There’s nothing quite like being far from home and reaching into my wallet for my debit card and not finding it. Immediately every other thought, worry, delight- all scattered from my mind, as I began to retrace my steps. I realized it had been days since I’d last used it, at least two border crossings ago. It turned up in the only other place I could imagine I had put it- back in my locked bag. But for about 10 minutes, I was kind of toast.
Above are photos from yesterday’s drive with my driver (Hizmat?) and Dalet, who came along free, but who then has been very helpful, from explaining about my interest to the beekeeper who was slightly hostile, to showing me the storks nesting, to helping solve my sim card issue.
We’re about to embark on day two of this drive, from Toktogol to Bishkek, where I will say goodbye to these two, do some laundry and decide on my last few days before I head to Almaty, Kazakhstan to catch the first of three flights homeward.
Everyone here is up much of the night, given that it’s Ramadan. They eat after sundown, and again in the early morning before sunrise and tend to stay up for much of the time in between. So my schedule as a non-Muslim guest is a bit opposite theirs. But they say not a word about the inconvenience, just take turns with things like chai and breakfast. I am the only guest, it being early in the season.
Last night I climbed into bed, coat and all, because I was so cold. And, to be fair, I was tired too. Shortly thereafter there was a knock on my door. A young man entered, asked if he could turn on the light, and proceeded to introduce himself. He then went on to ask if his sister, who had greeted me on my arrival, had shown me the light switches and things. I think this conversation took place because I had just startled the younger brother. The toilet is in a separate building, down in the garden area, and consists of a well-kept pit toilet. I could see that there was a light fixture but unable to find a switch, once it grew dark I took my reading light along for illumination. Imagine my surprise when the light suddenly went on as I was inside. Shortly after I heard footsteps coming down the path toward me, and just as the door began to swing open, I called out. He took off as fast as he could go. I figured no harm, no foul. However, I am sure sister got an earful for not telling me where the switch was. And I got a bedtime visitor.
Because this town is at the end of the road, tucked away in
a steep valley and nestled up against high mountains, getting here was not as
simple as I had thought. The town at the crossroads of the main highway and the
road leading here is Bazar Hogan. The first taxi took me to that crossroads for
200 som, but it’s not where the marshrutkas bound for Arslanbob gather, so this
taxi driver went around and found a small taxi to take me the short distance to
that place in Bazar Hogan for 20 som. Then the marshrutka itself, which cost 60
som, went all the way to the village.
I had made email contact with Hayat at the local CTB
(community based tourism) and was, I thought, expected. But I got no response
to email and the phone number posted on the CBT door wasn’t even ringing (which
may be just indicative of my international dialing skills). I knew there were
several CBT guesthouses in town, so I had decided to walk to the closest one,
when I saw a partially open gate beside the CBT office, and upon entering, was
pointed to what looked like the back door of the CBT office. I tried to knock
but the door was so light it made no sound, so I opened and said hello. Out of
a group of women in the room, one stepped up and said hello, I said “Hayat?” She
clearly has experience with us lost tourist types, because she smiled
reassuringly, said she would call, and pointed to a table in the yard where I
could sit and wait. 10 minutes, she said.
Dalet showed up soon after, and we went in the office and made arrangements for a guest house and a walnut grove tour. I had thought about just walking around myself, but I’m glad I didn’t for several reasons. I would never have found my way on my own, Dalet gave me lots of information about the area, its history and customs, and it seems only fair to give him a chance to make some money after being called out on their day off to help me.
Today I leave on a two day drive to Bishkek. It can be done in 9-10 hours, but this highway is said to be beautiful, so I am paying for a private car and driver, and stopping in Toktogul for the first night. It will also break up the long drive. I get the front seat and can ask to stop for photos as much as I want. Dalet asked if he can ride along- essentially a free ride to Bishkek, and I said it is fine with me as long as I get to stop for photos. So he will sleep in the back seat, having stayed up most of the night for Ramadan, and can also interpret if needed. He speaks Kyrgyz, Russian and English, and Uzbek.
Dalet told me yesterday that nearly all of this village is ethnically Uzbek. When the Soviets drew boundary lines for the various republics, one of the goals in this area was to break up trouble spots, as the Fergana Valley was known to be. So Andijon in Uzbekistan, which is actually quite close to here, is part of a different country, but the people of Andijon and Arslanbob are historically and actually linked.
