We awoke as the sun was just beginning to spread grey light over Kashgar. We quickly showered and hopped on the bikes. Our first way point was the Kashgar Animal Market. It was located on the outskirts of town, so we wheeled hard through the golden sunrise and spiraling dust, stopping occasionally to scrutinize our already sweaty and melting map. We knew we were getting close when the traffic around us changed from bikes and taxis to three wheeled carts, piled high with cows, goats, and chickens, carts full of rope bridles drawn by donkeys, men on bicycle rickshaws transporting lengths of fencing and saddles, and the rich stench of a fearful beast.

We rounded a corner to find the market sprawling before us. We first turned off into the used motors and animal fencing section of the market for a bite to eat. We struggled to communicate with our waiter, a 14 year old boy, covered head to tow in blood spatters, who seemed completely baffled by our attempts to communicate. All but defeated we began to discuss leaving. Just then, he arrived back with a couple of steamed buns, covered in a sauce of vinegar and stewed vegetables. We stabbed our chopsticks in and ate hungrily. All around us, men covered in all manner of bloody filth ate similar dishes. Many of them seemed to have their steamed buns accompanied by a plat of oily lamb mush. And some gesticulation later, we too enjoyed this local combo. We payed our bill (80 cents) and climbed back on the bikes.

We rode past fellows welding and pressing metal into fencing, and children playing with the severed testicles of some beast. Soon we found ourselves in a giant open yard, which was quickly filling with persons in all manner of dress selling used vehicles. The space was sectioned off into trucks, cars, three-wheeled auto-rickshaw type things, and motorbikes. We found bicycles oddly abscent. And, disinterested with these motored wheels, we rode across the highway (now jammed with animals, trucks, oxcarts, people, and bicycles, and into the animal market.

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Attention: For maximum viewing pleasure, listen to this song while reading the post below.

Then we were wheeling. And, dear reader, Kashgar is a great city for wheeling. It felt good to move after being cooped in the sweaty train. We, however, had been deprived of electricity during that journey, and so we must regret to inform you, there is no GPS data for this first day of wheeling in Kashgar. But trust us, we wheeled hard. Our first stop was a local Uighur breakfast joint, where we got a bowl of pilaf, the standard Uiger breakfast dish, and a piece of nan.

The nang was hard and old. Thus continued our quest for the perfect nang. The lore described it as a delicacy, but we had as of yet only had the old hardened version. Nourished none the less we hit the road.

We stopped at a ridiculous public exercise park, with bizarre painted metal equipment, all in various states of disrepair, some with dangerous metal shards protruding. After a brief test of the machinery (I give it a C-), we wheeled by the location of tomorrow’s giant sunday market, past mosques and blocky soviet buildings, up the only hill in town. The road was lined with endless melon sellers. Each had a giant pile of the fruit, shaded with a mixture of beer umbrellas and rigged together tarps.

Over the hill, we wheeled on to visit a local Uighur housing development. It consisted of large concrete buildings, with playgrounds in between. Not bad at all, Kashgar. We stopped to pick up some water at a local shop, where they spoke no english and no chinese. The proprietor, who may be well described as a large  white guy, asked to take my bike for a test spin. He spoke in approving tones, riding around the road outside his shop, and lifting a foot off the ground, then dropping it. He approved of the bounce hight to noise ratio.

While our shop-keep administered tests to the cycle, other members of the community began to appear from the woodwork. Soon a crowd had formed. We gave then our business cards and a couple of asiawheeling stickers, though they could read none of it. Then the shop-keep began entering negotiations with your humble correspondents, wanting to purchase the bike. We were able to communicate that it was a rental. He asked how much we were paying, and sputtered in laughter. And with our bottles of water, tube of ridiculous toothpaste made in Dubai, and a tip of the Panama hat, we struck forth once again.

We continued to wheel through the expanse of Kashgar. It is not so large a city, and we traversed a good chunk of the downtown section. Everywhere we saw new chinese bank buildings and China mobile shops. And everywhere they were building.

The sun blazed, dust swirled, and women walked around in full muslim garb.

We entered an older part of town where the steel concrete buildings gave wat to mud structures. Stands sold wooden trinkets, nan, and a likely deadly yogurt and ice drink. The sellers of this drink had only 3 or 4 grubby cups, which sat on a wooden board spanning a central a central vat, in which a large and solid chunk of ice bobbed. From time to time they would dump the current cup and refill it and replace it on a wooden plank, hoping to entice people with the freshly sweating cups. Poeple would walk by, pay the man 10 cents, and drink a glass right there and then. A second later, the same glass was refilled and returned to the wooden plank, where it sweated with its brethren.

