enormous pine trees that grow densely on the rocky sides of the surrounding hills like giant Christmas trees (Many of them easily exceed 50 feet in height). Against the trees, the peaks, and an incomparably blue sky, Tian Chi does not need to be enormous to be captivating.

The road to Tian Chi is remarkable in and of itself for showing just how quickly and dramatically the landscape can change in Xinjiang. The lake is located a mere hour’s drive east of Urumqi, which is an oasis city on the eastern edge of the Tarim Basin. In the hour between Urumqi and Tian Chi the scenery changes from that of an oasis, into a sandy desert, and finally into the rocky, forested area in the foothills that surround the lake. The area very much reminds me of areas I’ve been to in the western United States (particularly the Black Hills of South Dakota and the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming), and it was a very bizarre thought to think that only a few miles in the opposite direction, we would be back in the midst of the desert. The road to the park winds past several small communities of Kazakh shepherds who live in colorful, traditional yurts. On the hillsides near these communities sheep somehow manage to scale what looks to be impossibly rocky terrain. It’s all a very breathtaking drive.

Most of the people who go to Tian Chi go to amble around the ground-level path around the lake. While this undoubtably provides for some stunning views, we wanted to do something a little more strenuous. We opted, instead, to climb up to one of the lower-lying hills which surrounds the lake to see what the view looked like from a pagoda we saw perched on the top. We were cautioned by our driver that the steepness of this climb made it difficult, and that we should be careful. Naturally, we were undeterred. After an hour of strenuous climbing, we arrive at the peak and looked out on the entire park. Our reward for our daring was an incredible view.

The hike itself also provided us with some of the most incredible moments of the day. It was on the climb up the steep stairs that we were really able to grasp the remoteness and solitude one can find at Tian Chi. It is truly a place removed from the rest of the world. At the base of the park, the usual vendors have set up shops which vend overpriced nick-nacks, food and water. Of course, they advertised with blaring techno music and provided an obnoxious reminder of just how artificial a natural park can actually be.

At the top of our peak, however, such distractions had completely vanished. Instead, as we hiked we noted a different sonic phenomenon: silence. In this noisy country of car-horns, motors, construction equipment, street-vendors, blaring radio ads, and the constant chatter of other people, true moments of silence are rare and precious. When sounds did punctuate the silence at Tian Chi they were not the alien sounds of machinery or urbanization. Rather, the sounds of the lake were subtle, natural: the screech of a hawk circling it’s prey high in the sky (later we would watch as this same hawk circled slowly right before our eyes, probably not fifty feet away), a slight whistle of breeze as it whips through the tallest pine boughs, and the soft and distant rumble of avalanches in far-off snow-capped peaks. Hearing the last of these sounds was a powerful experience: I don’t believe I have even been so close to such a raw and potentially destructive force of nature. I could hardly even believe what I was hearing, but I heard it all the same, echoing like distant thunder. It was an incredible reminder: no matter how many chintzy stalls or obnoxious vendors show up, or how many stairs are carved into the sides of the hills, it will remain impossible to truly tame the “wildness” of Tian Chi. It is simply too much.

Here are some of the best photos from the trip:

Pictures will simply not do it justice: The view from the start of the trails at Tian Chi, Heaven Lake.

The peaks around Tian Chi are part of the Tian Shan range. The highest peak (seen somewhere here in the background) is known as Bogda Shan ("The Peak of God').

Gazing out at the scenery.

The forests surrounding Tian Chi were all populated by enormously tall pine trees.

We climbed up this hill at the edge of the park. That little pagoda you see is actually quite high up, and is, at times a bit of a steep climb.

Despite the warm air and sunshine, the lake was still frozen solid. Here you can see the cracks starting to appear in the ice.

Closeup of the cracks in the ice.

Sunlight falls through the pines on the trail up to the pagoda.

A view from the trail taken during our ascent.

Nearing the top.

The views of the peaks were absolutely incredible.

Overlooking the lake from the top of the hill.

A window on the world: The view from the pagoda.

Pondering the view.

Prayer flags flutter from the higher spots on the climb.

One of many yurts in the areas surrounding Tian Chi. These tents are the traditional homes of the Kazakh shepherds who live in this area.

