April 25 - May 25 2005 / China: The New, The Old
The Yangtze, Beijing, Xian--and the Far, Far West
Part 5 - Uighur Markets, and Wending Our Way To Home
We are leaving today to go back to Urumqi, so I get up, go to breakfast (at which I have a small cup of my own precious coffee and a piece of bread with some of my precious peanut butter), and then to Bob's lecture on religions. But I feel very shaky and weak and stay home while they all go to see the ruins of some place. There is to be a trip to a market later, before lunch and the airport, and I need to be at least able to do these.
I have slept an enormous amount in the last 36 hours, and I think the antibiotic is giving me dreams, for l have had many short vivid ones, which stayed with me for a long time.
Bob says that when he arrived yesterday, he soon received a phone call in his room, "mister, do you want a woman?" He says the Chinese are very direct about such things.
I am definitely ready for home.
After they all get back from the ruins visit, it is time to leave the hotel. I still feel extremely shaky, but there's nothing for it. We drive a bit to the edge of the "old city" where there is a Friday market, at which we have abut an hour to wander around. These are my favorite things. There are so many sights of which to make pictures, and so many objects and customs to see and wonder at. Here is the egg area, where they not only sell whole eggs by the piece, but also shelled, in a bowl; a young woman carefully carries her bowl with four egg yolks and whites. Then of course comes the chicken, duck, goose and pigeon part, and here are people, mostly men and youngish men with either individual birds under their arms, or a couple, or some in bags, or pigeons in cages. There is a big crowd, and other men are examining the birds. Parida has told us that there is a lot of barter here, and that's a bit what this looks like.
There is the truly revolting meat market, which gives off a stench which is literally sickening; I don't take pictures here. There are bowls and bags of raisins, beautiful spices, herbs which I do not know, grains, nuts including almonds, peanuts and walnuts in the shell, dates, other kinds of dried fruits. At an especially large and varied display of such things, a young boy calls, hopefully, "Hello!" at us and I wave and answer. He is delighted and runs to tell one of his buddies. His mother stands by, smiling. I gesture picture? And he nods, and after I've taken it, he runs after me, helloing until I turn around, and gestures at the camera. I show him the picture and he seems pleased.
There are displays of pretty breads. Under the bridge there are donkeys and horses, and a large array of baskets. I see some young women down there, taking their ease among the animals, on the flat carts on which they have arrived.
To one side there are little setups selling food ready to eat, most of which I don't know what it is.
Then there are the household things: gleaming aluminum pans of every size and many shapes, some copper pots, some big enamel pans, and some enormous rubber or plastic ones. There are tables with cosmetic sorts of things, probably shampoo or lotion or whatever, and the large rounded pyramids of laundry soap. The string hammock man with his wares around his neck.
There's clothing for men and women. Some nice white shirts and polo shirts and trousers and shoes for the men, and light tops for the women, but the biggest crowd is around the table with the glitzy tops, I notice. In fact, very many of the women are wearing glitzy stuff, with sequins and gold and glitter. They look great, and they photograph well, too. Nearly all the men wear the close-fitting hats with embroidery, and dark trousers and white shirts, and often jackets.
We went into the bookstore, where I pick up a geography text book, and there we are, the USA! There's a biology book too, and a chemistry book. The pictures are tiny black line drawings, but it's enough to see what they are.
People arrive here by many means: donkey carts (some in family group and some for a fee), bicycles, motorcycles, motorcycles, and buses.
The people mostly do not look at us, but once in a while a teenage girl checks me out, or a teenage or younger boy. They are curious and are able to show their curiosity. The older people are more intent on their shopping or selling to pay much attention.
I feel surprisingly confident, walking around looking and making pictures. A couple of times I shoot from the hip, inconspicuously, and manage to capture the images I want: a very old man (perhaps) with a long beard, a woman begging, her face completely veiled, a group playing cards.
So then to the dreaded lunch, but I've brought another little peanut butter, and I eat that and drink a bunch of Coke, and feel better. And here I am on the plane, flying over the snowy mountains, back to Urumqi where we are to stay in what is billed as the excellent Holiday Inn. Gee, don’t we have a frequent stayers’ card for them??
Kashgar
The Urumqi Holiday Inn turned out to be somewhat less than expected; there is a buffet for dinner but the "western" food is of course prepared by people unclear on the concept. I long for mashed potatoes and frozen peas, among other delights. Of course everything is highly spiced, and I am sure now that I think of it that that is for preservation. It has also finally occurred to me--a bit late--that of course all the meat that we are served comes from the same source as the meat we see hanging from hooks out in the street markets. I am afraid that one of the limiting factors for me in considering the ex-pat life is the food.
