Happy on the Silk Road

As we were traveling, Galen danced around in various places throughout Western China, using the Pharrell William’s song Happy as his dancing music. Some of the shots are done in hotels, an abandoned banqueting hall, on the interstate when our bus got stopped for thirty minutes because the road between Urumqi and Turpan was inexplicably closed down. One of the shots is done just before we were detained by the People’s Armed Police in Subei, another shot is done in the desert near Dunhuang, near where the world’s oldest printed book was discovered. Some are even shot in Karakol, Kyrgyzstan and Almaty, Kazakhstan, places we have not gotten to yet on the blog. I was behind the camera, trying to hold it still as we walked through these places with people gawking at us.

I was skeptical of the whole thing at first, but we had a lot of fun filming it, and Galen has gotten it up on Youtube, so take a look at it:

The Green Lei Feng

Lei Feng was an interesting figure in Communist China’s historiography. In the 1960’s, after he was killed, his diaries were ‘discovered’ and he was turned into a propaganda hero who gave himself selflessly to the Party’s cause. Now, interestingly, he is being adapted for the new Party propaganda drive, environmentalism.

Condense the Low Carbon Power, Build Together the Chinese Dream, Fight for a Green, Low Carbon, "New Lei Feng"

“Condense the Low Carbon Power, Build Together the Chinese Dream, Fight for a Green, Low Carbon, “New Lei Feng””

This is what the old Lei Feng looked like:

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You’ll note that the new version is made out of green leaves.

Trust on the Karakurom Highway

The next morning, after that starry night, we hiked around the lake filming lambs and goats. We figured we had time to play around; the redneck Chinese truck driver had told us that he would probably be coming back sometime in the afternoon, so we cleaned our stuff out of the yurt and climbed back onto the highway around eleven, figuring we could try to pick up a ride without him, and, if nothing came, we could call him by noon and hitch back with him in the afternoon.

For half an hour, we stood on the starkly brown Karakorum Highway, the Pamirs white and rising above us. No one picked us up. A few cars passed us, but each shrugged us off as we tried to signal them that we wanted a ride.

Then, finally, a pickup truck slowed down. “Galen,” I hollered. “I think we’ve got a ride.”

But as the pickup pulled up, I noticed that the bed was full of junk and the cab full of passengers. The pickup’s window drew beside us, and I recognized our redneck driver from the day before.

Immediately, he began to yell at me. “I told you that you should call me, and I would save two seats for you if you wanted a ride back, but now, I’ve already left and I don’t have any space, and there is nothing I can do.”

I recognized that the situation was problematic, but I did not think that I had done anything wrong. He had told us he would probably be leaving in the afternoon. I did not have time to translate all this for Galen, so he could only look on and guess what was happening. As the driver was reprimanding me, I saw, from the corner of my eye, Galen disappear, but I did not have time to ask him where he was going.

“That’s it. I want to help you but I can’t trust you anymore,” the driver told me. “You have already proven I should not trust you. So now, you are going to have to trust me. If you want a ride, I can get you one. One of my buddies is waiting for passengers in Tashkurgan. I’ll give him a call and tell him to come down now and keep two seats for you. But you have to give me the money for those seats, because…how do I know you aren’t just going to take off with someone else if they come and pick you up.”

Just then, Galen ran up to me. “Lee, I think I’ve got a ride.”

“Hold on a second,” I interrupted the driver’s admonition, running to the station wagon that had pulled up behind us. I had been expecting severely limited English to have been exchanged between Galen and the car, and that I would iron out the rest of the deal, but I was pleasantly surprised to meet, Dan, from Michigan, in the station wagon’s passenger seat.

“You going to Kashgar?” he asked.

“Yea. How much for a ride?”

“He’s charging me 400,” Dan pointed to the driver “…so, how about you two pick up half of that?” Dan suggested.

“Sounds great.” I said, bouncing back to our redneck driver to tell him that we had found a ride.

“Alright,” the driver shrugged, zooming off while we piled our bags into the station wagon.

As we pushed out of the Pamirs, through the canyon and down into the desert plains surrounding Kashgar, I thought about what the driver had said. We had never not trusted him; we had simply learned to play the game. In China, you never put all your trust into anyone you did not know; why would we have fully depended on him?

This was to be our last hitchhiking trip in China, though it was neither our last trip in China nor our last time hitchhiking on this journey. Still, it was somehow fitting that on our last hitchhiking trip in this country where we could not trust anyone, a Chinese redneck gave us a lecture on trust, but an American gave us a ride.