Nimble sheep scale the hillsides near Tian Chi.

Tian Chi was a definite highlight of the trip. It’s raw natural power was something that provided a pleasant respite from the highly populated, urban energy of Urumqi. After Tian Chi our journey continued onward to Kashgar. Stay tuned for more posts about that city on the edge of central Asia.

Welcome to Urumqi

First on our tour of Xinjiang was the bustling provincial capital city of Urumqi. I’m probably not going to be able to say exactly what I want about Urumqi… its a complex place. In many senses, it is growing and bustling like its counterpart Chinese cities on the east coast. In another, completely different sense, Urumqi is infused with a strong flavor of central Asia. That much becomes apparent as soon as you arrive and see the multiplicity of culture which abounds in every place. The hallmarks of cultural fusion are everywhere: Street signs in both Chinese and Uighur (the language of Xinjiang’s local minority people), Arabian-style mosques standing next to very traditional Chinese-style buildings, the broad array of cuisine from local favorites to traditional eastern Chinese staples, the dizzying number of people from such incredibly different places (Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Pakistan, Kirgystan, Mongolia, Russia, Tajikistan, Eastern China, etc.) who are out walking on the streets. The web of multiculturalism, when layered over Urumqi’s ancient history and recent surge in economic development, make it a place with a complex and fascinating identity… one which is hard to adequately summarize or describe.

Like many of Xinjiang’s cities, Urumqi has a pretty long history as an oasis town in the middle of the desert, making it a pivotal stop on the ancient Silk Road. However, the city has a tendency to be historically overshadowed by it’s western neighbor, Kashgar, which has long been the center of local Uighur culture, a major nexus of cultural exchange, and a strategically important city located on the edge of mountain passes. This is not to say that Urumqi should play second fiddle: it’s got a vibrant and cosmopolitan feel of it’s own these days. It is to say, however, that we knew fairly little about it when we arrived. We knew it was a big city, but what was there to do there? No clue. In a sense our time in Urumqi became very flexible. Some cities are like paint-by-number portraits: you know that there are certain things you’ll have to see when you stay there. Urumqi is more like a choose-your-own-adventure novel.

The attractions in this city aren’t so much buildings as they are neighborhoods. Whereas in other cities in China, tourism revolves around touring specific temples, mountains, nature preserves, or other areas of cultural or historical significance, Urumqi’s appeal comes in visiting whole areas to get a feel for it’s cultural uniqueness. There are no huge temples to tour in Urumqi. While there are plenty of mosques (Xinjiang’s majority religion is Islam), these are not frequently open for public visitation, and rather must be seen from the outside. To see the real attractions in Urumqi, one must head out the Uighur neighborhoods in the center of town. There, you can experience a bit of what has always made this area famous, trade.

Yes, the place to go in Urumqi is the Grand Bazaar, a network of outdoor markets and street vendors in Urumqi’s Uighur neighborhoods. Starting out in the midst of markets for fresh produce, baked goods, meat, and handicraft gives you an idea of how important market culture has always been in Xinjiang. Here you see a fairly real slice of Urumqi that is as it has been for a LONG time. While the outer parts of the city are being modernized at a fairly alarming rate, Urumqi’s Uighur neighborhoods still display a good deal of the kind of bazaar-culture that has driven the economy of this region for millennia.

The sights, sounds and smells of the bazaar are pretty cool: roasted meat, fresh baked bread, freshly sliced melons, spices, towering Arabic-style domes, the shouts of vendors, the insistent honk of car horns, women in headscarves and men in prayer hats. It’s an absolute attack on the senses. From these areas, its easy to wander off down any number of other, smaller streets. We spent most of the afternoon on our first day there winding our way down these backalleys, following the spires of minarets toward what we though would be interesting buildings. Inevitably, we found ourselves amidst the real neighborhoods of Urumqi, away from the bazaar. Here, I think we witnessed a very real culture. Children played in the streets, people gathered in front of mosques before prayer. This wasn’t a show. This was Urumqi without any tourist pretense.