The best time to come here is at the walnut harvest, usually
in September. There are many hectares of
walnut groves in the hills around here. The land is owned by the government, and
families lease certain patches of land for years. They each know which trees
are theirs, even without marking them. The young boys climb up and shake the
trees, and the others harvest the fallen nuts. They make walnut oil, sell the
walnuts themselves and make use of the wood.
I have read that the walnut forest here is a result of Alexander the Great bringing them here, but I have also heard that they pre-existed his arrival in the area. Whatever the case, the forests have been around for a very long time. It had been raining quite a bit recently, so in places the track was very muddy. At one point, on a slight decline, I had to hang onto the wire fence and let myself down hand over hand to avoid falling in the mud. Imagine my surprise when the wire fencing turned to barbed wire fencing. It made for more careful hand placement. Still, I managed to come out of it without a fall. It rained on us for quite a bit of the hike. When I heard loud thunder, I asked Dalet if it was safe to continue higher. He said yes, no problem, so on we went. I consoled myself with the thought that he was holding a metal shafted umbrella, so might be the likelier target for a lightning strike.
Dalet and his wife and young son live with his parents. His wife helps her mother-in-law with the housework. Dalet said he may at some point buy some land and build their own house but it wasn’t clear to me whether he actually wanted to do that. He told me that those men in the town who do not have jobs go to Russia, or Bishkek, to work for the spring-summer-fall, often in construction. They return for the winter and do not work during that time. Even school teachers often will work during the summer in this way. He is one of those fortunate to have a job here. Even so, he said he probably will do the Russia work at some point. I’m assuming it’s good enough money to make the separation from family and home worth it.
Last night I was not feeling great, wondering if I could do a long car or bus ride, and not sure how to find it anyway.
This morning with the help of some meds, Google translate, Maps.Me, the hotel receptionist and a couple of taxi drivers, here I sit. We are waiting for at least one more rider and then we are off to Arslanbob via Bazar Kogon.
The guy in the front seat has been pretty talkative despite the fact that we don’t speak the same language. After a bit, I started agreeing with him and making other friendly noises. He was just fine with that. ☺
I left Andijon, Uzbekistan this morning on a bus that had at least twice its intended capacity riding in it. I got the very last seat, but many others stood for up to an hour. The border re-crossing was pretty painless. I had read that tourists got bumped to the front of the line, and indeed I did today. I felt slightly guilty but did not hesitate to bypass the semi-circle shaped mass around the immigration window. I knew from Maps.Me that the bus station I needed was only a few blocks away, so when the taxi horde descended, I just shook my head and said “avtovoksal” – and had cause to regret that choice just a bit. The day was very warm, there was no shade, and I’ve acquired a rollie bag by now and there were no sidewalks, so dragging it through potholes and on gravel-strewn pavement was not very fun. But I’m whining, I know. The fact that I’ve also picked up a cold perhaps affected my perspective a bit.
Breakfast
I got a shared taxi to Jalal-abad, and the driver very nicely took me directly to my hotel since it was near the center where he normally drops off. I should mention that the taxi and marshrutka drivers drive pretty much like my brother Clay does. No need to travel here to experience it, just ask Clay for a ride. Once in a while when we were passing someone, I just had to close my eyes.
I came to this city because it’s close to where I want to go next- Arslanbob. Arslanbob is located just on the south side of the BAbash-Ata Mountains, part of the Tien-Shan mountain range in northern Kyrgyzstan. The town itself is at about 1,600 meters. It is known for its waterfalls and natural beauty, but also for its black walnut forests, the largest such forest in the world. I connected with the CBT (community based tourism) in Arslanbob, and they will set me up with a home-stay for the night and a hike in the forest.
What I really, really want right now is a cold sparkling water. No one here drinks much of anything cold, and despite now knowing how to ask, I haven’t found any place that sells it. Room temperature water- bleh. Chai is good. But ice cold bubbly water… I can taste it now. I was asked to tell them what I want for breakfast tomorrow when I checked in this afternoon. I asked for oatmeal, eggs and coffee. Should be interesting.
On the way back from Margilon, I had plenty of time to think- having to wait an hour for the marshrutka to fill enough, without wi-fi, and having forgotten to bring a book. These are my observations, and perhaps not entirely accurate. That’s what being made to sit and do nothing will do for you.
While Uzbekistan is nominally Muslim, this area of Uzbekistan is more devout. The parade of men leaving Friday prayers might be a testament to that. It is Ramadan, and Friday, the holy day for Islam. The line of exiting men went on for blocks. I don’t know if I would have been permitted to see the mosque at another time but I most certainly was not on this day.
