Xinjiang
The fairy-tale scenery of the North of Pakistan should have been enough. My previous trip had opened up enormous trekking possibilities. The village of Passu made a wonderful base, but it was also tantalisingly close to the border with China. The knowledge that just round the corner was something very different and hardly touched by foreign backpackers was just too much of a temptation.
I approached the Chinese Embassy requesting a visa to visit Xinjiang, this being the far west province of China abutting Pakistan and connected via the Karakorum Highway.
‘Do you have an invite?’ came the reply.
After further questioning it became clear that I was not to become an honoured guest of the People’s Republic of China. I reassessed the position and a few weeks later I visited the Chinese Embassy in London again. This time with a slightly different approach, a lie.
‘I’m visiting Hong Kong and would like to spend a little time in Canton.’
At the time, Hong Kong was British territory and Canton, now known as Guangzhou, was just across the water. It was, and still is a special economic zone, which in those days meant it was ahead of the pack in opening up to foreigners. The visa was incomprehensible to me, but working on the assumption that it was simply a Chinese visa, I set out that summer for Pakistan. I knew full well that if I were to fail in my quest I could happily spend another summer in the north of Pakistan.
The journey was as on the previous trip but involved one interesting lesson. Feeling like a seasoned traveller on the Karakorum Highway, I joined others on the roof of the bus among the sacks and baggage, pleased at being able to stretch my legs. I was mindful of the perils of the overhead wires crossing the road, threatening to bring my trip to an abrupt end. Tucked down amongst the sacks and bags and aided by shouts from my fellow passengers I survived that obstacle. But as is so often the case, the challenge confronting me came from an unexpected quarter. Left on my own as others returned to the inside of the bus, I revelled in the scene of the sun going down with the roof to myself. The descending sun created glorious colours on the fields, the orchards, the bare rock and the snow covered peaks. But as the sun descended so too did the temperature. At altitude, with a thin atmosphere and no cloud cover it descends at an alarming rate. With no protection other than a t-shirt I was doomed to a miserable chilling until perilously dangling over the edge of the roof I managed to attract the attention of the driver. Another lesson in doing as the locals do.
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Arriving at the Pakistani border, the only problem encountered was the attention taken to my store of milk powder.
‘Eat it’, said the border guard.
It seemed an unreasonable request at the time, as my already parched mouth became caked with the white powder. Nevertheless, he seemed happy when I failed to convulse with a drug overdose, and the bus continued on its way with me still on board. From this episode I must assume that the major trade routes for opium are not entirely in a westerly direction.
It was some time before the Chinese side of the border was reached. The guards seemed a little confused when, vocally supported by the local Pakistani traders who made up the bulk of the bus, I presented my bona fide Chinese visa. To this day I do not know whether it was the chivying by my fellow passengers, the lack of clarity in the visa or just the young border guard’s fear of challenging that got my passport stamped.
The Pakistani bus ended its journey at the border and I continued in the back of an open truck to the first main town of Tashkurgan.
Fears that I might be rejected by the local hotels were unfounded and I was able to settle for the night in reasonable comfort. My journey then continued with a ride in a jeep all the way to Kashgar. This is a journey that needs revisiting. As so often, the modern artificial borders created by colonial powers, both past and more recent, have little respect for geography or ethnicity. The west to east journey both towards Kashgar and later beyond showed enormous ethnic diversity, with Tajiks, Uyghur, Kazakhs, Hui, Kyrgyz, Mongols, Han, and Russians all encountered along the route. At one point we stopped by a camel train. It was heading north out of China and into one of the 'stans', seemingly oblivious to the identity of the country ahead.
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The pictures that follow aim to give some flavour of the scenery and mix of peoples on the journey. The road had deteriorated after leaving Pakistan, no longer needing to be a showpiece.
The final picture in the series says much about the changes going on in this part of China, in particular the men. The old man still sports his felt hat, boots and quilted coat and trousers. The next generation wears. Chinese style ‘uniform’ with blue jacket and cloth hat. Finally the little boy is in trainers.
The city of Kashgar was, and to some extent still is, fabled among travellers. It did not disappoint. Despite being prepared for a more Turkish than Chinese ethnic mix, I was overwhelmed by the total domination, at least in number, by the Turkish language speaking Uygur. It quickly became clear to me that the relationship of China to Xinjiang was similar to the relationship of Britain to India during the 19th century. Han Chinese were significantly absent from the markets and streets of the town centre. ‘Turkishness’ was the dominant culture. It permeated all aspects of life from religion, with its mosques and minarets, its food in the form of bread and kebabs cooked on the street, and its traditional skills in such arts as metalwork and jewellery. It is only recently through visiting other countries on the silk route that I have become aware of the way traditions have spread along these ancient trading routes.
But from what I understand, this city has undergone considerable change since the time I visited. I hear travellers bemoaning the loss of the medieval streets, and Chinese, speaking of the regeneration of the city. These two contrasting stories are unlikely to be reconciled.
There are a number of more obvious sights to be seen in and around Kashgar, not least the Abakh Khoja Tomb. This is some five kilometers from the city. It is commonly known as Fragrant Lady's Tomb after one of the favourite concubines of Emperor Qian Long of the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911). Kashgar itself has the Id Kah Mosque, the largest mosque and centre of Islam in Xinjiang.
But rather than historic sights, my interests were concerned with the atmosphere, the people and how they live. The centre of the city seemed as if it had changed little for centuries. A maze of narrow streets, many descending into covered alleyways, housed tiny workshops, shops, bakeries and houses, often with lush green courtyards. It was all romantically attractive but on reflection could be seen as a city of hard dangerous labour and poor hygiene, contributing to a low life expectancy. (China claimed in 2009 that life expectancy in Xinjiang had doubled over the last 50 years)