Boarding the flight to Kashgar gives me a terrible shock that leaves me weak in the knees: when our group gets on the plane and walks down the aisle, on either side are nothing but Arabic men, some in full dress, others in Western. Since 9/11 of course we have been conditioned to associate the combination of these men and airplanes with terror and death. I am sure my expression gives my feelings away, and i see some of them laugh. I hate feeling this way about an entire group of people, but I can't help myself. One of our group jokes, well, you're probably safer here than anywhere. I guess. Seems the flight goes on to Islamabad, and they are all on their haj, their pilgrimage to Mecca.
We cross snowy mountains and desert on the other side, and then the oasis of Kashgar, the farthest we get from China proper, and nearly to Kyrgyzstan, only I think 200 km. The landscape below is neatly criss-crossed with lines of poplar trees and herringbone patterns of fields.
The hotel is in a courtyard with the old Russian embassy building, which we had been told but which I had forgotten, and when we pulled in past that little yellow building, I said to myself, boy, that looks like Russia, and sure enough.
A lackluster group of young men and women in ersatz local costume give us a welcome dance in front, and we go in. A gaggle of young persons manning the two shops rouse themselves and hello us.
The hotel itself is, like so very much here, veneer over a mishmash of decrepitude. Our hallway is pitch dark but once we get into the room, we find a nice clean bed, and the ornate white plaster decoration that covers the walls and ceiling is delightful. We look out onto the courtyard with its trees and plaster animals on the grass amid the white pigeons.
There's a lunch of sorts--I am getting heartily sick of the food and am down pretty much to bread in the morning and veggies otherwise, although even they taste like mutton fat.
Then it's off with our city guide, Jusef (another one of these hotshot operator hustler types, with excellent English) to tour a bit around the city. We pass by an enormous statue of Mao, and Jusef tells us it's one of two left in the country. He tells some Mao jokes with great gusto. Then we visit a memorial place, where Jusef tells us the real truth about it--not at all what the Chinese guides tell, he says angrily, and then to a large mosque. Jusef has his own view of religion, politics and the Chinese, and he doesn't hesitate to tell them to us. In the mosque, as we sit listening to him booming out, another tour group comes in. They are quite quiet but he keeps glaring over at them. Finally he says, I am sorry you have to listen to the Chinese view, clearly reprehensible to him. It also turns out he refuses to take Chinese tourists--tells the office his Mandarin isn't good enough, and as for the Japanese, he won't come near them with a pole.
Then a visit to a weaving establishment where they make a special design of silk, which I don't care much for, but there is a soft rosy silk scarf, and I buy it and wear it right away.
In the afternoon John is not feeling well, so reluctantly I leave him for our second expedition.
We go along a market street, women in fully covering garb, dark blue robes with dark brown shapeless cloths over their entire heads, their noses poking softly under the covering. Others are partially covered, with their eyes showing, and some with only a slit for the eyes. I am careful not to look into the eyes of the men; it's distressing enough that I am bareheaded and wearing pants.
I take lots of pictures, trying to catch and hold these places, these people and some tiny instant of their lives, take those instants home with me to remember and ponder and try to incorporate into myself and my image of our world.
It's actually chilly here, and Jusef told us that it has been raining every afternoon, very unusual, he says. As we walk along, the rain starts to fall, and in a minute it is coming to a downpour. We all dart into a musical instruments store as the torrents begin. There is a row of chairs by the window and I take one, a fine vantage point from which to watch the street. Street vendors scramble to cover their goods, people take refuge in doorways, some crowd into our store. Rain gushes from a second-story drain onto the scraggly umbrella of the telephone-call vendor next door; he hurries out to lay some boards over the phones.
Two sharp young guys next to me have a big conversation with an old fellow, complaining about the prices of things, I'm told by Parida. They go on their cell phones a couple of times, hitch up their pants, smooth down their hair, preen a bit.
But man! Here they still are in Kashgar...
Our people are swarming all over the shop. Sounds of drums are heard, the blat of horns, mellow sounds of stringed instruments including a brief rendition of Ode to Joy (I guess standard western music).
Meantime the rain has turned to hail, and the streets run heavy with brown rivers. It's a shame for the street vendors, whose afternoon business has now been disrupted six days in a row by these anomalous rains.
Jusef sits glumly in the other window, the sightseeing afternoon he'd laid on quite destroyed. I am thinking it's possible he doesn't realize how delighted our people re by this unexpected little adventure.
