The Silk Road: Turpan

Leaving Dunhuang, I took a two hour minibus ride to the train station in Liuyuan. I had seven hours to kill before my train. I spent three in an internet cafe (along with, it seemed, every teenager in the dusty little town). Liuyuan is a small town, with just one commercial street. But when I got bored with the internet and ventured outside to stroll the streets, I was pleasantly surprised. School was just getting out and the streets were full of children walking home, many of whom followed me and asked me questions which they clearly were quoting word-for-word from their English textbooks ("What is your country of origin?" "What do you do on weekends?"). I bought a delicious whole watermelon at a street market and sat on the sidewalk cutting it. Before long, I found myself surrounded by a dozen schoolgirls, a few of whom spoke English and were asking me questions. Soon the throng contained several dozen people, mostly middle-aged men who stood around in a semi-circle, probably not understanding a word of the conversation, but just watching and smiling. I was the center of attention for those 15 minutes. That actually hasn’t haven’t very often since I’ve been in China. I think in the vast majority of places, the novelty of foreign tourists has long since worn off. Having that kind of attention can be fun in small doses, but I wouldn’t want to have that kind of attention for too much longer.

The train ride from Liuyuan to Daheyan was nine hours overnight. At the train station I ran into Steve and Veejay from New York, who I had met the previous day at the caves. Daheyan was not my destination, but is the closest train station to Turpan, 60 km away.  I split a cab into the city with Steve and Veejay. Steve's an architect and Veejay's from India, and we had lots to talk about.

I am in a new province now: Xinjiang. Actually, Xinjiang is no mere province, but an “Ethnic Autonomous Region", a politically and administratively distinct unit of territory with its own structures of governance. The Uighurs are the main ethnic group here, at least historically. In the last 50 years the number of immigrants and refugees from the former Soviet Union (now the Central Asian “-istan” countries).

At 154 meters below sea level, Turpan is the lowest place in China and the 2nd-lowest place on earth (only the Dead Sea is lower). Actually, the city itself isn't quite that low....the actual low point is several more kilometers out in the desert. But looking out at the expanse of desert, you really wouldn't be able to tell.

Like Death Valley (North America's lowest place), Turpan is extremely hot. In fact, it is the hottest place in China. The day we got there, it was quite pleasant in the morning but by the afternoon, when the sun was directly overhead, it reached 105 degrees.

Turpan is an oasis city and an ancient water stop on the Silk Road, and is famous for its grapes. There is a lovely pedestrian walkway that stretches for at least 3 km through the middle of town. The entire walkway is lined in marble and is shaded by trestles with grape vines. It seems as if the whole town gathers here during the long, lazy afternoon hours, to escape the blistering heat and to see and be seen.

Many of the Uighur residents of Turpan wear beautiful traditional clothing. Unlike the ethnic minorities of Yunnan province, who I suspect don "traditional" outfits mainly for the purpose of entertaining tourists, the Uighurs don’t seem to be just putting on a show for tourists. Culturally, the Uighurs share traits with both China and Central Asia. Linguistically and religiously, they have more in common with the Muslim nations of Central Asia, most of whose languages belong to the same language family as Turkish.

Almost all Uighur men wear little distinctive flat-topped round hats, which are a bit like the fezes of old Turkey, but with colorful embroidered patterns. The women wear beautiful dresses and vests, and also wear hats. Uighur women dress more liberally than women in some of the stricter Islamic countries. Veiled women are seen in public, but they are few and far between. A number of Uighurs share physical characteristics that people usually associate with Caucasians, such as freckles, curly hair, and blonde and red hair. s

I stayed at the Turpan Hotel, one of the nicest and most expensive hotels in town. But I stayed in the dorms, which are in the basement. Dank, not particularly clean, and overpriced at 30 yuan a bed, the one saving grace was that their subterranean location kept them satisfyingly cool. On the down side, the hotel charges 20 yuan for use of the swimming pool and only lets you shower once a day (between 3 pm and 11 pm only). In my dorm, I met Naomi from England, Paul from Ireland, and Alix from New Orleans. Alix is a professor of English and theater at Nanjing University, and doesn't look a day over 25.