Tashkurgan Photos

Here are some of the photos that I was not able to squeeze into the blog.

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Contemplation

Contemplation

Master at Work

Master at Work

Master at Work

Master at Work

Rain's a'coming.

Rain’s a’coming.

Looking

Looking

Crystal Clear Waters

Crystal Clear Waters

Crystal Clear Waters

Crystal Clear Waters

Look at Karakul Lake's Water. Clear as glass.

Look at Karakul Lake’s Water. Clear as glass.

Kyrgyz man with a traditional Kyrgyz hat

Kyrgyz man with a traditional Kyrgyz hat

Kyrgyz man with a traditional Kyrgyz hat

Kyrgyz man with a traditional Kyrgyz hat

Kyrgyz man with a traditional Kyrgyz hat

Kyrgyz man with a traditional Kyrgyz hat

Lee with French Climbers, Mutzagh Ata behind

Lee with French Climbers, Mutzagh Ata behind

Lee

Lee

Herding

Herding

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Karakul Lake – Volleyball at the Edge of the World

Volleyball at the Edge of the World

Volleyball at the Edge of the World

The Karakorum Highway

The Karakorum Highway

In the farthest West of China

In the farthest West of China

We were far off the beaten path now. Where we were, Karakul Lake, we were as close to Beirut as we were to Beijing. We were fifteen miles from Tajikistan, fifty from Afghanistan. Our driver dropped us off at the lakeside and told us that he would probably be coming back in the afternoon the next day, and that we should call him if we wanted a ride.

We were as close to Beirut as to Beijing

We were as close to Beirut as to Beijing

Karakul Lake is a small blue diamond perched in some of the highlands of the Pamir Mountains. The lake sits at about 12,000 feet above sea level. Beside it towers the massive 25,000 foot monster peak, Muztagh Ata, the forty-third tallest mountain in the world. In the distance, we could see a small tourist enclave with gift shops and tour bus parking, where you were charged for a ticket to see the lake that, if you just walked to where we were, you could see for free.

Karakul Lake with Muztagh Ata behind

Karakul Lake with Muztagh Ata behind

We avoided the touristy area and paid for a night and a meal in a lake-side yurt owned by some Kyrgyz shepherds. Once we dropped our bags in the yurt, we found a series of intertwined paths which herders used to circumnavigate the lake. Two boys in off-brand wind suits and tennis shoes, their batman hats turned to the side, bumped past us on a motorcycle, screeching “herrrro” as they passed. Several times, we were passed by shepherds, using their motorcycles to herd yaks, pulling up on either side of the yak to nudge them if they were going the wrong direction.

"Herrrro!"

“Herrrro!”

Motorcycle Herding

Motorcycle Herding

Herding had, until recently, been the only way to survive here. The high elevation would not support farming. Herd animals were scattered across the landscape: yaks, goats, dogs and sheep. The dogs had surprised me; Muslims generally do not like dogs, finding them to be unclean. When I asked some of the Kyrgyz about the dogs and Islam, they shrugged. They liked dogs and did not care about Islam’s hesitancy towards canines. Kyrgyz were laid back Muslims, drinking beer and owning dogs.

Herds with Mutzagh Ata in the background

Herds with Mutzagh Ata in the background

Hiking farther, we ran into some of the young shepherds who had passed us earlier. They had taken a break from herding to play volleyball. Their flocks of goats and sheep dappled the nearby hillside, gnawing on grass, the kids and lambs scuffling with each other on the rocks above the court. The volleyball court was nothing more than a rectangular plot of dirt bifurcated by a limp net. A motorcycle was parked at the court’s edge. Behind them arose a dozen gray yurts and dirt-brown hills. Looming over them all was Muztagh Ata, his white peak lost in the clouds. We joined the shepherds for half a game, playing a few points before they dispersed, needing to tend to their flocks.

Volleyball at the Edge of the World

Volleyball at the Edge of the World

Evening came quick and cold. The Kyrgyz who owned our yurt provided us with pilaf and tea, and we relaxed with some French and Dutch mountain climbers who had, earlier that day, returned from climbing Mutzagh Ata. The French climbers were hard-core. They were the type of mountain climbers that considered Mount Everest beneath them, too crowded, too touristy. One of them had summited three of the world’s fourteen peaks above 8,000 meters (26,000 feet). They told us that Mutzagh Ata, despite its height, was a fairly easy peak to summit. It required climbers to be fit, but they did not really need any technical training, since the mountain rises like a nice, sloping plane. This plane is so smooth that, after summiting, most people ski back down the Mutzgah Ata, making the world’s longest, greatest ski trail.

