The Bandung train station was filled with bright sunlight, and we attracted quite a crowd as we unfolded our Speed TRs outside the main entrance. Children gathered in droves, causing the local police to shoo them away and maintain order, or so that they themselves could get a closer look.  During the next few days in Bandung, many, many local men were to approach us and compliment our bikes in a language we could not understand. In fact we were to engage in quite a number of lengthy conversations in which we would speak English, and the other party would speak Indonesian, or even a Sundanese dialect. While very few of the actual sentences could be translated, these conversations somehow moved forward. A very strange occurrence, this communication by willpower, but very powerful and the connection undeniable.

Riding the Speed TRs with our packs proved to be feasible, but we certainly had room for improvement. As we pedaled across the hot pavement of Bandung, we found ourselves to be less maneuverable, and at one point, on a brief uphill, my front wheel actually lifted from ground under the back-heavy weight distribution of the pack.

Riding with the packs also proved to make us a bit of a magnet for solicitation from the locals. As we rode, many people came up to us on motor-bikes and in cars and asked us questions in Indonesian, or broken English. “where are you from?” “good bicycle!” and “hello mister, where are you going?” formed the lion’s share of the English queries. All comments were posed with smiles and in a very unthreatening manner, though some of them certainly were bait for scams.

We rode on in search of a hotel, applying the old and relatively reliable Indian method of asking many people for directions and averaging the results. As the sun beat down onto our Panama hats, we began working our way through a list of possible spots, assembled for us by the illustrious Mr. Jackson Fu.

A Halal Hotel

Soon, a deep and gnawing hunger began to lay in and we became sweaty, thirsty, and exhausted. Traffic in Bandung was very thick, and locating hotels was becoming quite tiring.  The first place we had in mind seemed to no longer exist. So, though it was not the cleanest, cheapest, or most well lit place in the city, we decided to settle at the Hotel Patradissa, not far from the train station.

As Scott put it, the place was “totally halal.” With a giant back-lit, foil-embossed photo of the largest mosque in the world (in Mecca) playing a central role in the lobby, and a special prayer room, located, coincidentally right next to room 11 (ours). The entire establishment appeared to have been decorated thirty years ago by someone of my grandmother’s age, and never dusted.  The beds were soft and springy and the bathroom marginally terrifying.  The room had an odd funk of ripe jungle, but the common outdoor spaces were clean and filled with sunlight. The staff was uncompromisingly friendly and hospitable. Of course there was no beer for sale in the locked teakwood armoire that may have once stored prized crystal.

With our packs safely locked in the room, we took to the streets. Since our map of the city was not yet well developed, we headed back to the section where we had wheeled previously. We rode and rode, through thick smog and the racket of hundreds of poorly muffled engines, searching in vain for an eatery that looked as though it might not wreak havoc on our digestive systems. These seemed few and far between. We wheeled and wheeled, and the hunger began to clutch our reality, distorting our behaviors and clouding our judgment. The city streets were a choking mess of dusty motor-bike jams and inconveniently-placed truck deliveries.  Our blood sugar was bottoming out and both of us became singularly focused on acquiring calories without the accompaniment of deadly bacteria.  We continued to sweat.

Safety at Last

Eventually, we decided that a giant garment trading mall might contain a food court that might contain a sanitary restaurant, so we negotiated a parking spot for our cycles with a nearby lot attendant, chained the steeds to a load-bearing pole, and entered the fray.  We prayed that in this country where underwater torch-wielding scuba divers remove re-bar from bridge pylons to sell the iron, our beautiful pump-enabled seat-posts would not be stolen.

The mall was quite large, with seven or eight packed floors. Each floor contained hundreds of small stalls selling lengths of fabric, batik, and finished products like shirts and jeans. Like all malls, we thought, this one must have a food court atop it.  We took escalator after escalator, climbing skyward in search of sustenance. Finally we found the snaking hall of restaurants. This court contained a great number of stalls, many of them selling traditional Sundanese food, which looked delicious, but at least in our altered state, seemed too dangerous.  Cooked village chickens hung splayed from the rafters and purveyors called out to us to sample their dishes of dubious hygiene.  Quite a few of the vendors were burning charcoal, so the room was filled with a stifling and acrid smoke. Gripped now by hunger and wandering forlornly through crowds of shawled women, we finally arrived back where we had started. None of the places looked sanitary. And the smoke was beginning to cause our eyes to water.