The family structure is strong, with young people often living at home until they marry, even in the modern city. In addition, there is a strong sense of community. I see fathers teaching their sons to be men, but also other men participate in this process as a matter of course. In the same manner, women work together without comment or even thanks. A woman with a baby and a perhaps 6 year old son got in the marshrutka a short distance from the station. Her bags were handed in and back, her son was invited to sit in a place he could better see, the woman next to me helped with holding the baby on the rough ride while her mother took of its coat and hat. And later when the baby tired of the ride, we passed her around. I had two small plastic bags with purchases, which my seatmate took and then had to pick up several times as they fell to the ground in the old van on the bumpy road. I tried to suggest I hold them but she just shooed that away. Several other women who appeared to be strangers on entering the van talked nearly the entire trip.
All of that provides a great deal of support for young parents, aging folks, and just anyone with a heavy burden. It also comes at a cost. There is really no part of one’s life that is private- from phone calls (others chime in) to what you wear, to how you handle your children. It is all on view for the world to see, comment and correct.
I was back at the hotel in the evening, and walked down one flight to sit on the stairs outside the English school in search of a better internet connection. The hotel is all on what we would call the third floor, and there is an English school on the second floor that I found the first day by accidentally thinking it was the hotel. I was invited to sit on the couch in their reception area, and that was the end of internet for a while. People began to appear either because they heard us talking or as they were on their way out. At one point, there were over a dozen people standing and sitting around, eager to talk with the American, to practice their English and to ask questions. I got to ask them some as well- about some things I’d seen in the market and did not understand or wanted to know how they used them. As we scrolled through the photos I had taken, they saw this one and someone asked why I would take that. It led to a funny conversation about what a traveler in a strange place looks for first, and they all laughed and agreed that the ability to find a toilet would be a high priority.
They talked about Muslim beliefs regarding Ramadan and what they do. At one point the call to prayer sounded and the men went off into another room to pray, while the women stayed and talked. I think this went on for more than an hour, with some stopping for a bit and then leaving, but others staying. They found some of my questions funny, but enjoyed answering. They asked me only a little about how things are done in the US- it being such a far away and impossible place to consider, I think. They were interested in what I had seen here and what I thought of it. The last woman to leave is one of the English teachers. She is 26 years old, and lives in an apartment with her sister. While we talked, her mom called to check on her- even though they do not live at home, it is clear there is close oversight. She said her mom is a doctor and I can’t recall what her father does. The woman who is the manager of the school told me she is married, 35 years old, has a 13 and 9 year old, and her husband is a cotton farmer.
I went out in the rain, mostly as a polite way to break away, and when I came back, I was invited to iftar with the family running the hotel. It is not strictly a family- the woman and her 7th grade daughter, plus the young man who also teaches at the school, and another young man who seems to be on staff there were the group I ate with. The man who also teaches said that his parents live in a village, and he will go there today (Saturday) to see them, but he treats this woman as his mother while here. I have noticed that young people are very respectful- when an older woman gets on the bus, both girls and boys will get up to give her a seat. The marshrutka and taxi drivers who seem willing to run anyone down are much less likely to honk their horns, and will actually stop or slow to let older women (and men), and women with little children cross in front of them. For the rest, it is like a game of frogger when crossing the street.
Conveniently, the avtovoksal (bus station) for marshrutkas to Margilon is directly behind my hotel. I arrived just in time. The van was completely full, but a man offered up his seat and sat on a little wooden stool in the aisle instead. This van has seen a long and well-used life. Things are patched together, the seats are old and worn into ruts from so many bottoms over so many years. I wasn’t so lucky on the return trip, I had to wait for an hour for enough passengers to leave.
Margilon is reputed to have been in existence since sometime in the 1st century BCE. It is today the center of Uzbekistan’s silk industry. Uzbekistan is the third largest producer of silk in the world. All of this dates back to an interesting series of events.
A little history- Central Asia’s recorded history begins in the 6th century BCE under the oversight of the Achaemenid empire of Persia (modern day Iran). Alexander the Great defeated the Achaemenids around 330 BCE, While Alexander the Great died in 323 BCE, what followed his time was significant east-west cultural exchanges, resulting in a fusion of Greek, Persian and local art forms. At about the same time, the Xiongnu confederacy in the east drove the Yuezhi out of western China into Central Asia. The Chinese emperor sent an emissary in 138 BCE in an effort to form an alliance with the Yuezhi against the Xiongnu. It took Zhang Qian, the emissary, 13 years to get there. By the time he arrived, the Yuezhi had acclimated to their new home and didn’t want to go to war. But this diplomat effort is said to be the precursor to the Silk Road. The height of the Silk Road was during the first two centuries of the modern era, when the Yuezhi’s Kushan dynasty was one of four world super-powers: Rome, China, Parthia and the Kushan. It was during this time that Buddhism spread across Asia. I don’t remember reading about this in school, do you?