Ending up in these neighborhoods wasn’t an entirely comfortable experience. They were for the most part, fairly poor. We were received with some pretty strange looks. There has been some recent tension in this city (I won’t recount the history of that particular incident here) and there is still a sense of unease that lingers over areas like this. The curiosity about our presence there was less hostile and more confused: Why would tourists want to come and see this part of the city? What was there to see? In the end, though, when we were able to engage these people in whatever limited conversation we could, the barriers were lowered slightly, and people were generally warm towards us. If there is suspicion in Urumqi, it melts away after a little bit of communication.

After a full day of wandering through it’s streets, I still don’t think that I can pretend to understand all of the undercurrents which are running through the city. However, I am a little closer to feeling what lies at its heart. While Urumqi, on it’s face, may be a very complicated place to navigate, it is one that I think is worth getting to know and understand.

In any case, here’s a glimpse of Urumqi in photos. More updates will come soon.

Urumqi's buzzing cultural heart: The Er Dao Qiao Bazaar.

The view at the center of Urumqi's lively Bazaar district.

Multi-lingual street signs in Xinjiang: The language written with Arabic script is Uighur.

Fresh watermelon for sale in Urumqi's Bazaar.

Freshly baked naan: the flatbread which is the staple food in Xinjiang.

Mosque domes peek out from down an alley in Urumqi.

Roast Chicken, anyone?

Melons are a local specialty in Xinjiang, and can be found in abundance just about everywhere.

Vendors with carts line the streets in Urumqi.

A mosque in the Er Dao Qiao Bazaar in Urumqi.

Unlike their counterparts in Eastern China, most of the mosques in Xinjiang, like this one, are built in a Middle Eastern architectural style.

Women's fashions on display in Urumqi.

... and in menswear: all the hottest styles from Pakistan (not kidding).

A typical storefront in Urumqi.

An ornate gate in front of a mosque in Urumqi.

A common sight in Urumqi's Uighur neighborhoods: minarets.

Inside of the Grand International Bazaar in Urumqi.

Dried fruit, another local specialty, is certainly available in Urumqi's Grand Bazaar.

High Lonesome: Life persists in the midst of the Gobi Desert.

Deserts occupy a truly fascinating space in the human imagination. In the unforgiving, barren, and at times alien surroundings of a desert we find something of ourselves. Perhaps this is because in the sheer absence of other living thing, in the midst of sheer exposure to the elements, in the midst of such inhospitable conditions, we are truly able to strip away the distractions which prevent us from honestly considering who we are. It’s almost an archetype throughout human history: one goes into the desert to reflect and seek some sort of deeper reality. Consider the staggering list of people (fictional or otherwise) who have arrived at some point of self-actualization in the course of their itinerant wandering in the dunes: Moses, John the Baptist, Jesus, Mohammed, Zarathustra– the list is extensive. Why are we drawn to these places where life is so scarce? Prior to this past holiday trip, I had never really seen a desert in person. I can’t claim to have any extensive experience now. But, even the slightest exposure sheds light on the issue for me. Simply put, these places are incredible. The vastness, openness, emptiness: it’s all absolutely captivating. I will not pretend to understand the search for truth in the midst of the desert. I will, however, say that I think I can now understand it’s appeal.

One of the truly amazing things about taking the train from Ji’nan to Urumqi is watching the change of landscape. It’s not a subtle or gradual process. Rather, it is a jarring experience. The verdant countryside of East China doesn’t slowly give way to the sandy and expansive west. Or at least it doesn’t when you’re riding in an overnight train. Our first full day of riding the train took us through the familiar landscape of Eastern China: low fields, green with miscellaneous crops, and the occasional rolling hills in the distance. Pastoral, if it can be called that. By the time we were approaching the city of Zhengzhou in Henan Province at around sunset on the first day (roughly 1/4 of the way done) some signs of a change of landscape had slipped in: the soil was turning into the cakey, yellow loess that surrounds Xi’an, the gateway to China’s west. But, as dark fell, my surroundings still felt familiar.

First light the next morning revealed just how different our environs had become while we slept. No more trees. No more farmland. No more rolling hills. We awoke in the midst of a world full of rocky, parched ground and scrub grass. The gentle roll of the hills of East China had been replaced by vast flatness, except in the distance where low, sharp, rocky mountains rose. At the roughly halfway point of the journey, we had entered a completely different world.

The sight that greeted us after waking up on the train: The Gobi Desert.