We decided that the safest bet was noodles, due to the heavy use of very hot water in their production and we finally settled for one of the many stalls that looked marginally more sanitary, but still a gamble. The noodles were luscious; glorious; and refueling.  A pleasant surprise. As the sustenance entered our systems, we felt our entire reality morphing, becoming more manageable. We began to grin like fools, and even to laugh aloud.

We spent another hour or so strolling in the mall, investigating the textiles and manufactured oddities therein.

We returned to the exterior world to find it had rained quite hard during our time in the inside.

Outside the Mosque

The cycles were safe and sound, and we re-entered the traffic very much new men. We made our way back through the fuming traffic toward the city center, where there was a very large mosque, and a large grassy brutalist square. We paused there to relax and take in the scene. However, it was no more than five minutes later that we were joined by a small army of children, poking at our bikes, and calling out to us “hey mister” and “where are you going mister?”

One of the children had a large guitar, certainly longer than he was tall. Had he simply played an entire song for us I certainly would have given him a princely sum or 30 or 40 cents, but instead, he was unable to play more than a few chords, before his urges to touch us or our cycles overcame him, or he dissolved into bouts of uncontrollable giggling at the bizarre nature of the situation he found himself in. We were also joined by a number of high school- to college-age men and women, requesting photos with us and the cycles, one of whom presented us with her business card. Scott looked at the card, astonished. “You sell equity futures?” The pretty young school girl blushed, nodding her head.

The extremes of experience, indeed.

We bid our goodbyes to the small entourage of doughnut salesmen, wandering musicians, and curious children that had collected around us and hit the streets. An hour or so of wheeling later, the skies began to threaten rain again, so we made our way back to the hotel Patradissa.

Finally a Feast

Though our room was dank and musty, the common space of the hotel proved a glorious and luxurious space wherein to collect ourselves, and consult the WikiReader, in order to better acquaint ourselves with the town. While we were sitting, a Dutch couple arrived and looked at the Patradissa, then left in search of somewhere better. As the rain continued to fall, in sporadic bursts, we saw them reappear and finally purchase a room for the night at the our hotel. They had been traveling for some time, but had just arrived in Indonesia. We enjoyed chatting with them, and briefly entertained the idea of journeying up the volcano together the next day. We eventually came to our senses upon council from the illustrious Mr. Fu and decided wheeling was a better investment of our time.  After all, we were here to wheel.

As they retreated to rest inside, we climbed back on the cycles to explore the glistening streets of Bandung in search of more food.

As though transported there by divine providence, we found ourselves parking the bikes at a quaint and auspicious looking Sundanese place by the name of Dapur Ku.

Sundanese food is served in a kind of buffet hybrid style, which involves approaching a large bar that displays to the eater the full array of menu items, laid out in baskets lined with Banana leaves.

The eater then selects a number of these items, and they are brought back to life by a brief visit to the grill, the firer, or the steam bath, and presented at your table. We selected a number of glorious items: a grilled fish on a stick, chicken in a bamboo tube, fried tempe, a hot bean mush, and a variety of fresh cucumbers and cabbages. And proceeded to enjoy them all thoroughly. Sundanese food is spicy enough to wake up the taste receptors, while remaining manageable enough to experience a diversity of flavors without excessive cleansing of the pallet.

So, once again full and happy, we locked our cycles to a lamppost retired to a local cafe to compose this communiqué for you, dear reader.

Rain poured from the sky in Jakarta as Scott, Jackson, and I diligently worked on correspondence. As the sky began to clear, we loaded the cycles into the back of the Kijiang and headed toward south Jakarta.

We were scheduled to have lunch with a Dr. Sharon Eng, a musician and globetrotter, who had developed a relationship with Jackson during his time touring Asia playing the viola. The morning’s rain had caused the city to descend into madness and gridlock. As we drove, we saw large parts of the road had been completely submerged. And as we made our way into south Jakarta, the flooding grew worse, and the traffic ground to a stand still.

In desperation, we exited the Kijiang and began on foot across mud and crumbling pavement toward the restaurant.

We entered a building and were suddenly transported to somewhere outside of Salt Lake City. Inside was a jumble of very high-end home goods merchants, with fancy bamboo flooring, and many signs in English advertising the fact that all the products were made with organic materials and a portion of all sales went toward protecting Indonesian rain forest wood.  It was a diamond in the rough of Jakarta’s soaked streets.  Walking into the restaurant, we chose a table toward the back.