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We finished off dinner, and night came. Though the day had been warmish, the night was cold. We returned to our yurts and wrapped ourselves deep in the blankets provided.

In our yurt as the skies darkened

In our yurt as the skies darkened

 

Getting to Karakul Lake

In the farthest West of China

In the farthest West of China

The Karakorum Highway

The Karakorum Highway

After we found a driver, we milled around for half an hour, eating pilaf for lunch while we waited for the pick-up truck’s other passengers to gather. It was around eleven o’clock, Xinjiang Time, by the time we left. The redneck Chinese guy driving our pickup gathered several other drivers together, telling us we were going to be part of a convoy of pick-ups heading into the Pamirs.

Entering the Pamirs

Entering the Pamirs

Getting out of Kashgar was tough. As we discussed in an earlier post, an assassination had just occurred outside the Id Kah Mosque, and the city was being sealed off in order to catch anyone involved with the murder. Our drivers spent twenty minutes circling around small villages in the suburbs of Kashgar, probing for a way to get through the security cordon that had encircled the city. Each of the convoy’s drivers used their cellphones as if they were c.b. radios, calling back to one another with their positions and the positions of the police checkpoints.

Our Pickup

Our Pickup

Eventually, each of the pick-ups in the convoy failed to be able to get out, so our driver, along with the rest, gave up, and just went into a checkpoint. Waiting at the checkpoint cost us twenty minutes as we crawled towards the men in fatigues and helmets. At the checkpoint, all passengers had to get out and walk into an inspection booth with a metal detector and an ID check. The truck and driver were inspected separately.

For us, the inspection was little more than a glance at our passport. Han Chinese had to have their IDs scanned but otherwise, they were also mostly waved through. Uighurs, however, were more thoroughly inspected, some of them being interrogated.

Scrub Desert Uighur Village

Scrub Desert Uighur Village

After that checkpoint, our convoy regrouped outside at a tree-lined canal outside a small, yellow-brown Uighur village. When all four of the trucks in our convoy came together, we took off once again. Now, it was time for the real journey.

 

Red Canyons at the Journey's Begininng

Red Canyons at the Journey’s Beginning

The road we were on is called the Karakorum Highway. It is the world’s highest international highway, leading from Kashgar, China to Gilgit, Pakistan. This is the roof of the world, and the terrain along this route is some of the wildest that China has to offer. First, we zoomed past scrub desert villages until we reached the mouth of a red canyon. The canyon was being torn apart by construction. Looking on, I assumed that, in a decade, construction will have completely destroyed the canyon.

 

Construction

Construction

The first red canyon led to more canyons, growing deeper in color with each one. Ahead, our driver saw dark, gray clouds, so he pulled off the side of the road to fix a tarp over our luggage in the bed of the truck.

 

Loading the Truck

Loading the Truck

Up until then, Galen had been hanging out of the back driver’s side window, taking the photos that you see. Our driver, humoring him, gave him the front passenger’s seat, so that he had more room to work his magic. I think the driver was tickled to have two foreigners riding with him, as long as we did not interfere with him making his money.

The Valley

The Valley

Farther up, we had to pass through another checkpoint. A tiny town, nothing more than a handful of stores scraped together around a military guard-tower. Again, we showed them our passports. Here, the guards examined them more closely, but they, too, waved us on. Apparently, foreigners are allowed here, but Chinese have to get a special pass to go past this point, into the border zone. While waiting for our fellow passengers to get through the exam, we bought a milk tea and some nan bread. A jeep pulled up to the guard’s camp, just beside where the passports were examined. Several men saluted him and, for a minute, business stopped as the officer entered the camp.

Selling Nan at the Checkpoint

Selling Nan at the Checkpoint

From this checkpoint, we moved deeper into the Pamir Mountains, white-capped peaks and snow-fed lakes. Soon, we were in one of the most forlorn corners of the planet.

Into the most forlorn corners of the planet

Into the most forlorn corners of the planet

Construction

Construction

Village Housing Construction Workers

Village Housing Construction Workers

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Negotiating a Ride to Tashkurgan

Kashgar

Kashgar

We were trying to leave Kashgar for a lake on the Karakorum Highway, the world’s highest international highway, where we would camp out at Karakul Lake, just sixty miles from the town of Tashkurgan. Not sure where we could hitchhike from, we had originally wanted to take a bus there and hitchhike back. I went to the bus station a little before eight in the morning, Xinjiang time, to get two tickets to Karakul Lake or Tashkurgan.