Wide open space in the Hexi Corridor of Gansu Province.

"Desert Pastoral?": A herd of sheep grazing near the train tracks.

Yes, those are real (and possibly wild?) camels visible from the train window

As far as the eye can see, craters and rock. At times, it really felt like we might have been traveling across the surface of the moon.

Our new surrounding was none other than the legendary Gobi desert.  The change was beyond surprising. Any vestiges of familiarity had been removed from the landscape. It was clear that we were far, far away from home. Our exact location was in the middle of China’s Gansu province, in a place called the Hexi Corridor, a long stretch of open land between the Yellow River and the Tibetan Plateau which was formerly a crucial passage on the Silk Road. Basically, the Corridor is a huge basin dotted with many tiny oases which made it a passable route for traders to haul large quantities of goods from the west (Tibet, India, Persia, and even Greece) into the ancient Chinese capital at Xi’an. Wikipedia has a pretty great description of the landscape:

There are many fertile oases along the path. A strikingly inhospitable environment surrounds them: the vast expanse of the Gobi desert, the snow-capped Qilian Mountains to the south, the Beishan mountainous area, and the Alashan Plateau to the north.

Strikingly inhospitable is right. It’s very difficult to imagine this region sustaining any kind of life. Waking up to the craggy, rocky, barren expanse of the Gobi was a shock. It was also incredibly transfixing. I found myself staring endlessly out the window, soaking up every inch of the alien terrain. I’d never really been in a desert previously, and this was pretty amazing. As we progressed further west, the ground got even more sandy, the scrub grass gradually disappeared, and the mountains began to rise higher. Suddenly, we found ourselves in the midst of completely lifeless flat expanses ringed in by the enormous, towering mountains of the Qilian range (actually, at the time we had no idea what these mountains were called we just knew that they were HUGE). Mountains have always fascinated me (maybe it’s because I grew up near the Appalachian chain? Who knows?), and these peaks– part of the vast and towering network of mountains which form the Himalayas– proved no exception. Like most people in the face of stunning or magnificent natural landscapes, I could only gawk as the train continued to roll on.

As we got further west, the mountains became taller and snowcapped. These peaks are part of the Qilian range.

More snowcapped peaks in Western Gansu province.

Sunrise in the dunes: Morning near Urumqi

The western end of the Gobi: Asia's Painted Desert?

From that morning on, desert scenery was par for the course. This made for some pretty dramatic background scenery while riding the rails. To say the least, our travel periods were not boring. Often, in the midst of these vast expanses of nothingness, I was struck by just how isolated this part of the world is. Clusters of ranch-style houses would sporadically pop up along the landscape, and beside them shepherds tending to large flocks of sheep, or herds of cattle, yaks, or horses. How did these people get here? How did they find their way to this place in the middle of absolutely nowhere? Around the houses were the occasional low lying stone wall, closing in little squares of the desert, and marking them as belonging to one person or another. Passing them, I couldn’t help but wonder: What’s the point? Why put up fences all the way out here?

As we moved farther west, closer to the great spine of the Himalayas, the mountains grew taller and more magnificent. We took in the vistas provided by the Tarim Basin, the Tian Shan and Karakoram ranges. It was an amazing ride. Here’s a look at some of the best photos from the train:

The vies from the Tarim Basin near Kashgar.

In the Taklamakan Desert near Kashgar the desert became much more sandy.

These peaks are either part of the Tian Shan or Karakoram Chain that runs between Urumqi and Kashgar through the Tarim Basin. Either way, they're VERY tall.

Time to shake the dust off the blog again, I suppose. I got back from “Spring Break ‘10: Wild West China Edition,” last night VERY late. Unfortunately I was unable to update in real time during my trip like I hoped that I would be able to. So, as a result, all of my posts about my recent adventure will be retrospective… Luckily, I have plenty of stories and pictures to post and it’ll be a good read, I hope. In all it was a really exciting trip, and I can’t wait to share it with all of you… except that I have to. Just through the weekend. My return to Ji’nan means a return to classes and so I’ve got to get through a full weekend of teaching before I can really get down to sharing tales of far-flung adventures and epic train rides. So, just sit tight. Hopefully, by the time that Monday rolls around I’ll have some new stuff up. Until then, stay tuned…