Friday, June 07, 2019

China Silk Road VIII: Tianchi



 I feel like I've been building up to this day for almost 30 years.  The initial idea of living in Japan would be the first stage in a long period on the road.  After spending a year or two in country, I'd go the long way home, back through Asia and Europe.  I fantasied about doing it all overland, and spent months at the old Pacific Travelers Bookstore in Santa Barbara, poring over their Lonely Planets and penning things in a little notebook, trying to figure out how. (I also once saw Pico Iyer speak there, and afterward he gave me a list of people to contact in Kyoto.  That list is long lost, but I presume a lot of names from my current community here would have been on it.)  I still have those notes, and one place in China stayed in mind:  Tianchi, or the Lake of Heaven. 

And the car was finally taking me there.  Part of the charm of Ürümqi is its modernity, the neon towers that wink at the high peaks that ring the city.  Sadly the road leading out to the east is pure industry.  Then we reach the mountains themselves, and the windows get rolled down to let in the scent of pine.  

Within the park we board a bus that wends up a twisting road that hugs a narrow river, passing small yurt villages as we go.  Here and there are waterfalls; here and there are pagodas.  Along the way, a bus conductress keeps up a rapid fire patter, as if trying to get it all in before we arrive forty minutes later.       It is a beautiful day at altitude, the expanse of the lake shiny in the sun.  We are tempted to climb higher, by ropeway up into the snows, but it feels right to simply stay here at 1900 meters, and follow the trails about.  We drop awhile to a waterfall that has gone dry this season, then loop back to the tourist viewing platform, from which we see plenty of tourists.  But they are easy to lose, and we keep our distance further along the lake.  

Bogda Peak stands at the lake's far end, and midway round is a Taoist temple that is supposed to be popular with Taiwanese tourists (who before today I hadn't known could visit the mainland).  Staring out towards it is a guy who looks like a Taoist wizard with flowing robes and long beard, sitting on a hill high above the water.  Through G's interpretation I find that he is on pilgrimage from Ninxia, and heading to the temple to train awhile.  

I move clockwise along the lake, across a series of planks that are miraculously attached to the rock cliffs.  Then it is a long steep slog to the steps of the temple proper.  LYL and G remain behind, and I have the place to myself, so sit and enjoy the quiet, watching the snow on the peaks melt in the warmth of the springtime sun.  I climb higher, to another temple hall further up, which nearly touches the ridgeline.  I imagine more trails extending along it, leading deeper into the park.  But I have to return, and nod to the wizard who has finally arrived.

After a quick lunch in a small lunch truck overstaffed by a dozen friendly and attractive young women, we again board the bus.  Most of the passengers sleep as we descend.  Outside is the same scenery as before, and what had been appealing and photoworthy on the way up has already been consumed. No need to pay attention anymore.  Such is travel in the social media age. 

 
Back in Ürümqi, we race to the Xinjiang Regional Museum, arriving not long before closing time.  The minority sections are interesting, with 3D representations of each of the region's many ethnic groups, but sadly there are no signs (in any language) telling who they are.  A local I suppose would know by costume and hairstyle.  The hair of the Beauty of Loulan too is impeccable, well-kept after 3000 years.  A photo of her reconstructed features shows her as olive-skinned, like a southern Italian.  Besides the mummies, the most impressive exhibit is the excavation work of a joint Chinese-Japanese team back in the 80s.  I could hardly imagine that in today's political climate.

We make one final stop, at the Erdaoqiao Market, which while rebuilt, is one of the best I've seen in China.  We wander the fruit stalls as our driver sits to play a traditional folk song on a fiddle.  It is lively at the end of the day, the market patronized mainly by locals.  (Tourists may come here, but they were nowhere to be seen.)  And our final use of yuan is at the Naan Museum, on a few of the many flatbreads for sale in the adjoining bakery

The breads accompany me the next day, as my flight heads east.  It is May Day, but the airports aren't too busy, most of the travelers on this holiday having gone the night before.  My stopover in Beijing brings me back to the modern world, with red wine and sports networks and international news.  The man referred to as the US president is mouthing something I can't make out, but with Mandarin interpretation. Probably something about new tariffs. His face, and the holiday, allows me to reflect on the parallels between him and Chairman Mao, two men of tall physical stature who seemed dead set on shaking things up, damn the consequence.  Maybe they ought to slap little red covers on the next edition of The Art of the Deal.

My Japan-bound flight is delayed, which allows me more time to ponder the similarities between the States and China.  I think mainly how all the news about the reeducation camps of the Uighur minority seems to have arisen in parallel with the worsen trade war, suggesting perhaps that news outlets are being encouraged to print anti-Chinese articles.  Not to say that these stories aren't true. But perhaps somewhere in the unreadable (to me) local papers that I pass on the way to my plane are stories of similar camps in the country of my birth, where immigrants are jailed in a similar desertified west.  We certainly live in interesting times.


On the turntable:  Love and Rockets, "Earth, Sun, Moon"

    

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