What does this have to do with silk and Uzbekistan? Well, other events and people followed- the Huns, Turkic people from southern Siberia, followed by Islam coming out of the Arab world, through Persia and up into central Asia. Meanwhile China had revived under the Tang dynasty and expanded into central Asia. Just as the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand set off a series of events that led to WW I and arguably set the stage for WW II, when the Chinese killed the khan of Tashkent, it set off a counter-effect that led to the Battle of Talas in 751 AD (in present day Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan). The Islamic Turks won the battle and in the process captured a large contingent of Chinese experts in the art of papermaking and silkmaking. To this point, the way silk was made had been a closely guarded secret, and great care was taken to ensure that no silkworms were exported out of China. And that took me to Margilon today, in part to tour the Yodgorlik Silk Factory.
Natural dye sources- madder, pomegranate, walnut shells and onion skin
The loom room
Cleaning leaves and stems off the coccoons
In the process of locating a bathroom and some lunch, I came across the Margilon bazaar. Every town seems to have one of these rather than grocery stores as we know them. I have seen small produce shops, and ‘supermarkets’ which sell various sundries and are about the size of a medium size hair salon in the US. But mostly it seems people shop at the bazaars (markets).
I met so many very nice people, from the shoe repair man who solemnly agreed to pose for a photo, to the guys cleaning carrots by swinging them vigorously in a cloth sling.
The border crossing from Kyrgyzstan to Uzbekistan was pretty straightforward. There is a separate line outside for tourists (‘turista’), but that led to a sort of shed where we lined up in front of five different windows, gambling on which immigration officer would be fastest. A woman journalist who was headed to Andijon (or Andijan) for the day on some work thing wanted to chat, and offered to help if I needed it. But at each step in the process, either no language was needed (pointing at the camera, pointing at my glasses and indicating that they should come off), or there was someone who spoke a little English to ask the usual questions. And then I was outside on the Uzbek side. As I came up the walkway, fenced in on both sides, I could see a group of taxi drivers waiting, all pounced on the obvious foreigner, all talking at once. But my journalist friend had decided to invite me to share her taxi, and immediately as she came to claim me, the crowd fell away as if by magic.
The exchange rate boggles my mind. I went across the street from my hotel to the bank to exchange dollars, and found that for every dollar, I got 8,450 som. Paying over twenty thousand som for lunch seemed outrageous, but came to about 3 USD.
There are thousands of marshrutkas in this town, each going on a set route, and stopping at any point along the way to drop off or pick up. One of the hotel staff speaks English and told me where I could find the marshrutkas for the Zhahon bazaar. With a bit of fear and trembling, I went. They have signs in the front window indicating the name of their final destination. I picked one already partially full in order not to have to wait long for it to fill up. It is a pleasant way to see part of the city and its everyday life, except for those moments when you have to close your eyes and hope for the best.
“How much for a small bag of those cherries?” led to me carrying too many cherries back to my room. Occasionally a stall operator asked “turista?” or “Germani?” “Engliski?” Each time I said “America” or “Americanski” there was a little gasp of delight, and if they spoke English, we had a short conversation. If they did not speak English, we just smiled. I had seen this and wasn’t sure what it was, and a woman cut off a piece for me to try, another tried to convince me to take a cut of meat home, some just smiled, but most were willing to engage with this odd person asking questions and wielding a mostly useless translation app on her phone. It was mostly useless because it does not seem that very many people know much Russian here, especially the young. I would type a word, phrase or question in and it would provide in written text the Russian alternative and mostly that just brought confusion to their faces. “Skolka sto-it” was universally understood-how much does it cost? Google Translate allows you to download some languages to your device so that you can use it even when off-line, which is handy when wandering a market or traveling to a small town. However, it only provides that option for more commonly used languages, and Uzbek isn’t one of them. So sometimes I just said “thank you, spasibo, rakhmet” to cover all possibilities and give no offence, and walked away still clueless.
