Xi’an had a feel to it. I thought to myself as we flowed in the giant crowd towards the exit of the train station, “ok, now this is China.” The streets were still wet from recent rain, and the sun shown mildly. We climbed into a taxi and started the twenty minute drive from the historical cultural district, where the station is, to the new high tech district where Jie lives. It seems Xi’an may be the in the throws of a milk craze. Everywhere we went, I saw milk commercials, and instead of beer slogans emblazoned on the umbrellas of local shops and cafes… Puzzling.

The stone walls, and tiled, sloping roofs of the old section were quickly replaced by skyscrapers. And the skyscrapers simply didn’t end for the entire 20 minutes of driving. Xi’an simply has miles and miles of skyscrapers. And more are being built everywhere. Jie’s apartment building was no exception. She came down to meet us, and we rode up 40 floors to her apartment, which was large and new looking.

We showered the Dunhuang off and the three of us strolled to a local Si Chuan restaurant. We had some ragingly spicy fish, and a delightful assortment of cold vegetables. Then we took off towards bicycles. (more…)

Dunhaung gritted sand against it’s teeth and pried itself grayly from night into day. We followed suit and hustled out the door and into a taxi. Dunhuang had been something like Agra. Both cities proved great for wheeling, but were hampered by terrible rental cycles and a predatory tourist industry. Both are places blessed and cursed by their most beautiful assets. However, while Agra had been a dump, in any sense of the word you might wish to attribute, Dunhuang was clean and new. We could see crews cleaning and shining things as we drove out of town. But regardless, the same feeling pervaded the taxi as we left Dunhuang that had leaving Agra: thank god we’re moving on. We don’t do as well in the tourist spots here at AsiaWheeling. We just can’t properly express ourselves in such a climate. But now we were on out way to Xi’an. The current home of Gao Jie, chinese wheeling coordinator extraordinaire, and we were excited to have a local to guide us.

We arrived at Jaba’s palace just as our train was boarding and hoisted our belongings into our rather tiny middle bunks in the hard sleeper compartment. We splerped hot bowls of instant noodles, made from Chinese train-samovar water. Scott clutched his stomach and went to sleep. (more…)

We had, in the planning of this adventure, expected Dunhaung to be a mere whistle-stop on an obscure Chinese train-line. In fact, we suspected it was something like Tatueen (the desert planet from which Luke Skywalker appears in the original first star wars movie). Dunhaung appeared in only the most recent Chinese train documentation, and was not even listed in our overseas rail schedule. But in our assumption, we were, however, sourly mistaken. The Dunhaung train station towered outside our train car in gleaming blocks of sandstone and glass. It did, however, seem to take architectural queues primarily from star wars.  So we were correct on some level… We would not have been surprised to find Jaba the hut holding court inside, or if a storm trooper were to walk around the corner. (more…)

Our train to Dunhaung was a real hard sleeper. As we were to later discover, the hard sleeper we took to Kashgar was a bizarre variant. This was one open car, immaculately clean, lined with bunks, 3 layers high. Each bunk was short, and the higher bunks were narrow enough that the the metal bar protecting one from falling greatly hampered one’s ability to lay. But the color scheme was a refreshing white and lavender. And for some reason, the day in Kashgar had put us in such a fantastic mood, that we might as well have been staying at a giant rolling Ritz Carlton.

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Urumqi boiled in the morning sun, and we road around in a cab, searching for an internet cafe. An unsuccessful search for WiFi lead us far from the train station, and we eventually settled for one of the sprawling, and decidedly wired, World of Warcraft centers, which have spread across China like a hybrid between an opium den and a digital virus.

This particular place was decidedly unsuccessful in catering to our missions, allowing neither me to post to the blog (asiawheeling.com seemed for some reason blocked) or Scott to take his Capital Markets final exam (good one internet explorer 1.0).

So I slapped an AsiaWheeling sticker on their bathroom wall and we split. (more…)

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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We woke up early the morning of our departure from Kashgar, and walked down Seman road. Not far down, we found a crowded and very local restaurant, which unlike most places in the area, was bustling with activity. We walked in. There seemed to be no free tables, and the staff, speaking no English, just waved bowls of lamb chunks and pilaf at us, scattering bits of rice and belching in Uighur. We tried to communicate that, first of all, there was no place to sit, and secondly, that we would like to see the menu, so as to select perhaps something other than this most dubious looking pilaf, bowls of which they wielded with such abandon as to devalue it in it our eyes.

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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.

Sweaty and Exhausted from the Sunday Market, we stopped into a very local establishment, which we selected by the loud music and overflowing of its clientele. While we were ordering, a fight broke out between two of these persons. They began violently grabbing and pushing on each other, dodging dangerously close to the fine woman hard at work making lamb dumplings nearby. This fight was put to a stop when (what I can only assume was) the owner of the establishment appeared from the back, bellowing.

With the fight over, our view of the opposite wall was now clear. And on it we saw hanging a number of official documents, among which was the review from the chinese department of health. On it, a large green unhappy face glared back at us. A key below the frowning visage indicated that it was the least cleanly a restaurant could be and still stay open. In Kashgar. I, however, think that by this point on the journey, we had developed the iron stomachs of seasoned 3rd world adventurers. And, hoping this was indeed the case, we dug in.

