On leaving China

Expletives abounded in my head as I sat in the waiting area after clearing Chinese airport security in Hotan. When I looked up from my pointless venting to find a man staring at me, I couldn't decide whether to shout or cry. Of course I did neither, my rage soon dissipated, short lived and wholly pointless.

As we taxied out, I saw the fighter jets taking off in front of us-the military uses the same airport. As we gained altitude, I saw rectangular plots of farmed land whose borders were defined by long rows of poplars, which then gave way to the ocean of sand that is the Taklamakan Desert (http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taklamakan_Desert). Some of the colors and sand formations were amazing. As we went further north, mountains appeared that appeared to be made of sand, half covered in snow. I tried to trace rivers and valleys as we flew but the pilots' flight plan did not cooperate.

I had an empty seat next to me on the leg to Urumqi. The man in the aisle seat must have been on his first flight. He seemed excited and a little nervous, clicking his seat belt buckle endlessly, raising up in his seat, looking around, then flipping the arm rest up and down. When I lowered my tray top, he watched me, and then did the same. Landing evoked a whole series of sounds-loud sighs and grunts, he clearly wanted to express his excitement and I was a disappointment because he could not communicate with me.

I spent my layover time trying to check in for the next flight (booked separately) and then clearing Chinese border control and immigration.

China, the part I saw anyway, is fascinating and complex. I am glad I went. It was barely a glimpse, as each of these stops are bound to be, but it's time to move on to Uzbekistan at last.

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.

Getting from here to there

The author in Rivertown, whose name I can't recall just now, describes his experience living in rural/small town China for a year.  He talks about how people were slow to warm up to him and his family. A lot of it is different cultural expectations and practices.

And here in Hotan, there is not just the Chinese way, but also the Uyghur way, and both are foreign to me.  It is perfectly ok here to cut in line, or push someone else out of line, or bump people as you walk.  Spitting is big business, you hear it constantly, the snort, the hawking and then the spit.  While some of the young children and the teenage girls smiled at me, very few adults seem to smile.

Hotan is a mixture of Han Chinese imported and settled here by the Chinese government, and the longer term inhabitants, the Uyghur people.  It is a collision of two different cultures to be sure. It seems like the center of town has a stronger Han influence.  But as you move even a block away, especially east, there are whole neighborhoods of people living a life that seems to ignore the fact that they are in China.

Away from the center is heavily Muslim and this shows particularly in the way women dress.  All wear head coverings, mostly scarves, and long skirts with leggings under them.  Some cover all but their eyes, but most leave their entire face uncovered, with all hair, ears and neck fully veiled. The variety of styles is impressive.  I do not get a sense of suppression or sadness in these women generally that I have seen in some Islamic countries.  They drive scooters, go to work and seem to have some say in their destinies.The men wear a sort of skull cap that has four squared off corners, dark green in color mostly, with gold or white embroidered designs. I thought about buying a cap as a souvenir, but it seemed disrespectful or somehow inappropriate.  You see women in the long chadors, and fully scarved, in heels and driving a scooter, or talking on a cell phone.  Or both.

Other women, either more progressive Uyghur or some other background, dress in knee length suits, very nicely turned out, still with a scarf, but less fully covered, usually dark or black tights.  These too you see driving scooters a lot.

Whole families travel on scooters, much like in Central or South America. The most I have seen is a woman with four young children on one.  Often a child of about two stands in the area between the seat and the steering wheel, bounded by the legs and knees of the driver.  Sometimes even younger children are sitting in that same area.  I have not seen anyone fall, although they perch so casually, without holding on, even when holding an infant.

As I was walking down the street

I can't tell if this curtain between us and the sun is smog, sand storms off the desert, both, or something else.  I have seen very little sunshine since being here.  There is a sort of yellow tinge to the overcast, and there is a coating of sand or grime of some sort on everything.  I saw a taxi driver cleaning his car windshield with a paint brush in the morning.  There are street sweepers/trash pickers on every major street, but still there is a layer of grit on everything.  This town is surrounded by desert so I would imagine that is a lot of it.

As I walked, I heard hammers and power tools on Saturday and Sunday. There are a lot of new buildings under construction, most of them 20 or more stories, and they seem to work seven days a week. I see a lot of not quite finished buildings, but have not seen a completed one yet. What is sad is the displacement of the traditional buildings and neighborhoods of the Uyghurs that are being destroyed to make way for the new high rises-almost systematically it seems.  Everywhere I look, I see the remains of the old sitting decrepit next to the new, and I wonder where those people went.

The police presence is palpable here.  I have seen several police actions in progress since being here.  They have huge armored vehicles that look like tanks, just on wheels.  They even have the openings in the top where you often see a couple of soldiers/officers with machine guns.There are big military style trucks that are constantly transporting personnel through town, and they have smaller installations all over downtown.  They stand guard in threes, with their backs making the inside of a triangle, with machine guns of some sort (I do not know guns), shields such as those used for riot protection, and various other weapons.  All of them seem to be 20 years old.  It feels more like an occupying army than a police force.  I suppose in this area of China that is what it is in many ways.  Apparently the Uyghurs, or some portion of them, are actively resisting.  Of course, we will never really know.