Andijan has a fairly recently bloody history (see https://www.rferl.org/a/uzbekistan-andijon-what-happened-and-why/27012137.html for the story), but it dates back to sometime in the 7th or 8th century during the heyday of the silk road. In the 1800’s, Russia began to take control of the whole Fergana Valley along with the rest of central Asia, and during sovietization the valley was divided between three countries (republics at the time) in a classic case of gerrymandering. In this case it wasn’t for votes, but to try to break up a potential trouble spot. Islamic fundamentalism is blamed for much of the more recent trouble, but economics played a large part too. The inability to make a living and feed one’s family tends to lead to discontent. But I digress.
The woman selling drinks at this stand gave me one for free. I am not sure what it was, but I felt compelled to drink it after she was so friendly. When I asked “skolka stoit?” she waved her hands and would not let me pay. These stands are everywhere. They use real glasses, so you order and pay, then stand there and drink, return the glass and move on. No lollygagging over that drink.
The markets never fail to attract me, as I wonder about the daily lives of the vendors and their customers, watch the ways they greet each other, delivery men with their hand carts pushing through the impossibly small and crowded walkways calling out something that sounds like “push, push”, the amazing variety of headwear in both men and women, and trying to figure out what things are.
The bread is so picturesque in the carts it gets wheeled about in, and is delicious when fresh. The herbs laid out neatly, the scent of garlic as I pass the bunches, all make me want to buy some of it. But of course I have no kitchen here, and even at home, it’s not like I cook often. Still, the idea is entrancing.
I transited from Sary Tash on Tuesday, via a marshrutka arranged by Shamurat. I and the two young Germans who shared my room at Shamurat’s all got the far back seat because it was already loaded with others. Two of the three of us tend to get carsick, but we managed to make it intact- despite the many switchbacks and winding road, and a driver on a schedule whom we had made wait. The ride was still fantastic. It appears that the local sheep, goat and cattle herders use the road as a thruway just as much as cars do, so this was a fairly frequently reoccurring event:
The two women I rode beside were headed to a coffee shop on arrival in Osh as they had a flight out the same evening, and invited me to come along. Having had either instant coffee or hot water for the past several days, that sounded pretty good to me, plus then I’d know where it was for future forays. Laura, the one whose name I can recall, has traveled solo in Iran and we were talking about her experiences there. The other woman is a neurologist and has just left her job and wants to travel for a while before taking another. I got a taxi to my hotel and did some work before heading out to see the town.
From this
To this
Osh has an incredible amount of green space. I could walk from my hotel at the southern end of the downtown area, all the way to the bazaar at the other end, all without having to leave a path under trees except in a few places. On warm days like today, that is pretty welcome. In the evening as I walked home, people were hanging out there. In one section of the parks there is a children’s amusement park type of theme. Some of the rides date from the Soviet era, and are now rather quaint. I walked past an area in the shade of several trees that had several ping pong tables, and the clickety click of the balls bouncing followed me down the path.
Yesterday I climbed Sulaiman Too, a somewhat incongruous outcropping in fairly flat terrain, in the center of the city. It has been known as a holy site by several religions, including Zoroastrians, and is still a muslim holy site due to the prayer room built on top in 1497 by Zahir ud-din Muhammad, also known as Babur, a descendant of Timur (Tamerlane). He stopped here on his way to northern India, where he went on to create the Moghul dynasty. The actual prayer room built by Babur is long-gone but has been replaced a couple of times, the more recent replacement after a mysterious explosion during the Soviet era. It was a short but hot climb and about half way up I remembered that I had no water with me. But lucky me, there was a little vendor’s stand at the top. The mountain (it’s very small to be called a mountain) was important during the silk road era, because travellers from all around could see it from a far distance and navigate by it. Osh became a wealthy trading center in ancient times, in part due to the mountain. There are petroglyphs, caves where various holy men lived, a fertility slide, and other indications of the importance of the mountain to past peoples.
The prayer room in the background
An old cemetery
My water source!
Today I visited the Russian Orthodox Church, wandered in the bazaar, and did a little prep for moving on tomorrow to Andijan, in Uzbekistan’s Fergana Valley.
The daunting day has arrived, the one I worried most about when planning for this trip. I had read multiple posts about crossing the border between China and Kyrgyzstan, and it truly lived up to all that had been said. I hope not to bore you with the detail of this crossing. It’s mind blowing to experience it, but I’m not sure I’m capable of conveying the experience in words. It’s also a long story, so skip it if you like. I won’t know, and I won’t mind anyway.