The clientele of this restaurant, Koi, were a curious and varied breed, but all clearly well moneyed.  To our left, two Dutch women, one of about 34 and one of about 59 had recently been been seated across the table from each other, sandwiching a young boy with curly blond hair.  After we were presented with the chalkboard menu, the younger of the two women with her hair pulled smartly back came over to inspect it.

At our adjacent table, sat two ethnic Indonesians in their mid-twenties sporting British accents and refined, considered clothing.  The man wore facial hair and had his new MacBook on the table, complete with a Supreme sticker featuring Kermit the Frog.  The woman, strikingly beautiful, wore hair down to her shoulders and a blue blouse with white lace trim and black slacks, which buttoned well above her waist.  At the corner near the door, five women in ornate Muslim headscarves and silk, cassock-like dresses picked at duck-confit salad served in a crispy, edible bowl.

The restaurant itself proved to be, while expensive by Jakartian standards, quite delicious. Dr. Eng arrived shortly after she had completed her own battle with the traffic. We found her to be a fascinating, intelligent, and quite friendly woman.  Conversation ranged from a recent orchestral trip across China she had participated in, specifically the rabble-rousing caused by the Polish members of the tour.

While shocked that Jackson, her cerebral and talented music student, had gone into banking, she excitedly discussed potential joint-ventures.  If you can’t beat em, join ’em.  Sharon, any time you decide you are interested in a position on the AsiaWheeling board of advisers, just let us know.

With full stomachs and minds freshly opened by quite a few cups of coffee and pleasant conversation, we unloaded the bikes from Jackson’s Kijiang and hit the road. South Jakarta certainly had a different feel to it. Smaller structures, and 1 1/2 lane roads. We snaked our way through the city, following Jackson’s bishop. As we rode, the sky began to once again darken and a strong wind began to shake the overhanging jungle trees. Jackson suggested a revision to the waypoint roster, but it was already too late. The skies opened, and we were quite suddenly wheeling through a torrential downpour. We called a waypoint at the most proximate small store, and hove to in order to wait out the rain.

Our shop turned out to be across the street from the Ministry of Education, and we had the pleasure of sharing the overhanging awning with a number of employees who had ducked out for clove cigarrettes. At their current rate of consumption, it seemed to us that the bureaucrats would need to duck out again for more kreteks before the rain had even ceased.  We took a gander at the modern little market’s inner workings and pondered its many offerings, wondering how many isles of rhino-branded flu cures, lethal insect “bombs,” and muscle-enhancing powders we would walk through before the deluge halted.

This turned out, however, to merely demonstrate our ignorance of Indonesian weather, for no sooner had Jackson purchased us a few startlingly sweet Indonesian yoghurt drinks, than the rain had stopped and we were once again tempted to wheel.

The next waypoint was a haircut joint. Both Scott and I were in need of a little tidy-up. Jackson recommended a place by the name of Pax. This was an old school Indonesian barber, and the fellows there were all about professionalism. For about four US dollars, Scott and I received top notch AsiaWheeling haircuts on the spot.

These easily eclipsed the Agra cuts from the pilot study in terms of style and precision.  Points were also scored for cleanliness, and avoiding the “Desert of Flesh” which can often be found extending behind the ears after an AsiaWheeling haircut.

Newly shorn, we commenced meandering our way back to the city center where Jackson’s parents waited to take us out to a farewell dinner.

The dinner took place, not surprisingly, at a local mall. The food was incredible, and Jackson’s parents, who have been so generous and warm to us, proved to be quite pleasant dinner companions as well.

We feasted on delicious Italian fare and drank from specially requested ebullient burgundy glasses with a wine brought from household’s private collection.  Below, a ravioli topped with crispy ham is served.

As the clock ticked closer and closer to the departure of our 9:10 AM train to Bandung, Jackson switched into overdrive. Having dropped his parents off back at the house, we piled into the micro-SUV and began a whirlwind tour of Jakartian nightlife, visiting no less than nine establishments in five few hours.  Considering the driving required in between each waypoint, and the traffic which ground the city to a halt, this was no small feat.  After a final nightcap, we lay down for a final brief yet fitful night of sleep at the household.

It certainly has been some time hasn’t it?

