Kashgar 1

It was Saturday, April 10^th, and we were en route via plane to Urumqi. A Han man sitting next to me was going there for work, and taught me how to greet people in Uighur, the language and ethnicity most common in Xinjiang: “Yakshimsi”. Whereas in most of China, the population is about 90% Han and 10% the 56 minority nationalities recognized in China, in Xinjiang it’s about 90% Uighur and 10% other things, like Kyrgyz, Kazakh, and, of course, Han.

We weren’t staying in Urumqi, only connecting to another flight heading to Kashgar, the most inland city in the world. If you look at a political map, the northwestern tip of China is where it lies, nestled in Kazakhstan, Mongolia, and Russia. On the flight there, I talked briefly to a Han government official who happened to be my seat neighbor. In both his case and that of the last Han, they decided that my ability to ask for water from the stewardess was enough to maintain a conversation. To my credit, I managed, but barely. The official asked me how many characters I knew. I didn’t really know how to respond to that, so I guessed, 200? He scrunched his nose as if I’d just spit up, and I said, 300? Most of the time I just read my book. I hate talking on planes in my own language, much less in another.

At the airport, we met our tour guide in Kashgar, a Uighur man named Mamatjian. I’m not sure if it was all one word or not, but that’s what we called him. He was great, a very professional guide. We took a tour bus (our main mode of transportation throughout) to our residence for the next few nights: the Seman Hotel. The name in Chinese means colorful, which, while comically true, was not what we were snickering at. It used to be a Russian embassy, I don’t know why it still isn’t, and I’m not sure if the interior décor is original or revamped by the local fashion sense, but let me give you some words: Glitter. Pastels. Trees made out of drywall. Okay that’s enough. It was a trip. But also a great sleep and decent breakfast, so, hey.

The next day, April 11^th, we set out on the bus for Lake Karakul. To get there, we drove through the Taklimakan Desert, here with black gravel and brown mountains. We stopped at what seemed to be just a street, called Opal Township. This town seemed to have an economy based exclusively on goats. They were everywhere it was ridiculous. We wandered around a bit, eating delicious nan bread that we saw being taken off the inner wall of a massive dome oven. Everyone was indeed Uighur, though strangely enough, another tour bus stopped right behind us and when I returned to ours I talked to a couple of guys from Indiana. Apparently This street gets a lot of traffic.

We drove on and got to Lake Karakul. Upon exiting from the bus I peed behind an abandoned brick structure, which left me separated from the group, which was already walking toward the coast. As I walked to catch up, I caught the eye of a Uighur man, or possibly Kyrgyz, and walked past him. I was about 50 paces away from the group, not really in a rush to catch up, just enjoying the scenery and looking for cool rocks, when he came up and said hello. I said hello back, not expecting anyone to speak English out here, and he held out a bluish egg stone that shone orange when you put it to the light. I said it’s very nice and he put it in my hand. I didn’t really know how to react, as I hadn’t said anything about buying it, but neither had he. Nobody said anything about buying, and there was a rock in my hand. Was he giving it to me? I asked him. He smiled. I thought, “maybe?” But then he raised a hand, palm open, and said five. Now I understood, five hundred kuai, a little out of my price range, and I said no thank you, and tried to put the rock back in his hand. But he wouldn’t take it back, he simply pushed my hand away and said, “you like, you like, how much”. He wanted me to haggle. I HATE haggling. It just doesn’t fall in my skill set. I always end up feeling like I’ve been had, and I was not in the mood to be had on rocks. So I tried to politely walk away, but there appeared another man, standing where I wanted to walk, holding a scorpion buried in amber. He yelled, “hello! You like!” I tried to walk another way, but there was another man, holding out a bracelet of fragrant rocks. He rubbed them together, smelled them, and shoved them under my nose. I smelled them, it was nice. I was getting a little overwhelmed. I looked around and there were at least 6 or 7 of them, all trying to sell me rocks, yelling “hello! You like this!” I still had the egg stone in my hand and realized it was the only thing preventing my escape. I told him one hundred, and he nodded, and I gave him a bill and muscled my way out of the writhing rock monger mass and jogged to the group on the coast. I thought I was free. But they followed. And now they were bothering everyone. In a way, I was relieved, but I also felt a little guilty, as if I had brought sickness to the group while feeling getting healthier myself. But I had one or two men locked on me all the way back to the bus, and ended up buying far more rocks than I ever needed to buy.

So that caught me a little off guard, and now I had two pockets full of really nice rocks (they are really nice), and I thought, “that was a little unsettling”. I realized I actually paid way too much for the egg stone, and vowed not to look at it because it simply angered me. I hate hate hate haggling. It just puts a taint on the object when you’re no good at it. Then Darren said, “Okay! Onward to Lake Karakul!” I was a looking confused by that, because I thought we were already there, but was okay with a little more driving. God knows how many more stones I would have bought from those guys.

Leaving for the Silk Road

Hello again. I just got back from a 2-week trip over the Chinese portion of some of the Silk Road. There was a lot of Silk Road, let me tell you. But we’re not here for history. We’re here for me. So here’s the story, from the night before I left.