Refreshed by some medium cleanly dumplings and hand pulled noodles, doused with an oily chilly sauce, which was quickly becoming my favorite part of Uighur dive restaurants. We remounted the cycles and began asking random pedestrians in giant fur hats where the musical instrument factory was.

A short while later we were riding down a street which was lined exclusively by hand made musical instrument shops. We chose one that looked especially explosive, and stepped inside. The propitiator was raging on one of the same instruments we had seen after dinner the night before. I set in to playing a little of everything he had in the store. Meanwhile scott visited the back, where he found the workshop and another instrument builder, sleeping on the floor.

After much hemming and hawing, we decided that the Rawap which the guy had been playing was the one, and we set into intense negotiations. Originally, the fellow was asking 1800 RMB. Fifteen minutes later we shook our hands over 1000 RMB for the instrument, a hard case, and a set of spare tuning pegs and strings. This was likely not a great deal, but not a rip-off either. We were after all, a couple of white guys in Panama hats.

The instrument was a beauty, covered with inlay of different woods. And the resonating cavity was covered with a large swath of snake skin. As soon as we had made the deal, the entire atmosphere of the joint changed. The guy started smiling. The napping fellow awoke, out came the cigarettes, and the two fellows grabbed instruments from the wall. They began smoking and playing and generally making merry. There was much laughing, exchanging of business cards and Scott and I were treated to a mini-performance.

We shook hands one last time and set back out on bikes.

At the giant central Kashgar China post office, we found that the customs master was not in on sundays and we had to come back the next day. So first thing the next morning, not long after the sun had begun heat up the streets, we arrived back at the post office. Outside, we stopped into a corner store and bought 10 packs of chinese cigarettes.

These, along with three Uighur cassette tapes from the Sunday Market, went into the case with the rawap.

Inside the post office, we travelled from table to table, and eventually upstairs in search of the customs master. In stark contrast to the hectic and noisy hubbub of the downstairs, the upstairs room was silent and empty. After a short time, a woman emerged from a nest of cubicals in the back and we were told the customs master was out to lunch. So we sat down with the rawap and started to deal whist. Before we had even dealt a hand, the woman came over and began to wildly gesticulate, yelling, and pointing us towards an adjacent door.

No one had come or gone our entire time in this upstairs room, but now, it seemed the customs master was back from lunch. We opened the door to find a small and intense man, sitting on a couch and staring into an abacus, which lay on the coffee table in front of him. He looked up at us and our rawap. “What is that?” he asked. “A rawap,” we replied. He looked puzzled. “A Uighur instrument,” Scott added in chinese. “Oh, ok, fine. You can go” We stood, looking puzzled. “Go, go.” We left… then returned. “Do we need some kind of a… er… receipt?” “No no no. Go.”

Back downstairs, we moved from counter to counter a little more and then, under the sign which translated itself into english for us as “Synthesize Service,” we finally were invited to open the rawap case. The woman at the counter began to take the cigarettes out one by one smelling them and scrutinizing them inches from her face. She let not a millimeter go un-scrutinized. But, slowly, each pack was accepted, and placed in a neat pile to the side. Until she reached a pack of “Pine” brand cigarettes. There was no Chinese on this pack. And she asked accusingly in chinese, “are these cigarettes?” sniffing the pack deeply. Then she took out the rawap. She plucked it suspiciously, and ran her hands over its long neck and snakeskin top. She shook it to see if anything was inside.

It was then that she saw the cassette tapes. She dropped the rawap like so many paper beer cups and began speaking animatedly. She gestured to her companion postal workers, and picked up the phone. In no time the customs officer was downstairs and snatched up the tapes. “Come with me,” he said to Scott and I. As we walked up the stairs. He asked very seriously “what else did you not tell me about? Do you have any books? Books, do you understand me? Are you sure?” It was now that we realized the problem. He was afraid we were transporting ideas, be they secret government intelligence, or some sort of cultural poison.

Back in his office, he removed a cloth from a large tape-set in the corner of the room. He took our tapes, on by one and put them in. He played them slow and fast, backwards and forwards, moving to different parts of the tape, listening closely. He frowned. The man obviously spoke no Uighur. He got on the horn, and a local woman was called into the office. She listened, and began to shimmy and snap her fingers. This seemed to be the signal he was looking for. And we were sent off.

Back at the counter, another couple, who we believe were from Holland, had a collection of instruments and souvenirs they were trying to send. As we went about repackaging the rawap, the tapes and cigarets, things began to heat up next-door. It seems that they were bumping up against some new rules regarding sending hollow items during the upcoming olympic window. Our woman, realizing that the rawap might be considered one of these and therefor also in breach of the rule, began to hustle us along. She removed five small boxes from under the counter, and we began to slide them one by one over the length of the rawap case, taping them together into one long box.

Things were moving faster and faster. Now the dutch were yelling, and Scott was called in to act as translator. I hurriedly rushed to fill out the form , apply extra tape, and decipher the shipping rates. Scott began to play both sides of the net, helping me and translating the odd phrase next door. I had to address the thing. Faster. Faster. Then there was no pens to be found anywhere. We scrabbled and clawed. Everyone started sweating and the yelling ramped another notch. Then there were pens everywhere, raining from the sky. The woman in front of me slapped a mailing sticker and a customs pass on the rigged boxes and then we were out in the open air of the street.

The sun was shining, people were perusing local shops and stands. All was well. Scott and I turned to each other. We whaled a savage high five and hopped on our cycles.

AsiaWheeling strikes again.