The easy part: I took a taxi to the bus station, arriving about 8:30. because I’d been told the taxis didn’t start running until about 9.
I finally found the way in (through another of those little security buildings) and then tried to figure out where to go. I’d heard that you could just go negotiate directly with the vans or cars, or you could buy a ticket inside. I had decided that buying a ticket would probably be more manageable. I got in line behind an actual queue of about 30 people in the darkened station, and proceeded to fret that I probably wasn’t in the right place. The woman behind me spoke to me (in Chinese) and I answered in English. Using Google again, and saying the name of the place I wanted to go- Wuqia, which sounds a bit like Wuchu, I ‘conversed’ with her and a man who had sidled up to the side, seeing an opportunity to jump part of the line. Between all of us, we decided I was in the right place, and indeed I was. A short time later the line began to move quickly and in no time I was out in the back, uncertain which vehicle might be going to Wuqia. A random man looked at my ticket and pointed to a van across the way. As is the custom, we all sat and waited until the van was full, and off we went. At some point while we were waiting for more passengers, the driver came to me and somehow conveyed to me that he would take me to Ulunqat for 20 RMB extra. I finally understood that he was offering to drop me directly at the immigration place instead of at the usual stop about 2 km away. That was a lucky break, because I wasn’t sure how I would find it on my own.
We came to a checkpoint before Wuqia and the driver got out, opened the sliding door and indicated I should get out and bring my bag. My other bag was in the back (he had put it there) and I tried to ask if I should also grab it, but he seemed to indicate no. Before I could get five steps, an officer demanded my passport, and I was told to go inside. There my bag and handbag were run through an xray (?) machine and then I saw what I had coming- one of the tour groups was going through the very public and somehow also demeaning process of having everything searched in front of everyone in the room. Once I saw this, I realized that I was meant to bring all my bags in, but wasn’t sure what to do about it now without causing my driver grief, or me grief for that matter. I was pretty sure my multiple laptops (I kept the broken one in case it can be repaired at home) would be cause for concern, but I only had one in the bag that I had brought in. I decided to play dumb and see what developed. Besides, I was sure more searches were to follow.
They went through my camera, phone, ipod and asked about my laptop. A woman officer went through my bag thoroughly, but fairly discreetly. Oddly, no one noticed that I had almost no clothes in my bag (they were in the other bag). They were questioning all kinds of things about what the tour group people had in their bags, but I got off fairly easy. Unfortunately for the others in my van who did not need to go through this process, they had to wait for me.
A few miles later, at the gate to the immigration station, I started the first of many official interactions with various immigration, customs, and police officers, with no idea who was whom, only that there were very many of them.
This passport check was conducted outside, with the officers sitting behind a fence in which had been cut some spaces, and we travelers on the sidewalk. First one officer scrutinized the passport and visa, entered my information in his paper log, and then passed it to another, who took yet another photo of the relevant pages. Then a third officer entered the information again in a much larger paper log. They had a question for me and no one in that group spoke English, so they called over a guide for one of the groups who was standing nearby, and asked him to translate. But he spoke only Chinese and German, so he called over someone in his group who spoke German and English. From the officers to the guide to the other traveler to me, and back again. We all laughed once it was done, and I can’t even remember the question.
When they were done with my passport, it was inside a small building to run the bags through a machine, and then an officer who spoke a little English pointed out the back door for me to go. I looked outside and saw nothing – no cars, people, or anything out there, so I asked him about a taxi. It turned out there was a Chinese man also traveling solo and so a taxi came for both of us. What I did not understand at the time was that this was to be my ride through the rest of the entire process. Only certain taxis are permitted to operate in this zone, on the one route from Wuqia to the actual border, something like 150 km distance. I had hoped to find a couple of other travelers to join up with, to share the cost of the shared taxi rides, etc, but we seemed to be the only ones that day. There were a few tour groups who came through, and who we saw at various points in the process. One was from Wales, one from Germany, and I think one other. The taxi drove us a few hundred yards to a large building, where we got out and went in for another process. There I ran into the group from Wales and the group from Germany again. Within a short time, my camera, phone, and ipod were again gone through, and my passport whisked away to somewhere.
