The last of Hotan

The one child policy clearly has not been applied to the Uyghur population.  Children abound and they seem to be cherished and mostly happy.

This may be more of a Han thing, but the very young often go about with slitted trousers, at least at home.  I saw a young child squatting on the pavement this morning, shitting and peeing in her bare feet.  Careful to keep my facial expression neutral, I walked on. The next day as I walked and saw excrement on the sidewalk, I felt a revulsion when it occured to me that it probably was not from a dog.  I know that is just my squeamish American view, but still.

The Sunday market is a huge bazaar, held partly indoors and partly out, all in filthy surroundings.  Yet the goods are not somehow. Vending everything imaginable, sellers ply their wares while children run and play, and scooters and carts try to squeeze through the crowd of pedestrians.  Not a single one tried to sell me anything, which must mean that not too many tourists end up there, or they would know what an easy mark we are.

At one stand, a sheep is being butchered while another waits in what I only hope is innocence, next to a vegetable stand, then a keymaker, now scarves, pyjamas, padded leggings for women for the winter and long underwear for the men.  Clothing and cheap plastic toys for infants, huge rolls of fabric, noodles and various dishes, prayer rugs, flashy rings and watches, and more.  So much more.

I follow one path and the market eventually peters out and it becomes a neighborhood street.  I am befriended by a woman who happily talks to me and whom I answer gleefully.  Neither knows what the other is saying but I know she wants me to come with her.  She is the first adult to be friendly to me in a number of days.  Still, I hesitate to commit to following her when I don't know where she is going.  We part ways with a wave.

I ran across a honey vendor who had his extractor and some frames with him, and various bee-related products, and of course this made me think of Clay.

I happened to turn down the street where all the tin vendors are located, and got to watch some of them at work, shaping and pounding out tin by hand.

I walked down a quiet neighborhood street, which was a nice break from the constant chaos.  These streets are just wide enough for a car and a scooter to pass.  Along each side, tall walls form compounds, with large double wooden gates closed to the world.  Just a few were standing open, and I could see inside a courtyard, sometimes covered, with rooms leading off of that.  The courtyard seemed to be a sort of living room in some, and a garage for the family car in others.  Perhaps it is both.  The floors were tiled, and I wished for someone to invite me in for a tour. Shockingly, no one did.

This area is known for miles of pathways covered by trellised grapevines, which provide both fruit and shade, and it creates a lovely dappled sunshine when the smog/sand is not too thick to block the sun altogether. Even though this area is surrounded by desert, it is an oasis due to the two rivers that converge here, and on the old Silk Road, it was a heavenly respite where things like melons, grapes and all manner of vegetables were grown and sold to weary travelers.

I meandered down one of these covered lanes and a young woman on a scooter came after me to talk.  I believe she said she was a nurse (she showed me a picture on her phone of herself with a mask on her face).  Then she went on, but as I came to her house, she came back out with an elementary English book to carry on a further discourse.  She wrote her name in the dirt with her finger, but I have already forgotten it.  Her mother came out and met me too, and then the young woman excused herself, ran inside and brought out a plastic bag with a cooked ear of corn and a slice of cooked squash for me to take on my journey.  The kindness of strangers always delights.

You can still buy charcoal by the block, baked sweet potatoes, baked eggs, and melons.  Lots of melons still, although I am sure winter will end that supply soon.  Were I braver, or more foolish, I would rent a car and drive into the hinterlands to see what I could see.  If ever I come this way again, I will first obtain an English speaking guide for the duration.