And the sun blazed. The people of Kashgar lazed in the shade of umbrellas, trees, or whatever they could find to break the sun. They played cards, mahjong, and chinese chess. The more we rode, the more be became certain that Kashgar was a very special and fascinating place. Also, coincidentally, it is a land of Panama hats and two wheeled vehicles. I cannot say that we fit right in. To be honest, everywhere that we rode, we were met with stares, pointing, and not uncommonly laughter, but something felt right about the place, and we seemed to make friends easily there. Bikes and mopeds easily outnumbered cars and trucks, and one did not have to look more than twice before finding an old Uiger fellow, raging along in a savage Panama hat and giant reflective sunglasses. So you, dear reader, will find it no big surprise, that we found ourselves at a stand which sold some of the most raging Panama hats conceivable by the human mind. While I have been quite happy with mine (credit must be given here to Marshall’s), Scott’s (hmm… Target) had proven all too prone to misshaping itself and proved a poor ventilator of the cranium. In short, Scott was in the market for a new one. And buy one he did. Submitted for your approval, Scott’s AsiaWheeling Panama Hat 2.0.

Exhausted from the wheel, we stopped back at the hotel and collapsed. Three or four bottles of water later, we headed to Altun Orda. The interior of the restaurant was even more baroque than the exterior. Everywhere we looked there were layers of hand made complexity: on the walls, the ceiling and the dishes off which we ate. We once again ordered way too much food. We simply asked the waiter for two of the finest vegetable dishes and two of the finest meat dishes. What came was a savage plate of sheep spine meat, 2 kabobs, a chopped lamb dish, a plate of marinated chickpeas, and some of the most succulent eggplant I have ever experienced. “And you want yoghurt right?”, the waiter said in Mandarin. Oh yeah we want yoghurt. Once again I was blown away by the intricate flavors of Uighur food. The yoghurt was a perfect accompaniment, served room temperature with a thick layer of yellow cream on top. We sat on the the third floor of the large restaurant. On the floor below us, a trio of Uighur instrumentalists raged on traditional instruments. After we were well beyond sated, we ventured down for a closer listen. The stuff was great. Much like what accompanies this post.

Once again bursting at the seams, we walked back to the hotel. Back at the Seman, we found a giant red tour bus full of germans. “Rondel Tours,” it said on the side. We wandered over to investigate further. The tour company, we found, offers savage tours through some 50 of the most fascinating parts of the word in a giant red bus. We sat down an were introduced to a couple of retirees: an airplane parts broker from Lufthansa and a film graphics producer. As the sun set, the two regaled us with tales of airplanes and german history until we all knew we had better retire. We had to wake bright and early the next day for more wheeling at the sunday market.

Nevada-like desert flew by outside the window of our hard sleeper on the N886 to Kahsgar. In the distance savage mountain ranges slowly drifted in the same direction. It was 1.5 hours to Kashgar and since there were no more stops (and as far as we could tell, no more human settlements) until that place, our conductor, a very official woman, collected out plastic re-boarding passes and returned our flimsy little paper tickets. In no time (well 1.5 hours) we were in Kashgar.

We exited the train, happy to move our legs again. The sun glared and Uighur language babbled slavically from the mouths around us. Kashgar station was large, but not too crowded. We found our man, Memet, nephew of our capable and affordable travel agent, Abdul, whom Scott had stumbled upon using wikitravel. His very unlike the stereotypical Chinese face grinned widely and he spoke in very good English. As we drove to the Seman hotel (or Bingwan as they say in China), he made small-talk and pointed out sites of interest, not the least of which was a ridiculously decorated Uyghur restaurant, with redundant inlay, czarist lighting, and an absurd amount of men chopping up lambs and roasting kabobs on smokey charcoal grill. “This is the best restaurant in Kashgar,” he said. We made mental note: Altun Orda.

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We rolled out of bed at the Cornfield Xinjiang etc. etc. hostel to find that the building’s pluming had backed up and our bathroom was full of a grey and reeking water. Crossing showers off the list, we packed our things and checked out. I still felt full from last night’s giant Uyghur feast, so we breakfasted lightly at the same divey restaurant around the corner from the hotel that we had visited the day before. Finally, Scott was able to have his Baotza, a meat stuffed steamed bun which for him had been a much romanticized, but unattained breakfast earlier on the trip.

We paused for a photo with the owners of the restaurant who had been hard at work, outside in the sun, chopping meat for kabobs. The younger one with the knife was enthusiastic. As you can see, his father still harbored some skepticism about these panama hatted foreigners.

