Kashgar, Xinjian: In the middle of life

“…cars are slowly moving forward in clouds of dust like tired feet stumbling across dry sand; the head of a camel with a disdainful stare and ruminating jaws towers high above the traffic; on the left a motor taxi crackles along the stalls.”

The autonomous province of Xinjiang is a remote region northwest of Tibet. It borders four Stans on the west (Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Pakistan) and Mongolia on the north. The cities in this immense province -China’s largest according to land size- are separated by large deserts from the China of the Han-Chinese. Xinjiang is, like Tibet, incomparably different from anything else in China. This is the land of lost camels, donkeys, horses, goats, sheep, pomegranates, naan-bread, kebab, chickpeas, raisins, dehydrated fruits and men with wild beards and tough faces molded by wind and weather.
As we arrive in the city it is twilight, but after half an hour, by the time we are at the night market it’s already dark. My bladder is calling and my “Ce suo zai nar?” (“Toilet is where?”) is answered with fingers pointing in different directions. It’s urgent and I am glad to see three men standing in front of a wall. But when I approach they suddenly bend over and kneel. What I thought to be a urinal seems to be a prayer wall. Shortly thereafter I finally find relief in a public toilet. In my hurry I almost stumble into the wide open gutter in front of it.
The night market is a small paradise: chunks of fish slide into the frying pan, lamb kebab roasts on fanned charcoal, chickens are turning brown in the restaurant windows, stacks of naan-bread lie around on wooden tables like thick yellow pancakes with burn spots, sugared lumps of hazelnut and sticky bars of sesame are chopped in thick slices. Across a small street in another part of the nocturnal market long carcasses hang on racks behind ingenious street furnaces. The furnaces are connected by aluminum piping forming small, laboratory-looking grilling factories. Back on the main square of the market in the spaces between the stalls, groups of squatting people swallow cooked eggs whole. The egg-eaters leave behind a floor of egg-shell grit. They have come from outside of the city on their periodic shopping quests, enjoying their home-cooked eggs after business is done. Because of their squatting it seems as if they are conspiring. But neither conspiracy nor stinginess are words that apply to them: everybody can eat along, so can I.
Across from the night market is the fifteenth century Id Kah Mosque. The next day, we visit it in the morning. Behind the beautiful brownish yellow façade lies a big garden. But at the end of October it’s bare and dry. At the back of the garden there is an immense prayer space.

Close to our hotel the city has a modern cosmopolitan look. At noon hundreds of elementary school students dressed in blue and white tracksuits are strolling along the sidewalk. On the other side of the broad boulevard Mao is standing 30 meters tall on his base, saluting Kashgar between flapping red flags. A wide square holds hotels, banks and a big department store.

No more than a kilometer from Mao saluting his countrymen, the pace of the city changes drastically. Traffic moves slower, roads are less comfortable and the dryness of the desert has snuck in. The main streets are still wide but what will not happen under the eye of Mao, happens here: an occasional donkey chart blends in at the roundabout between trucks and taxis. Along the streets large hotels and restaurants built by Islamic architectural standards have replaced the modern shops. Although the maintenance is less, the grandeur is not. Between the dusty main streets the old, car- and care-free city is hidden. It’s contagiously vivid. Now and then a woman with a thick dark piece of cloth over her head (not a burqa) is moving among the crowd. However, most women only wear scarves or leave their heads uncovered. The smell of baked bread is coming at us from all directions. Loaves of naan-bread baked in deep stone ovens in front of the houses are lying on tables. Locals flip them over and back to check for burn stains. Behind vegetable carts men are selling their goods. Although the streets are bustling, the atmosphere is relaxed and enjoyable.

This is the world of the Uighers, but their world also comes in many flavors. Besides classy restaurants and hotels built in authentic Islamic manner, night markets, beautiful squares and parks where Uighers play chess to kill time, there are also other less appealing areas. I mean appealing to the eye, because our hungry curious hearts eat it all. The famous Sunday market is located in such an area: a city of stalls built on dusty sand roads. Everything one can think of is for sale here. From shoelaces to living fish, from kebab to color tvs and dvds. But most of all it’s cloth that is sold. In all colors. Of all kinds. In all shapes. Cotton, silk, linen, scarves, burqas, sheets, carpets, tapestries, chadors, etc. etc. In front of the market cars are slowly moving forward in clouds of dust like tired feet stumbling across dry sand; the head of a camel with a disdainful stare and ruminating jaws towers high above the traffic; on the left a motor taxi crackles along the stalls. I am thinking but one thing: let’s get lost in this wilderness of stalls!