Needless to say, security is big business here. Hard to imagine what is spent on all this. I can't recall if I told you about the police officer I met at the airport in Hotan.  We had landed and I was waiting for my bag, and a man walked up and started talking to me in very good English.  He was friendly, and helpful too, but I can't help wondering if he wasn't also trying to assess whether I was a security threat.  He told me that terrorism is a big issue here in Hotan, and that he and nine other officers were just flying in for a short term special assignment to help the local police. He gave me his phone number in case I had an issue while in Hotan, which was very nice to have as a sort of emergency option, but the police never approached me, they just stared like everyone else.

And still, the little children play, things are bought and sold, lovers walk together, and life carries on.

I saw a tag today that said "100% silk" and right below that "100% wool".  I wondered about that.  Silk is big here because it is claimed that silk was first produced in this area of China.  It is also a big area for mining jade, and it is sold everywhere.  I know nothing about jade, unfortunately for those on my souvenir list.

Crossing the street is a pleasure akin to playing foosball, one lane at a time, and irrespective of the traffic signals.

"To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily. To not dare is to lose oneself." Kierkegaard

It occurs to me that the biggest part of how I experience this place is how I approach it, what I bring to it. It is a given that I do not speak Chinese or Uyghur. This will define the outer limits of what I can do, but it need not define the experience itself.

Another way to say it may be that if I can get past myself, and observe this alien world, I will get more from it. Aside from a physical threat, which I do not feel likely, any other anxiety is probably self imposed. No less real for that, but perhaps avoidable.

It is harder to be a voyeur when everyone else is staring back at me. As soon as I walk out the door of the hotel, those standing around turn and stare. I had to laugh a couple of times, as scooter/motorcycle riders turned to look back at me after passing me and almost wrecked.

I made a conscious decision to slow down a bit, at least while I am here.  This strangeness and the attention I get everywhere seems to exhaust me.  Good thing I don't have to worry about papparazi in ordinary life. Still, I won't travel all this way to hide in the hotel.

When I go into a store, a sales person either follows directly behind me the entire time, or stands directly in front of me and talks to me. In Chinese, no less.

I admire their curiosity, and I wish I could engage verbally better. Instead I smile (or grit my teeth, it looks pretty similar) and sometimes I take their picture.

I digress

More of China to come, just a little tidbit on the return to Almaty. I decided to take the easy way out of China, not wanting a repeat of my induction ceremonies. I flew back to Urumqi from Hotan but instead of staying overnight and getting the train to the border the next day, I just flew on to Almaty. Just...nothing that simple when dealing with Chinese customs and immigration. I survived unscathed, if you don't count the blood shed.

I knew what hotel I wanted in Almaty, so once I had negotiated a 1,,000 Tenge price for the taxi, I thought I was all set. I thought it was odd that the driver's friend hopped in front, but as I explained in a prior post, anyone can be a taxi in Almaty, so I let it go.

We got to the hotel and they started talking about 26,000 Tenge. What!? I reminded him of the 1,000 agreement and he said that was just the meter drop. That's when I knew I had a problem, because he definitely had NOT said that. He 'generously' offered to accept 10,000 Tenge. My bags were in the trunk, there were two of them, and it was dark. Still, I refused to be completely ripped off, on principle, and because I didn't have that much in Tenge anyway. At that point the driver wanted me to get my money out and count it. Ha! Not a chance.

I finally convinced one of them to come in the hotel with me (and my bags) to discuss with the staff there. If nothing else, I felt that moving it into the lighted room, with witnesses, reduced my chances of getting mugged. Oddly enough, while I knew I was at risk, I never felt freaked out. I wouldn't want to test it, but my sense was that these two guys wouldn't resort to violence.

Stroke of luck, the really competent guy I remembered from my earlier stay there was working. I asked him how much is customary to pay from the airport. I think up he guessed on the high side, but it was worth it to get rid of those guys. 5,000 Tenge later, they finally slunk off.

All is well that ends well, so 'they' say.

This afternoon, after I had walked far, far away, and not desiring to walk all the way back, I tried to catch a bus.  But the people who were trying to help me told me to take a taxi instead, based on where I was, and where I wanted to go.  So I stood at the curb looking for a car with a taxi label.  I could hear two young women behind me tittering, and I figured it had to do with me.  After a bit, one walked up, introduced herself and asked if she could help me get a taxi.  I knew enought not to turn that down.  A car immediately pulled over and she talked to the driver, a middle aged Russian man driving a Mercedes Benz.  I remembered all those cautions about not not getting into a car with a stranger, but on my new friend's advice, I took the plunge.  Soon we had two other passengers as well, and I stopped white knuckling the bag in my hand.  We struggled through the cross-town rush hour traffic, and I was happily deposited a couple of blocks from my hotel.