This was, I knew, the tricky spot. It was by now after noon, and I had read that they close at 1 and reopen at 4:30, and if you don’t get past this point before 1, you just sit there for three and a half hours. No food or water available. No wifi. There is a toilet there, the only one I saw the entire day. So at some point, the woman who was assigned to me, probably because she spoke some English, came back and told me I was to wait. At this point the Wales tour guide was nearby and he helped out by translating the difficult parts. She said something about waiting for a third passenger, and I at first thought she just wanted me and the Chinese man to wait until someone eventually came through. Knowing that might not happen all day, I objected fairly strongly but making sure to be smiling the entire time. I knew that they would be closing soon, and not opening until 4. I really didn’t want to sit there in the barren room for over three hours, and was trying to figure out my next gambit. Then it turned out that there was an actual third passenger on his way to the building right then, and so the wait was short and we were assured that we would get through before lunch. A short time later the now two other passengers were taken through, but the woman came back to me looking alarmed. She asked again where I’d been in China. I walked her back through flying to Urumqi, but not staying there, leaving immediately for Tulufan, and then coming by train to Kashi, where I’d been for two nights. Then she finally made clear what the problem was. “But there are no photos of Kashi” she said, and the light dawned. I had spent so much of my time in China trying to solve my computer issues and getting work done in spite of them, that I had less to show for my time that expected. And then I also realized what had happened. The last officer to scan through my photos had apparently gotten bored and stopped in the middle when going through them. The micro card in my camera still has photos from a prior trip, and so when she started looking she missed all the photos I’d taken since arriving. So I showed them to her, and I too was allowed to pass through. Mind you, this was to get out of China, not in.
Next was the actual stamp out by immigration, which was accomplished fairly quickly. Even then though, they questioned why I had been to China three times over the last five years, asking again if I have a friend in China- but that developed into a pleasant conversation about why their part of the world is so interesting to me, and then I was done and back out to the van with the others. Our passports were all given to the driver to hold until we reached the border, I guess in case we decided to make a run for it.
I recall one or two checkpoints later where we didn’t have to exit the van, they just peered in the windows checking passports against passengers and waved us on. Then we pulled into a large parking lot and the driver switched the engine off. No one told me anything but then the Chinese man, who had befriended me via his translation app, told me something about it being closed (the border) and waiting until 4. This was at 3:30, and we were free to wander about and check out the barren little shops in the building. It was pleasant to be out walking around, and I foolishly thought we were done with Chinese customs and immigration. Eventually I got back in the van to snooze, but my new friend thought it was a chance to chat, so no sleep. At some unseen signal the driver got in and we went to the gate, where we waited another 15 minutes. Then we were let into a large shed, where our passports were again reviewed, this time inside the building someplace, and then we were released.
Driving through the haze
My fellow passengers
Waiting
My ‘friend’
The very last impediment to leaving
In Kyrgyzstan where a mile of trucks sat waiting to enter
I don’t recall the distance from there to the last building, but once we arrived, it was time to pay our driver and leave him behind. Our passports were once again checked, and we walked to the large gate across the road and waited while the officer tried to get the key to work in a large padlock. As soon as it opened I started down the hill to Kyrgyzstan but was called back- there was one more check. At the little hut by the gate, the officer reviewed each passport one at a time, for pedestrians coming from both directions. And that was finally that. I was out of China and in Kyrgyzstan. We all had to walk down the hill about 2 km where a van waited to take us the actual Kyrgyz immigration and customs. That process took all of five minutes, with a friendly officer who said ‘welcome’, and a customs officer standing outside smoking who asked me quite casually, what do you have in your bags?
The hardest part about arrival in Kyrgyzstan is that you are miles from anywhere, and therefore at the mercy of the taxi drivers. I had read that they charged exhorbitant prices. I refused to pay their first price, so we all stood there waiting for the other to blink. I remember thinking as we stood there that I would dearly love to get a photo of this, because it’s really hard to describe. We were inches inside the rough gate that marked the passage into Kyrgyzstan, I was semi-surrounded by men who I assume all had cars there, I had no Kyrgyz money and no other way to leave. The apparent head guy had already tried to take my bag, but I held on to it hard, and so he was forced to negotiate about the price. It was as we stood there waiting each other out that I wanted to laugh and take a photo, but I knew that to do either was to lose the battle. I was a bit anxious because once any other travelers showed up, my bargaining position might weaken. However, the tour groups had transport arranged, as they were on a multi-day tour, so pickings were slim for them. Eventually the price dropped a little, plus they agreed to be paid in RMB. I got lucky and was delegated to a kind older man as my driver. He in turn delivered me to Shamurat at about 6 pm. It wasn’t where I had planned to stay (I had no reservation, just a few names of places), so I objected at first when he turned off on a track just short of Sary Tash. But then I relented, the driver had been so nice, and I realized he would get trouble if I didn’t go along. I decided to see how it was, since I could see that we were on the end of town, and that it wouldn’t be hard to walk into town to another place if I didn’t want to stay.