But at last the rain lets up enough for Jusef to call our bus and have it come to pick us up.
I am anxious to get home to John, but no, it turns out we are going to have dinner right now.
PIZZA
CHEESE SANDWICHES
ICE
Here's the Caravan Cafe, run by a sweet young Aussie guy, and serving up virtually home food. I am beside myself when we walk in and it actually smells of pizza instead of mutton and garlic! When everybody orders veggie pizzas there's a bit of a scramble since they don't have enough to go around, but we compromise and have sandwiches too, so I have half a veggie pizza, a piece of veggie sandwich (Cucumber! Tomato! Lettuce! Mayo!) and a coke WITH ICE.
Other customers include a waiflike babysitter of some kind with two European kids in tow, and a family of a Canadian man, his Aussie wife, and their three kids. Conversation, that ineffable feeling of ease, safety, certainty, when you meet one of your own.
Then home, and John is holding his own and in fact feeling a little better. We both sleep well. The room is cold, and the window opens and the bed is warm and soft enough.
Today's the famous Kashgar Sunday Market, on which Jusef heaps some scorn. There are markets every day! he exhorts us. Only tourists go to the Sunday market! People should visit the daily village markets!
But to the Sunday market we go, and indeed there are some tourists, but we get there early enough so as not to be bothered by them, and there is no way I would describe it as a tourist production, for the animal portion of it at least.
We are led among strings of lambs, donkey carts and donkeys, to horses and cattle, men doing deals, young boys bossing and shoving the lambs around, people shearing them, bleating, braying, neighing, mooing, talking, honking of trucks with five cows on board, jingling of horse and donkey carts. Black sheep, white, grey, brown sheep, curly and shorn sheep. One tiny lamblet of black and white. Donkey and horse carts careen around as buyers try out the animals. Teeth are examined, flanks slapped. Money exchanged.
Meantime in other areas we understand there is slaughtering of sheep going on, but we don't see this. I am curious, but it's a tricky enough balance for me just to recognize the animals as food or transport rather than sentient beings, and I don't wish to push things farther.
Meantime of course all these people have to eat, so there are noodle vendors and vendors of sheep heads, and soup sellers and shish kebab grillers. The deeply organic, sickening smell of bloody meat is everywhere amid the muddy grounds.
As we pick our way out, we see that many more western tourists have arrived. Still, it's not for tourists, this place, even if they do come. Nobody here pays much attention to them. The men are going about their serious business.
Next to the daily commodities section, as Jusef calls it--partly out on the street and partly in a large building with rows and rows of goods--the notions rows, the men's suits rows, the kids' shoes rows, though not a single toy, the endless rows of hideous women's and men’s shoes, the aisles of glittery glitzy women's dressup clothing, all sequins and spangles and gold. The stationery items,and hardware.
After a while I am exhausted by all this, especially since I have nothing to shop for. Out on the street are some people with loudspeakers touting their stuff, and hordes of women picking them over, used clothing I think. There are pomegranate juicers. People selling stockings. Cosmetics and shampoo.
All of the objects we have invented. The only inventive species, really, using sticks to get ants notwithstanding. You wouldn't see an orangutan using a noodle maker, or wearing a polo shirt with a logo on it.
I am done after the market, but it turns out that Jusef has engaged his mother in law to prepare a lunch for us. So off we go up a quiet alley, just like our daughter’s house in Hanoi, really, away from the noise and disturbance of the street. Once more we creaky westerners try to sit on the floor around a low table, with varying degrees of success. The room is pretty, with ornate plaster decor on walls and ceiling, and the table is set with a great variety of goodies--raisins, candies, dates, breads and cookies, bowls of yogurt. The other parts of the meal arrive slowly and we do our best with them, but I am increasingly unhappy eating any of the meat here, and I eat very little, concentrating on the chewy sweet gumdrops, the bread, and the cookies. Jusef's little son, five and a half, hangs around and his father shows off his language abilities. It is a long meal and I am in pain when I finally get up. I feel so bad about these occasions, when the women have worked so hard (and of course cannot eat with us, not only because they don't but also because we have all these strange men) and we eat so little. Still, I suppose they will feast on the leftovers for a couple of days.
At least I hope so. I am truly appalled at the great waste of food at these dinners--we are served vast quantities which no one can eat.
And home again for a brief rest.
