The drive to the station wasn't supposed to take so long, maybe ninety minutes. With the road under heavy construction it took closer to five hours, the vehicle rattling and vibrating violently every time we'd enter the earthen bypasses that ran parallel to the bits being repaved. At the end of the year it will all become moot anyway, with the extension of the Bullet Train to Dunhuang proper. The town, long synonymous for remoteness, is certain to undergo dramatic changes. I think of the quote that Donald Richie uses as an epigram for his Inland Sea:
"I hear they are building a bridge
To the island of Tsu.
Alas...
To what now shall I compare myself?"
But not just yet. The mounds of graves are scattered across the desert, Muslim, with the tell-tale poles stabbing at the dry air. There are also Bactrian camels, marshlands coming into color, and the 2000 year-old remains of a Han section of the wall, topped with ruined watchtowers.
We are moving into Xinjiang now, at close to 300 kph. The pre-boarding security check is extensive, and will be the first of many. Just after Hami, the first stop within the province, a trio of SWAT officers give a thorough check of our passports. In what will a repeating pattern, they at first assume LYL to be our guide, until our English guide steps forward. (He prefers that the two ethnic Chinese in our group pretend not to speak Mandarin, but there is no ignoring their obvious Han facial features.) Upon arrival in Turpan, we are pulled aside for a very time consuming check, with the assistance this time of our local Uighur guide. The pair of Canadians traveling with us are especially concerned, as two of their countrymen have just been convicted of spying in China, and now face the death penalty.
The guide decides that we'll eat near the station, since it is nearing 9 pm. The food takes a long time and isn't especially good, so I decide to wander off to the adjacent shop. One commonality seems to be the flak vest and riot gear piled near the corner of the shops (a commonality I'll soon find throughout the entire province.) Turpan is a grape growing region, and they imported winemaking over 2000 years before from the Romans (whose genetic descendants populated a now-vanished town not too far away), so I decide to buy a bottle to try later.
We begin our day at the ancient city of Jiaohe. On the drive out, I notice through the poplar trees a community of low, whitewashed buildings that remind me of the desert cities of Rajastan. Jiaohe has a surprisingly similar look, though now abandoned for close to 700 years. A small tram brings us closer to the site, startling a venomous snake cooling itself in a puddle of water formed from the runoff of a gardener watering not to far away.
We pass the morning wandering the ruins. There are a few other tourists around, but they seem to favor the central lane leading to a viewpoint. LYL and I in turn circle the old city along the perimeter, and generally have the place to ourselves. I've never felt this close to being an explorer, finally finding the isolation I've been seeking throughout the entire trip. The long straight lines cut between what had once been two-story structures, and the whole place reminds me of a bleached out Pompeii. The similarities end with the ruins of Buddhist temples, one of which still has a pair of headless Buddhas cut into small niches. We make it to the far end of town and its cluster of crumbling pagodas, before looping back to sit beneath a shaded trellis and cool ourselves with watermelon and ice cream.
Turpan was one of the places I was most looking forward to, but the way the day is structured disappoints somewhat, the sites we visit minor, and at a doddering pace that suggests we're killing time. Lunch is fun, in a lively little spot with a vibe like we've crashed a wedding reception. But afterward we drive 30km just to take a single photo of the Flaming Mountains, at the wrong time of day. We make a brief stop at the Emin Minaret, which is an admittedly impressive figure of ornate tilework, but the climb to the top is now forbidden, and the mosque which it punctuates has recently been secularized. And the final stop, and the old karez wells, is a joke. The photos and dioramas intrigue in their presentations of what looks like a series of aligned anthills crossing the landscape. But the location is overbuilt, of an false and packaged beauty, the subterranean canals lined with neon blue tubes more often seen in sci-fi films. The space allotted to jade shops is greater than the attraction itself, in what is probably the worst tourist trap I've ever visited. I am happy to get away.
We arrive at our restaurant to find it will open late. Luckily there is a park in the back, so we hang around awhile, polishing off the three bottles of wine that myself and two others have provided. It proves so awful that I can barely make it through a single cup. Luckily, dinner is better, but I limit myself to a few lamb kababs. This, and the ubiquitous pilaf, will show up at every meal from here forward.
It is a long drive through the dark to the nearest train station, though luckily there are no checkpoints, though the staff at the station will try to make up for it. The station is in a small dusty town whose features remain hidden in the dark, and we are forced to queue outside in a wind growing in fury. A gang of older Han try to push past us, and LYL does a pretty good Great Wall impression, loudly scolding them for their behavior. The chaos continues until we get inside to the crowded waiting room inside. Both our guides have been pulled aside by security, so I step into my guide role, rushing back to them to get our tickets, then have everyone settle in. I am anxious because the schedule board doesn't show the train that corresponds to our tickets. When our guide shows up, he tells me that no, not all of them appear. Naturally, another train to the same destination is leaving at a similar time (though with a different number), and despite what we've just been told, the guide suddenly hustles us aboard. A less than pleasant build up to a hot and uncomfortable passage.
On the turntable: Kimio Mizutani, "A Path through Haze"
No comments:
Post a Comment