But Shamurat was welcoming, had good wifi, let me pay in RMB, and gave me a good suggestion about where to eat in town. When I asked if he wanted to see my passport to check me in, he laughed. He said “you’re not in China anymore” and that was that. It took about 9 hours to travel a distance of about 250 km, all over paved roads, from Kashi to Sary Tash.
It was from Sary Tash that I finally was able to communicate with the world again, out from under China’s censoring, and with good wifi for the first time in days. And no one ever even searched my other bag, which shocks me given how thoroughly they did everything else.
I met some very nice people in China, and it still fascinates me, but I need a break before I think about going back, even with my beautiful 10 year visa that begs to be put to use. The heavy weight of the constant watching, questioning and suspicion works against the delightful people, culture, history and food. I am sure that part of it is that I was in western China, the area where they have, I think the most issues with unrest and outright rebellion from Uyghers and other minority groups. But it is also where the silk road goes, and so I wanted to see it. I also wonder if maybe independent travelers raise more suspicions than those who go in tour groups. So, I might be back, but not until I’ve had time to forget the bad parts.
When I traveled in this part of the world five years ago, I chose to go to Hotan instead of Kashgar, having time to do only one. So here I was, arriving at last in Kashgar, called Kashi by everyone here. Kashi was an important city in ancient times, even into the 18th century. It is located at the foot of the Pamir Mountains, it was an oasis between the vast desert and the high mountains, with a source of water for growing fresh fruit and vegetables. The old north and south silk road routes crossed here, so while in the time when travel was by camel, it was quite isolated from the rest of the world, it was an important stop on the route traveled by caravans on their way to Asia, India, Pakistan and the ancient Persia (now Iran). I’ve read about this place in old travelers’ stories, and wanted to see it for myself.
As we left the train, we had to walk down the platform, cross in front of the train, and then follow a path that led not to the station, but to a large parking lot. At one point on the path, two officers leaned against a barrier watching and I knew before reaching them that they would beckon me over, because I saw them stand up straight on seeing me. I had my passport ready, but I also took advantage of the opportunity and used Google and a printout of my hotel reservation to ask how to get to my hotel. Their response was to follow the people to taxis. I thanked them and left- if they had intended to ask me more questions, they had forgotten them. I have to say though, there are quite a lot of cell phones owned by police with a photo of my passport on them. Each person took a photo of the main page at least.
Having followed the crowd, I reached a street with no taxi stand. I stood and watched for a bit, and saw that many were going down a stairway. These underground pedestrian ways are common here, and I decided to follow. On the other side I did at last see a tax stand. I approached with my paper, and tried to get someone but after looking at it and discussing, the apparent leader of the pack shook his head no and started to turn away. I said how do I get there then, and while I am certain he did not know my words, he surely understood my meaning, because he pointed to a bus stand nearby. I was a little panicked by this point, but then I often am when trying to get landed in a strange city. I walked to the bus stop, picked a likely looking woman (she didn’t avoid my eye contact), and showed her my paper. She pointed at the number 20 on the wall to indicate I should take bus 20. I thanked her and moved away. A short time later a young woman came and stood near me and I asked her too, just to confirm. She and another woman had a conversation and agreed that either 20 or 28 would get me there. Bus 28 pulled up and the young woman waved at me to follow her on board, where she saved me a seat. She ended up getting off with me and walking me to my hotel, which was incredibly nice. I actually knew where I was by the time I got off, thanks in part to Mapsme, and in part to the giant Mao statue in the center of the city square, but I felt I would be churlish to insist on her leaving at that point, and besides, I wasn’t all that confident. She delivered me to the door with the help of a couple of passers-by, waved and walked quickly away. I hope she wasn’t too late for whatever she was going to.
I went out looking for food and found I was staying in the heart of the ‘old city’ which true to Chinese style had been completely re-done at some point in the past. So it’s not truly old, but it is truly real, and I loved the sights and sounds of the market, the little side streets where children played, and all the rest. I got quite lost, and hungry, before I found my way, because the streets duplicate the byzantine labyrinths of old, and more than once I found myself at a dead-end and having to backtrack.
Leggings worn under stockings are not uncommon
At breakfast the next day I met several other travelers, and then spent the bulk of the day on my continuing computer issues.
To see what I could see 