There was a festival going on in Turpan when I was there. On the arbor walkway was a melon-tasting fair and a photography exhibition, with hundreds of photos of Turpan and Xinjiang people. On the downside, all train tickets cost extra in Xinjiang this week because of the festival.

The sun doesn't set until about 9:30  here. By the 8:30 the sun is low enough in the sky that the heat recedes and people congregate in the streets, arborway, and People's Park. They also crowd into the bazaar, among racks of lamb broil, dozens of varieties of raisins, and all manner of electronic goods.

In the afternoon, shared a taxi with Alix, Paul, and Naomi to a mosque on the outskirts of town famous for its minaret. Lets Go said I could climb the spiral staircase inside the minaret for a great view of Turpan, but when we arrived we learned that the minaret was closed to the public. The historic mosque, made of earth and mud, was both austere and elegant, with beams of sunlight illuminating the interior through skylights.

On my second day in Turpan, Alix, Paul, and Naomi and woke up early to go on an excursion. We chartered a taxi to take us 70 km to a Uighur village Alix had heard about. There was not really anything in the way of tourist infrastructure here, but tourists had to pay a 50 yuan entrance fee. I don’t know quite how to feel about things like this. Something seems wrong about charging an entrance fee to a real live village, as it seems to commercialize and commodify the village and its residents. But on the other hand, it is pretty miserly of me to complain about a mere six dollars in exchange for seeing such an excellent slice of authentic Uighur life in an ancient desert town.

There were no souvenir booths. People lived in Medieval mud huts, and left melons and squashes out on the roofs to dry. The village is nestled in the foothills and canyons of the Flaming Mountains, known for the red tint they take during the midday sun (when I was there the sky was grey and the mountains were more brown than red). I wandered along dusty lanes, through archways and tunnels, past mud-walled houses stacked atop each other, taking in this place that seemed straight out of picture books of ancient desert cities in the Middle East. I had lunch in a villager's house. The husband and wife fed me a delicious dish of seasoned green beans, raisins, fresh melon, and a hard bread which they soak in water to loosen up.

We continued our taxi ride. The taxi driver wanted to take us to all sorts of tourist traps set up around the outskirts of Turpan. This seems to be a pattern in many of China’s tourist destinations. Each town spawns designated "tourist stops”, and the taxi drivers and tourguides get commissions for delivering customers. They will try to sell passengers on the “full circuit”. Each tourist site shares common features, such as souvenir stands and opportunities to dress-up in ethnic or historical costumes for photographs.

The Flaming Mountains can be viewed for free from the road, but that didn’t stop some enterprising person from building an official “Flaming Mountains Viewing Site", where busloads of Chinese tourists pay money to pose for photographs. Next stop was the ruins of an ancient city. We didn't pay to go in, but instead reveled in the hoopla surrounding the entrance, where dozens of Uighur girls surrounded us, asked us questions, and tried to sell us bracelets and jewelry and bells. The girls were totally adorable and I think they knew it. It was difficult to say no. My traveling companions decried this situation, saying the girls were being used by their parents, and that it was a shame they were doing this instead of going to school. There was a Uighur band playing folk songs as people danced. I love Uighur music, especially the oboe-like suona (similar to the bulbous instrument played by snake charmers). Alix joined in the folk dancing and was having a terrific time mimicking the moves of the old Uighur man with the huge, bushy eyebrows, which moved furiously as part of his choreographed dance. This amused the crowd, both Chinese and Uighurs, a great deal, as a hundred or so people gathered around cheering, clapping, and laughing. I thought it was a spontaneous, delightful moment. I later found out that Alix had first paid the old man for the privilege of dancing with him.