Actually, I’ll begin with the 2 weeks before leaving. Chongyang left for an entrance interview at Sichuan University in Chengdu (about a 13-hour train ride from here) which left me with a hotel room to myself. You know that feeling you get when you first stop living with your mom? Actually, it’s not when you stop living with your mom, but when you have your own place. My schedule rapidly changed to eating Merona cookies (from Mom, ironically) in bed while reading comics on my computer; taking sinfully long showers; remaining naked (this became wearing only boxers when the maids ruined that dream); playing music full volume and dancing; farting forcefully. I barely got out. I didn’t know the exact day CY was getting back, so as one week crept towards two I slowly readopted civilized habits in the room, and every time I came back from eating or class (honestly I think that was it) I held my breath, as if opening the door would catch a tripwire, and I’d just hear his weak little “nihao” and know it was all over. But the days floated on towards the Saturday of my departure, and a little part of me worried I wouldn’t see him before I left. A bigger part of me happily watched movies under the blankets while eating ramen. Then I got a text the day before I left, saying he’d be in that afternoon. It could not have been more perfect. I would get to see him, then there would be sleep which never poses the threat of unwanted interaction, and then I’d be leaving at 7 in the morning!

Around 6 pm there was a tiny, professional knock on the door. I opened it, feigned gleeful surprise, and let him in while patting him on the shoulder because I didn’t know what else to do. He showed me pictures from his trip, typical unsmiling portraits of him or his father or him and his father with a backdrop of something historic or natural. It was kind of cute. I guess. Then he left to go have dinner with a friend, and was gone for a good three hours. I noticed that he had left 2 Tsingdao beers on his desk. For a few seconds I just looked at them like a confused and cock-eyed dog who’s just had a bone placed in front of him. Then I got as excited as a schoolboy at the thought that CY might be having a beer with me. Honestly, what other purpose could there be? He never drinks I think because it interferes with his sole passions of reading and power walking and bothering me, so they couldn’t be both for him, and he didn’t take them to dinner, so they aren’t for friends, so what else could it be? What other logical, sensible course could my mind go than to think that he wants to have a beer with me? I run to another room where a bunch of Americans and Australians are (there is a large population of Australian college students with physical education majors in the hotel for some inexplicable reason) and say, “Guess what! Guess what! CY’s got two beers!” After quickly establishing to those who didn’t know that CY was my roommate and that we would be sharing the beers in a landmark moment of camaraderie and equality, I received congratulations in about the same volume as if I had won a free combo meal from a Burger King cup (Oh, savory croissan’wiches, how I miss thee).

CY marks his return from dinner by walking about 2 feet into the room (not our room, the Westerner room) and just standing there, looking at everybody. Didn’t bother me, though. This was big. This could change everything. I feel a little bit like I’m endorsing alcohol, maybe I am. There’s really something in having a beer with someone. It’s the letting down of the guard. The removing of the mask. Okay, maybe you need more than one beer for that, but I figured CY’s a small guy who never drinks, it could happen. But beyond that, it’s a marked moment that you share with someone, up until the end of the beer. You talk, you sip, you enjoy each other’s company at least as much as you enjoy the beer.  That’s a beer pact. Anyway, I go back with CY to the room, he tells me he was at dinner, I tell him I know, and then I re-notice the beers on his desk (maybe a little too quickly. I was excited!) and say something like, “Oh, you bought beer?” Then he excitedly gives me one and I excitedly receive it, and right as I open it (fatal mistake, should have waited), right as that first crack turns to fiss, he picks up his Nalgene and says “I will drink water.” I was shocked. He didn’t. I asked him, “You’re not going to drink the other beer?” And he said, “Meishi!”, which is basically the Chinese equivalent of “no prob!” or something. It’s CY’s favorite word.

So I’m crushed. I drink my sad lonely beer and finish packing up my stuff, asking him a question once or twice but mostly just silence. I wondered to myself what he was going to do with one beer. I figured that out the next morning. As I made last-minute checks and preparations, he grabbed the beer and offered it to me. I thought, “he can’t possibly be serious. It’s 6 in the morning. I’m going on an airplane. That beer has no purpose for me.” Also, “did he really buy me two beers? Who buys someone two beers?” Granted, he also bought me some vacuum-sealed tofu squares (nasty) and a package of beef jerky with white fuzzies all over it (unopened). So I said, “Bu yao! Bu yao! Shi ni de! Shi ni de!” (“Don’t want! Don’t want! Is yours! Is yours!”) To which I got “Meishi! Meishi! Meishi! Meishi!”, the beer and his hand inching closer and closer to my face, my already delicate morning temperament becoming more and more compromised, until I snake around him and say I’m getting on a plane, liquids aren’t allowed. Unfortunately, he was now between me and my backpack, so he simply stuck the beer in my water battle holder.

“Meishi!”

Against my protests, CY once again walks me to the bus. Even more awkward standing and staring as we waited for everyone to come down. As everyone got on, he pushed more tofu squares on everybody, and waved us off. I cracked open the beer as we got onto the main street because, well, I didn't want to waste it (just so you know one can of Chinese beer might get a Pekinese tipsy) to dubious stares, and said, “Blame Chongyang.”

Boy drives me to drink.