When I asked at what time the bus to Tashkurgan was, the woman at the bus stations ticket window replied to me with a simple, English, “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘No’?” I asked in Chinese.

“No.” She responded. Apparently, she only knew a single English word, and she thought the best strategy for explaining the problem to a foreigner was to stick with this one word.

“I don’t understand you. Speak Chinese, please,” I said, getting pushy with her.

After several seconds of consideration, she explained to me in decent but halting Mandarin that “All tickets today sold.”

I began to panic. “Sold? But tickets can only be bought the day of. How could they only be sold, it’s only eight in the morning?”

She shrugged. “Tomorrow, come earlier.”

“Tomorrow? Is there no other bus station with tickets going to Tashkurgan today?” I asked

The woman at the ticket counter gave me a variety of answers, some contradicting others. Based off of what she told me, I guessed that there might be another place where we could get to Tashkurgan, though it probably would not be a bus.

Outside the station, a line of men were selling rides in vans to a variety of towns. I approached him. “Are there any vans going to Tashkurgan?”

He shook his head, “No,” but told me the name of a location where I could find vans to Tashkurgan. But I had no idea where this location was. I asked him to write down the name of the place. Instead, he took me to a cab waiting outside the station and told the driver where I wanted to go.

Unfortunately, the cab driver was Uighur, and he only barely spoke Mandarin. He nodded when the man told him where to go, but, after turning on his engine, he looked back at me and asked, in his only basic Mandarin, “Where you go?”

I rolled my eyes and waved the man who knew the place back over. Again, the man explained the name of the place to my driver and where it was. My driver nodded again and took off. Still not sure if he really knew where to go or if he was again bsing, I asked the cabbie if this place was far from here. Not answering me, he laughed.

We drove past Kashgar’s old town, farther outside the city center than I had ever been, yet still, the cab ride was only $1.10USD. I was dropped off at a parking lot in a suburban area of Kashgar. Behind the parking lot were some new apartments and a long line of restaurants and convenience stores. Nearby was an office which handled many of the affairs of Tashkurgan County. The place was so remote that many of the bureaucrats who managed the county worked and lived down here in Kashgar, only going up to Tashkurgan when business required.

The place is so remote that few major suppliers serviced Tashkurgan. The roads, the elevations and the distances made it too difficult for most semi-trucks to make it up to the town. The only people willing to supply Tashkurgan were a fleet of private pickup trucks driven by Chinese rednecks, loading up their beds down with supplies and filling up their cabs up with four passengers. They gathered outside this Tashkurgan Affairs Office, waiting goods and people to haul up to Tashkurgan.

At first, I talked to a man with a van taking a group of people up. He had only one space, for 100 r.m.b. and he wanted to leave soon. That was no use to me as I had neither my bags nor my Galen, and the two of us would not both fit. I left the van, returning to the hotel. We packed up, storing much of our gear in the hotel, and checked out.

When I returned to the Tashkurgan Affairs Office, the van had disappeared. The only person willing to take us up was a pickup truck driver, a Uighur, and he would only do it for two hundred r.m.b. per person, $60USD for the two of us. I was not willing to pay that much, and the Uighur was not willing to negotiate. One thing this trip has taught me is that Han Chinese are great in business in part because they are always willing to negotiate, even when Uighurs or Tibetans or Kazakhs are not; it is one of the many things I admire about the Chinese.

Other pickup drivers were milling around, so I asked each of them but they all told me they were not willing to take us, because we were foreigners. They could not or did not explain why, other than to say that things would be more difficult for them if we were not Chinese passport holders.

Finally, I found a driver hanging out in a restaurant. His truck was loaded with a sign for a China Meteorological station, and his cab had several people milling about inside.

Our Pickup

Our Pickup

“You a pickup driver?” I asked.

“Yeah?” He looked at me.

“Do you have space for me and my friend?” I asked.

“No foreigners.” He said, digging back into his noodles. “There is a checkpoint outside of Tashkurgan. It is too much trouble to get foreigners through that checkpoint.”

“We just want to go to Karakul Lake, not Tashkurgan.” I told him.

He contemplated my proposal. “Sure. 150 r.m.b. per person.” Galen and I agreed, throwing our stuff into the bed of his pickup, along with other random junk he was transporting including a four-foot tall sign for the China Meterological Administration.

When we pulled out of the parking lot, the Uighur who would not negotiate the seat price was still standing around, his passengers growing increasingly impatient.

The Truck that took us up to Karakul Lake

The Truck that took us up to Karakul Lake