Last time we spoke, we had left your two intrepid explorers at the Incheon airport, in Korea, boarding separate flights into the unknown. Well, dear reader, much has happened since then. The unknown has blended with the known, and most importantly, AsiaWheeling has reconvened and is preparing for re-entry.

Yes, much has occurred.

• Scott has returned to the US
• AsiaWheeling.com has been redesigned (please let us know what you think in the comments)
• the 2008 content has been digitally remastered
• we have a new gallery
• we’ve formed a number of valuable partnerships
• we’ve hammered out the new itinerary
• the new and improved AsiaWheeling Board of High and Esteemed Advisors is gathered
• launch of the AsiaWheeling Executive Development Program
• and finally, I am pleased to announce, the first ticket of AsiaWheeling 2010 has been purchased, from San Francisco California to Jakarta Indonesia, setting our departure date quite firmly at Jan. 4th in the year of our lord, Barack Obama, two thousand and ten.

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It rained all the rest of the day in Seoul and we worked furiously on correspondence (as you can see by the date of this entry, we did not finish it all). But, as night fell, the rain ceased and a warm muggy night crept in on the city. Armed with a recommendation from one of the workers at this, our second hostel of the day, we set out upon the wet streets of Seoul. The fellow had drawn for us the characters for the name, and distinctive shape of this restaurant’s sign on the back of an old Yim’s house business card (dammit, Yim).

We initially had some problems finding the place, mostly because the skies opened once again and rain poured on the city, disorienting our searches. We huddled under a single umbrella and approached strangers showing them the card. Unbeknownst to us, we were presenting the character upside down, so each person we showed, took some time to discover what exactly these strange white guys wanted from them. Finally we asked a motorcycle delivery man. He pointed us in the right direction, and seeing the sign and slowly turning our now soaking wet Yim’s house card upside-down our spirits soared with success.

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Somewhere in the distance there was a phone ringing. I rolled around in the luxury of my bed, coaxing myself back towards slumber. I knew if I awoke now, there would be no returning to dreamland, and I was really digging dreamland. Or was the phone in dreamland? Where was I? Was I on a train? I think so, but I couldn’t quite place myself. What city was I in? Too many cities… Then that phone… who’s was that? The conductor must have some system in his little room. So they can communicate with other cars. And of course the higher ups, you know.

Then the door was opened and knocked on at the same time and Yim himself was standing in our hotel room at Yim’s house in Seoul, South Korea. I was suddenly quite awake, sprawled awkwardly in my underpants. Ann had left early to go teach children, or something noble like that. Scott was rolling around searching for up. I sat up and locked eyes with Yim. “The money, oh you want us to pay for the room. I’m sorry we didn’t do that last night…” I began. Yim interrupted: “You have violated the rules of Yim’s house! You have brought a third person into this room! You must leave now; check out by 12pm!” Then he was gone. He did not slam the door. Instead he just left it wide open.

We began to scramble around. it was 11:30 am and we had only retired some 5 hours ago. We scrambled to assemble ourselves. I didn’t know of this rule. Yim’s was so nice too. If only I could just return to the bed. I might be able to get back on that train. “Should we fight this battle?” Scott said from underneath a pillow. “Ah, I don’t have the energy. Lets just get the hell out of here.”

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Korean customs was easy. I was initially frightened by giant lines of people, until I realized that these were only those coming back with goods to declare. In fact, it seemed that we were the only ones on the boat who did not have something to declare, for that counter had no line. As a headed there, I was stopped twice by people in the giant line adjacent to me. A man called out to me over a large box with Giant Bicycle on the side. “Where are you from?” “The United States, I said” “Ah, you are very beautiful.” This was only this first of many such complements that I was to get in Korea. They came just as often from men as from women, and were essentially devoid of sexuality. In Korea, it seems, people just stop you to tell you you’re beautiful. Wow.

Armed with a fresh Korean Visa, elevated self esteem, and plenty of energy from our 27 hours on the boat, we stuck out for the train station. We asked for directions at a tourism counter, and found that they barely spoke English, suggesting few English speakers tour Seoul (at the very least from the Tian Ren ferry). But Scott’s ever developing Chinese was easily understood. We set off to find an ATM. This was no problem. We found, however, that the ATMs in Korea do not, in general, accept foreign cards. So we turned the last of our RMB and the remainder of our American dollars into Wan at a terrible rate, with the help of a tiny currency exchange shop on a side street.