Meanwhile in the taxi, in our attempt to communicate to the driver our wish to visit a super-market, we ended up at a giant fresh vegetable market, also sporting some 15 large cages filled with roosters. While enthralling, this was not exactly food we could take on the train. Our next attempt hit gold, though, and we were soon in the midst of the humongous Chinese shopping complex, with a huge market on the top floor, and Jetsons style moving walkways stretching diagonally from floor to floor. Our backpacks were, of course, to voluminous to put in the small locker provided there for shoppers. So, despite Mandarin protests from Scott’s end, one of us was forced to stay behind as the other shopped.

Scott volunteered to stay behind, as I had the greater experience in Asian groceries. And with a glance at my watch (10:35; our train left at 11:20) I dove into the fray. The selection was bewildering and the products nondescript. Many products simply showed healthy looking people on the front, with no hint at the contents. Sweating, and careening my cart around the calmly perusing Chinese, I threw things in with abandon. Stopping from time to time to remove some items, placing them in a haphazard stack on the nearest shelf.

In the end I checked out with:

2 tubs of instant noodles (darkish meat flavor)

1 package digestive biscuits (alpha brand with Xytol!)

2 cans of chinese stout (looking much like Beamish knock offs)

2 hunks of dried yak meat (good one, right?)

1 bottle of Nutri-Express (some kind of fruit/soymilk vitamin drink)

I paced in line, fumbled cash, and threw my pack on. We ran back down the Jetsons style inclined moving walkway. We got caught behind a woman struggling to hold her cart on the incline, and waited anxious and sweatily for the ride to end. Outside there was a fine cab driver waiting as if for us, and we thew our bags in the back. In no time we were running up the giant and quite endless stairs of the Urumqi train station and to our platform on the third floor. We had just found our cabin and thrown our stuff down when the train began to leave, first heading east towards Turpan (where the con artists had been arrested) then swinging around westward towards Kashgar.

Scott and I had the two bottom bunks of the 2nd class, or so called “hard sleeper,” the two top bunks were occupied by two pleasant, but un-talkative Chinese gentleman. One of these fellows did inform us that he was from Kashgar, and proceeded to spend a large amount of time scrutinizing our lonely planet phrase-book and muttering under his breath.

Chinese trains are nice. Unlike Indian trains, there are many many sleeping cars, and each is not too crowded. There is also a genuine dining car, with (I was quite astounded to learn) affordable prices. Every car has unlimited hot water, steaming forth from the rusty nozzle of a somewhat groady machine. I guess you could call it a samovar of types. And there was an unceasing flow of people using it to make primarily tea and instant noodles.

The desert raged by outside the window, looking quite a bit like mars, with the occasional oil drilling or refining site. As the ride continued, the landscape became more rocky and mountainous. After a few rounds of whist we headed to the dining car for a hot meal. While the scenery changed to something more like eastern Montana, then something like the deserts of the southwestern United States, we ate and watched the increasingly dramatic geology.

It was a meal of Uighur Chicken, Chinese cabbage, and a cold salad of spiced white things (we think they might have been raw potatoes). For 90 cents we got a bottle of non-alcholic, cool-ade-like wine, and felt like kings.

At one point the chef emerged from the kitchen and sat down at a table one down and across the isle from us. The burly fellow asked Scott in Chinese where we were from. When Scott said America, his face twisted into a terrible scowl and said no more to us. For the remainder of the meal, in fact, he would make a point of looking over and scowling most disapprovingly in our direction.

This is, I am quite glad to say, the first real encounter with such behavior that we have been as unfortunate to experience. I had, before the trip, wondered whether this would not be the norm. It is, after all, true that our fine nation has been abusing the rest of the world somewhat recklessly as of late. Also, though we obtained visas so far in advance that at that point there was no problem, we had been hearing rumors that even the Swiss were finding it difficult to get visas into China, what with the impending Olympics and the trouble in Tibet. I tried to shrug off the feeling, as our fine chef continued to press the point.

All was forgotten however, when we encountered a Russian speaking Swiss couple on an ornithological trip through Kirghistan and western China. They were most pleasant to speak to, and our short exchange in Russki Yisik gave me a harsh reminder of how poor my Russian has become. They did say that there were many Russian speakers in Kashgar. So perhaps I would get a chance to flex that old muscle a little more soon. If not then certainly on AsiaWheeling 2.0.

The scenery became greener as we began to follow a meandering river through a desert that was becoming jagged scrubby mountains. I could not shake the feeling that the land outside looked so much like America. If you had told me I was riding the Amtrak through Colorado, I might have believed you for a moment. Then the Chinese pop music would start up, and a woman would come by the door hawking instant noodles and mysterious pouches of pickled vegetables and.