Then for an hour late in the day, Jusef tries to take us to a village; I among others have wished to see something of the countryside. It doesn't work well though--the villages have put up bars at their entrances to keep out heavy trucks, and the bus can't get under them. Finally we find one we can enter, and spend a few minutes walking about, first into a small field, and then along a road (where a cartload of girls shriek and scatter at our appearance) where the farmer and his wife are dolefully trying to salvage some bok choy damaged by the hailstorm yesterday. His field of cabbages doesn’t look too good, either. The road reeks of donkey urine and manure, a stench I remember from walking down Bright Angel Trail in the Grand Canyon.
Yet more food, truly obscene quantities, in the evening, as Jusef has ordered a “farewell banquet” for us. There are THIRTY different dishes on the table, and none of us is really that hungry. We do what we can, but it’s a hard sell.
I’m sitting next to him and Parida, and I tell them a bit about the size of a meal in an American restaurant, and what John and I would eat for dinner. I also tell them about food collection organizations at home, and they both seem very interested in this idea. Especially when I explain how the restaurant owner gets a tax break. It seems Jusef used to have a Volkswagen, but he sold it to buy a chicken farm. That proved too hard to run, so now he’s selling the chicken farm. He’s got his eye on the main chance. I pity his wife.
And so to bed, in the cold quiet room.
We will be at home the day after tomorrow!
A morning flight here back to Urumqi, a visit to some famous mummified remains of 4000 years ago, their burial fabrics still bright and lovely.
Yet I still cannot see them in the past. The fabrics, their designs and colors, quite to my sense of taste. But who were they? Bob says, irritatedly, there is no mystery about these people, they were the proto this and that. But that misses the point. WHAT WAS THIS WOMAN'S VOICE LIKE ? WAS THIS A NICE MAN? WHAT FOOD DID THIS LITTLE KID LIKE BEST? And what did the woman say? What made the man lose his temper? Did the little kid have a choice of foods, or was it always the same?
Those are my desires, to know those things.
So J's gone out to look at more stuff, and I am here finishing this, washing my hair, preparing a song for tonight's festivities.
A day mostly in transit, goodbyes to Parida our Uighur "national guide," and as always I feel deeply the pity for these people who must stay behind while we travel to AMERICA.
At length back at the Grand Hotel Beijing where we stayed so many days ago, with the rose petal in the toilet and the wonderful beds. This time we overlook the street and can watch what's going on down there in comfort--the several colors of buses, the taxis, the bicycles, the walkers, the little trucks, the few black cars, now and then the three-wheeled vehicles. The shiny new buildings, and across the street from us, the old blood-red and white buildings of, I think, the 20's or even earlier, like the old facade inside our hotel, now covered by a flashy new exterior.
John and I feel rather smug since we have nothing much to do this afternoon, having seen all we wanted to of Beijing three weeks ago. We redo our packing and then wander down the street for a treat at Hagen Dazs and then a bit of browsing in the huge bookstore. On the third floor are books in foreign languages including English. There are many people there--as there are all over the store, very heartening. John finds a couple of books for the long long flight home.
Back out on the street, we comment on our comfort level, so different from that first evening when we hesitantly walked out to Tian An Men Square, and saw the flag lowered, and learned how to cross the street.
We had iceless cocktails in the bar and a buffet dinner--asparagus and delicious homefries with sweet peppers, and some other stuff, and some proper sweets, which we have missed.
We talk of China, of what we have learned on this journey to the other side of the world, in this most populous country in the world--the tiny world!
I feel now as I did right from the start--a peculiar affection for this place. I am not at all certain the source of this feeling. Many things of course perplex me, and irritate me, and worry me, and even frighten me--the arbitrariness of the rulers most particularly! But somehow too I just feel comfortable here.
I think perhaps part of it is because I am cheering them on. This ancient place of people making a society, time after time disintegrating and time after time reconstituting, undaunted and creative.
Here we are leaving China, on our way to Japan and from there to Detroit and from there to Boston, pulling back and back just as we extended outward and outward, so very far outward that we were starting back around the other side of the earth. At the end of this very long day I will see my family and my home again, and my beloved country of which I am so decisively a part.
But one image of China will stay with me forever. I made it on the day we poured through the Forbidden City with all those countless thousand others. There on the steps of some palace or other sat a family from the countryside--elderly grandmother and grandfather with their children and grandchildren, a picnic spread out around them, eating and drinking and looking around at everybody else. In the old days I suppose they would have been executed instantly, the whole lot of them, had they been found within these sacred precincts. Now, however, they have taken matters into their own paws, and are looking to the future, as they sit on the palace steps eating their noodles.
I wish them, I wish them well.