We strolled the outskirts of Seoul. I was struck with how much the place looked like Welseley Massachusetts. The streets were lined with trees. It was mildly hilly and reasonably affluent. The restaurants, however, smelled much more interesting. Most had giant aquariums in front, displaying the many types of mollusk and bivalves to be had, freshly killed for you.

We found our way to the subway, picking up some fresh fruit smoothies from a delightful pair of old Korean women selling them in the station. The subway was clean and fast. The view from the window was great. And Korean women are astoundingly beautiful. We were in a great mood.

We got off at Jongno station and stepped out into a delightful futuristic city. We walked through the streets, enjoying the many new smells, now readily accessible in the clean air. The city seemed freshly scrubbed and affluent. Without too much difficulty we were able to find Yim’s guesthouse. The place was very nice and quite affordable. Our room had two beds, a private bath, and a hot water bubbler with tea and coffee, all bundled economically and minimalistically into a small building in a back alley. The alley was something like a Korean version of the hutongs we had experienced in Beijing but very clean, and much quieter.

We dropped our stuff down on the beds. We did not have enough cash to pay Yim, but he graciously gave us the room on credit, pending our discovery of an ATM which would cater to our foreign cards. Yim even had some (admittedly tiny) bicycles. We felt great about the place. We took off on a stroll. The sun was beginning to set and Scott was struggling to get in touch with a Mrs. Ann Kidder, fellow Brown alum living in Seoul. With this finally achieved, we set out to find sustenance before meeting up with Ann and some friends she had just met that night. It is a testament to how cool Seoul is that one can just meet people and spend the rest of the night with them, without that seeming sketchy, uncomfortable or dangerous. Good one Seoul.

We stumbled upon a fine looking very small and local restaurant where a group of men were eating a giant plate of raw red meat and garlic in the window. Great. We walked in. One of the men at the table came up to us and began to yell. “This Poke!” he said. Poke? We looked at each other. He began to gesticulate incoherently. “Poke! Poke!”

“So you’re closed? I’m so sorry to dest…” We were walking away when he turned us around with one giant arm. “Ah, pork!” This is a pork restaurant. Great. So we sat down. There was no menu to speak of. But each small round table held a charcoal grill in the center. And soon the same fellow who had gotten up from the table poured some red hot coals into ours. He then pulled this great steel elephant trunk device from the ceiling, which hung down and began to inhale the smoke from the coals.

We then proceeded to have a great meal. He brought out pork, all kinds of little side dishes, and bug chunks of lettuce. We used the lettuce to make little pork and side dish roll-ups. We ordered a bottle of Soju, the local booze, made from rice. It is about as alcoholic as schnapps, and is imbibed from little shot glasses. The table of men next to us were well into their 4th or 5th bottle of the stuff and they were quick to strike up a conversation. They quite forcefully began to engage us in broken bits of conversation in English Chinese and Japanese, and the volume level continued to rise. We drank some toasts with them. They let us try the plate of raw meat (it was amazing). And we yelled a lot. At one point, Scott and I were hunkered down, close to the table, with a Korean fellow opposite us. We glared at each other through the half full plate of raw meat. The Korean gentleman would grunt percussive bits of Korean at us, and we would grunt them back as loudly as we could. This call and response continued for some time. I was reminded, oddly enough, of our time in Varanasi, in which the Hindi holy-people had helped us to pray in call and response.

Then we looked at Scott’s watch. Mine, I am sorry to report, was stolen from me on the Tian Ren ferry. So let’s pause the story here to mourn the loss. Ah! I can barely contain myself… Ok. Pause now.

Back in Korea, we had to go meet Ann. So off we went, bidding our new friends farewell, and chalking that up as one of the greatest meals of our lives.

Ann took us across the city to the night club district. There we paid our 20 dollars and went down into a raging hip hop club, by the name of “Noise Basement.” It was indeed noisy and a basement. It was also raging. Hard. It was packed and people were freaking out on the dance-floor. Perhaps the freakiest of which, was our dear Mr. Norton. He transformed from a mild mannered adventure capitalist, into a savage beast, with a heart that pumps a digitally enhanced bass to every extremity, and which glands all over his body which emit an intoxicating vapor, spreading the transformation among those nearby. The switch had been switched. It could not be unswitched. The hip-hop had taken hold. We could only wait it out now.