Where cars park on the sidewalk and pedestrians walk in the road

As I left the train at Urumqi, I ran into a Kazak woman who had come to practice her English with me on the train.  She was with another woman, Marina, who apparently travels for business.  They were headed to a hotel that Marina had chosen, and Deena asked me if I wanted to go too, and share a taxi with them.  I had planned to stay at another hotel, but I had no reservations and I figured, why not?  It made the taxi process much easier, because Marina could communicate with the driver.

But the hotel ended up being a poor choice for me, for several reasons. It appears to be a business hotel that caters in particular to Kazak travelers, and it is not located close to the center of the city, which is where I wanted to be. They insisted on keeping my passport, which I did not like.  I asked about internet, but no internet available in the hotel, other than in a little cafe, where you had to pay 10 Yuan for it.  Next I asked for a map, so I could figure out how to get places.  To be fair, I doubt their clientele usually goes walkabout in the city, they probably take a cab to any business meetings.  But they had no map, and no suggestions about where to find one. I asked them to change some of my 100 Yuan notes, but even though they offer currency exchange, they would not do that either.  It was not a happy relationship, short though it was.

I decided to go exploring anyway, and see if I could figure out how to get to the city centre.

Things started looking up immediately. Just by chance, I wandered down a street with some vendors just setting up for the day-steamed buns, nan and other food. The street was just beginning to come to life, children were just emerging onto the sidewalk, clearly part of their everyday living space.

I wanted to try a steamed bun of some sort but I was pretty sure my 100 Yuan note was not going to work for such a small purchase, so early in the day.  I showed her the note, just as two guys walked up to buy some as well. One of them changed the note for me, and I bought my two buns for 1 Yuan, and happily munched as I walked.  They were delicious.  I know they had egg and some sort of greens in them, but not sure what seasoning.  I came across a young Muslim boy working at an outdoor bakery of sorts, and bought a thing that looked a lot  like a bagel from the stack in front of the shop.  I tried very hard to keep track of how I went, so I could find my way home, going to far as to draw a simple map.

This process got me to the Ring Road, which I thought went round the city. Only the Ring Road isn't really quite a ring, and it has tendrils that spin off, leaving measure which is the Ring and which the false start. I found myself in a pulsing, neon, ultra modern downtown filled with high rise buildings and freeways, and all the crowds and chaos that go with any city. It was in some ways all cities everywhere.

There are exceptions, but generally I prefer small towns for this reason.  Less uniformity, more character readily discovered as a general rule.  The drawback to small towns is that they are not set up for tourists, especially those who do not know the local language.

Imagine someone who spoke only Russian and Kazak coming to Santa Rosa instead of San Francisco, or Morton, IL vs Chicago.  It is just a lot easier to find people who can help you in the larger cities, they are easier to get to, and easier to get around in.
Ordinary people that I interact with give me the impression that they think I am a little crazy to be here without knowing the language. The guy who had changed my 100 Yuan note for me did not speak any English but he said something like "Russki, no English" and some other things I did not understand.  I took him to be telling me that I should speak Russian, not English in order to be there. I would if I could.

There was a delightful discovery of a Uyghur market in the afternoon, filled with vegetables and everyday things, from knives to headscarves, piles of walnuts and various food vendors hawking their wares to the throngs of non-Han Chinese on their way home from work.

Alas, it was about 5 pm, and I did not relish the idea of finding my way home in the dark, so I commenced looking for the Ring Road. I knew the street name the hotel was on, and wonder of wonders, someone understood me! She said to catch the #10 bus, so that was what I did.  Only I got off too soon, and ended up walking past some very smelly butcher shops- using the term 'shop' very loosely.The skins, freshly harvested, were piled on the ground outside, and there  was a hole at the base of the rough adobe structure that allowed the offal to run out.  Two men were sorting through that outside, and it was dirty, smelly work.  It was about this time that I realized I surely had gone the wrong way.

So I tried to flag down a taxi, but no takers.  I saw a line of cars across the street and it took me a few minutes to realize they were lined up to buy gas.  Apparently gas is very hard to come by here.  Often the stations do not have any to sell, and when they get some, the cars line up for blocks to buy it.  There is a police officer with a gun standing at the entrance, and he regulates traffic into the station, and inspects the trunks of each incoming car.  In fact, our hotel had a similar set up to get into the plaza where it was located.  The cars have to stop for the officer, who may or may not inspect, and then once allowed in, they have to wind their way through a maze of road blocks designed to prevent a quick entry.  There are police everywhere here.

Upon returning to the hotel, I looked at options for dinner.  There was a restaurant in the hotel which turned out to be closed.  I went out and walked around in the vicinity, and found a restaurant that was open.  It had white tablecloths and there were some guests eating, it looked warm and inviting. And all at once, it just wasn't worth the effort.  The weight of the day had accumulated on me.  I went to the Metpo and bought a package of cookies and a Pepsi. I took them up to my unheated room, I wrapped up in the cover from the second bed, and read about Greek mythology. I fell asleep shortly thereafter with all the lights on.  Thus ended my first day in China.