We had been riding in the same car with a particularly audible Australian gentleman, also bound for Kashi (the Chinese way of saying Kashgar). He had been explaining many things to a young woman from that destination, a student of English. The topics ranged from genetics to world politics. Hearing spoken English reminded me how rare it has been on this to hear ambient English. I found it very hard not to eavesdrop.

We also we riding along with a number of other English speakers. A group of these returned,from the dining car just as I was waking from a nap, chattering loudly in somewhat of a fury. It seems the waitstaff in the dining car had produced one menu which had, I presume either pictures or English, and when they found nothing there to satisfy them, they waitstaff produced the Chinese menu, which had on it different prices (and perhaps for that matter, different dishes). This act provoked a screaming fight between the two parties, and in the end the English speaking crowd had come back to the car, empty stomached to find their English translator. I was just drifting back off for nap part II as they strode back, exclaiming, “now they’ll see I’ve got a friend who speaks Chinese.” Indeed, this might be a good time for me to restate how very grateful I am for Scott’s most capable Chinese. May his mustache grow ever longer.

We awoke a little after noon, and went forth to investigate the bikes that were offered for our rental by the hostel. At first glance they looked nice, with large frames, high seats, and even had gears. After we had ponied up our $1.20 each, we found the story to be sadly different. So the next hour was spent doing repairs: inflating tires, adjusting seats, bending breaks back into relative alignment, and lugging the massive things down a couple flights of stairs to the street. These cycles were on their last legs to be sure, but operational. They had no bell, but with proper abuse, they would at least stop on command.

Our first way point was the Industrial and Commercial Bank of China, where we were to perform a money transfer to the Tianjin Ferry company in order to pay for our tickets to South Korea. This proved to be a breeze, with the help of a security guard at the bank.

We had a quick but delightful breakfast at a Kazakh restaurant underneath the hostel. It consisted of oily hand pulled noodles and a couple of kabobs. And very good tea. Little did I know, we were entering a land which took tea to a whole new level.

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We strode off the plane into the dry, but warm desert night. Sand blew across the runway blurring our vision of the terminal beyond. We loaded into a bus with the rest of the plane, and I noticed for the first time how much lighter people’s skin was here.

At baggage claim we re-encountered an acquaintance we had made in the Chengdu airport. She was a charming woman, local to Urumqi, by the name of Nan-nan. We inquired of her where would be a good place to stay. And (low and behold!) the woman produced a variable library of hotel and hostel information that she just happened to be carrying along on the flight. With Nan-nan’s help we made contact with a hostel called the Xinjiang-Cornfield International Youth Hostel, who, low and behold, even spoke English.

With further aid from Nan-nan we found a bus which would bring us proximate to the hostel and established a deal with the woman who calls out the stops to call especially vehemently in our direction when ours came. We lounged and watched Chinese music videos and the giant flat-screen at the front of the bus and studied Urumqi out the window.

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I awoke after a rather unfitful sleep despite the comfortable confines of the Dragon Town Hostel. My guess at the culprit behind my poor resting was the most oily and spicy feast we had consumed the night before. While it had been quite delicious, it had consisted primarily of oil and chili peppers. Probably not a concoction which ushers in a peaceful night.

Despite the lack of rest, I felt good, and we struck out into the city, headed for the bike rental place which was associated with out hostel. We rented two very nice bikes from a the most pleasant and helpful staff of that establishment.

And on recommendation from the woman at the front desk there, we set off for a very local noodle shack.

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We paced outside the moderately sized, but very crowded domestic terminal of the Chengdu airport. I searched for our bags amidst the ordered chaos and Scott downloaded GPS data.

We had been told by the hostel to take bus 300 to the end of the line, but discovered it was nowhere to be found. After much garbled Chinese, and a call to the hostel, we just boarded the closest bus and after a long ride through traffic we were downtown.

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I awoke abruptly, torn from strange dreams of past travels, to find myself quite unexpectedly in a beautiful hotel room in Lijiang China. Scott was knocking on my door. Jie was to leave us this morning, and it was with a heavy heart that I pulled on my pants and exited the hotel. We went to a touristy restaurant which served us fried eggs and oatmeal. We talked about our families, and sipped Yunnan locally grown coffee, and all too soon it was time for us to say goodbye to Jie. This we did, and as her cab drove away Scott and I walked back to the hotel, excited about delving into china without the crutch of a fluent local, but also sad to leave behind the pleasant company and great deals on hotels.

The rest of the morning was spent by myself furiously working on correspondence, as Scott struggled to finish his capital markets online tutorial. An hour before we had to leave, Scott and I set off for the final stroll. We sipped yak yogurt as we climbed once more to the top of the old city, to pay our 2 RMB for a look out over the vast network of cobbled streets and arching tile.

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