So at 2:30 am we exited the club. Our ears rang, and we were famished. We took turns burning our mouths on spicy rice gluten balls soaked in boiling sauce. We were collecting ourselves in a 24 hour restaurant, when we began to realize a dilemma. With the subways and buses long stopped, and a group of some 8 or 10 people, we needed to get home. It was decided that those who lived very far away would be given some place to sleep at those who were closer. Ann lived very far away, and we offered one of the beds at Yim’s guesthouse. A rather expensive taxi ride later, we were fast asleep.

Tianjin greeted us with a deep smog that obscured our vision much worse even than Beijing had before it. We hopped in a cab and Scott attempted to communicate the the driver the location a hostel we had found on the internet. There had, however, been only a roman alphabet version of the name and the street, lacking any indication of the tones, so this took some time, as the two them tried on different tones and worked out the particulars. At one point, our fine driver even stopped the cab at a red light and just got out of the car, wandering over to question nearby drivers. The man was stellar. He joked with us, and looked something like the standard cross between Hunter S Thompson and Ghengis Khan, with a little Chuck Norris thrown in for flavor. Finally he had us on the right street and we peered through the smog until we’d spotted the place. One doesn’t tip in China. But this fellow was so great, we tipped him.

The hostel was clean and nice. The owners spoke good English, and they offered to arrange for a cab to the port for the next morning. They also rented bicycles. Really shitty bicycles. They took us out the back door and we peered at the sorry hunks of  rusting metal.

Tianjin is the city of rust.

The humid smog corrodes the exposed metal in the city so rapidly that it seems nothing gleams. And the sides of the buildings are streaked with a dried blood color, as rain dissolves rusted exterior components. Speaking of exterior components, if anyone can correctly identify this one, and state its purpose, we will gladly send you 10 free AsiaWheeling stickers.

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We rode 1st class, or so called “soft sleeper” back to Urumqi. This meant that we were given the special privilege of not having to wait in the train station, and allowed to amble around the outside of the train while they prepped it for its journey. We were not allowed actually board, however. Rather it seemed that we were allowed out first to watch the giant stream of people exiting the station, trundling all the goods they had acquired in Kashgar.

It seems that the main thing one pays for here is the dignified company, though the beds were perhaps a little softer, larger, and more comfortable. As the day burned on outside, we shared a stateroom with two Korean gentleman. One was the ex-CEO of Hyundai Motors and an ex-elected official (something roughly equivalent to mayor, I believe) of Seoul. The other was a Harvard man and a distinguished professor of Chinese philosophy.

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Our final day in Kashgar, we woke late and breakfasted at a nearby restaurant. For about 3 dollars a piece we  had steamed Uyghur dumplings and a stew made of pigeons. We ate this fine meal in a vine filled garden with a giant fountain in the center. As we ate, Scott and I tried to estimate how much it would cost to eat in such a place were we in Providence. The final verdict was 35 or 40 US dollars a plate. And the tea would not be nearly as delicious or as free.

Dealing with the rawap for Harrington took longer than planned and when we were done we were hungry for a last wheel through the city. So we took off. We did the full perimeter of Kashgar, noodling into Uyghur villages, and spending time on highways. At one point a fellow driving a three wheeled jeep-like thing transporting five stacked wheelbarrows pulled up to us. “Hello!” he called out. We get a lot of hellos. We’re a couple of ridiculous white guys in panama hats wheeling through Kashgar after all. But most of the time, hello is the only word that the sender of the message knows in English. So we return in with a tip of the panama hat and on we go. But this guy was yelling something else. At first we though it was Uighur. But he was yelling so vehemently, and it was not Chinese; Scott verified this. “Kashgar… something” Then we figured it out, He was saying, “Kashgar, let your dreams fly.” We squealed with joy, and Scott called a forward position.

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Our day at the Kashgar Sunday Market was amazing, but exhausting. And we were no small part famished by the time we had arrived back at the Hotel. We locked the cycles, and sat down at Sadik’s tavern, across from the Russian consulate. It seems this is the only place in Kashgar where the beer is served cold. And here it is served very cold. I have no doubt that Sadik himself has done the calculation to find the absolute coldest he may chill his brews, for they quickly grew frost as they sat on our table. Scott dealt the whist.

Much revived, we struck out to find a taxi driver who could take us to the garden restaurant which we had discovered earlier that morning on our ride back from the animal market. This proved to be no problem, and we were sure to get the cell phone number of the driver in case this restaurant was too far out to catch a cab when we had finished.

We stepped out of the cab and walked the long entrance way. The entire path had been covered in arching vines. The low-lying sun played delightfully through the foliage. We found the restaurant to be mostly deserted, save one large table around which 12 or so well dressed Han men were nibbling the end of dinner and toasting viciously. As we sat down and struggled to order, the men at the nearby table began ordering instruments. As Scott toiled to indicate to the waitress, who was very sweet but spoke only Uighur, that we just wanted her to choose for us, the nearby table burst into raucous song.

The waitress left and we walked across the expansive garden to the central kiosk/gazebo where we were to select our beverage (in addition to tea of course). We selected a goji-berry wine, but I feel I must pause the story here to relate to you my view of Kashgar tea: namely that it is the very best. At even the most dicey of restaurants (and may I assure you we went to some of the diciest), tea is included for free with the meal. Even if you just order a beer. And the tea is incredible. The tea leafs simply float in the pot, along with a cocktail of rose-hips, star anise, and lord know what else. This elixir, which is provided absolutely everywhere free of charge is so smooth and so rejuvenating as to convert a hardened coffee drinker such as myself into a tea chap in no time flat. It is drunk only from bowls. First a small splash is poured into the bowl and discarded to warm the vessel (this is done everywhere, even the diviest). Then endless cup after cup may be consumed. The refuse (tea leaves and spices) that accumulate in the bottom of the cup, may be discarded in buckets provided by the restaurant or simply onto the ground. This tea made me look twice at coffee. I am being honest with you; it is that good.

Back in Kashgar, at the garden restaurant, they had laid an extra layer of carpet (this one silk, rather than cotton) down for each of us, and we were enjoying tea, goji-berry wine, and finally, a soft and flaky loaf of nan. We chatted and digested the trip. Toasted to the many people who had helped us get to where we were at that point: Gao Jie, Manan Jalan, Scott’s parents, Kaustubh Shah, Joe Lacina, Banjamin Li, and Nikhil Kulkarni (to all of you, nothing but love). And, over the next 2 hours, a slow trickle of absolutely fantastic Uighur dishes arrived at our table.

As we were relaxing and picking our teeth, we noticed a convoy of taxis arriving at the restaurant. A number of ridiculously dressed characters began to exit these vehicles, toting traditional Uighur instruments. We inquired of the staff and discovered this was a troop of dancers and musicians and that they were about to perform in at some location deeper in the garden restaurant. After biding our time for some while, we were invited to see the show.

Night had now fallen in the garden restaurant and Kashgar’s many mosquitoes were out in full regalia. Unabated, we proceeded into the depths of the garden restaurant. We passed many more tables, showing evidence of dining, and indicating that the restaurant had served more guests (and was substantially more expansive) than we had previously thought.

We finally reached a large and elaborately carpeted gazebo-complex. This place was well lit and an absurd amount of waiters rushed to and fro with drinks, meats on spits, and pots of tea. A large group of well dressed Chinese men were feasting and drinking in the center at a long table. They sat only on one side, last supper style, and the table was stacked high with exotic Uighur dishes. We were given seats on the side of a large central stage, covered with these handmade Kyrgyztani felt carpets, called Shyrdakhs.

Then one of the most enchanting things of my life occurred. A dancing, singing, and traditional Uiguar instrument show began.

We watched, completely enthralled, as waiters brought us tea, and the men at the last supper table continued to toast. We clapped when they clapped. We yipped in pleasure when they yipped.

At the end of the show (which consisted of some 8 or 9 small acts of dance and music) we were invited onto the stage to dance with the ensemble and the men from the last supper. We and the last supper men danced ridiculously, as the trained dancers moved from person to person, performing very Slavic kicking dances, and pantomiming complements to our absurdly differing gyrations. Uighur music pounded from a shoddy PA, which cut in and out.

Finally, when the music stopped, it seemed it was time for us to go. So we did.

Scott asked of a server at this banquet as to the nature of the men at the last supper. It turns out they were business and government men from Urumqi. That is, big shots from the capital here to drink it up and observe the progress. We strolled back through the garden, and called our cab driver. While we waited for him to come, we watched the dancing troupe load all of there equipment and selves into 4 new cabs and leave. Just as our cab was arriving, a torrent of expensive black automobiles poured from the restaurant. We rode back the the hotel in silence, marveling at a deck which seemed, against all odds, to consist only of aces.