We left a sleepy Urumqi in the quiet hours of a maiden morning. The air tinged of a slight melancholy akin to a beautiful canvas painted with bold strokes of pink and purple while the crystal blue horizon slowly ebbed away as we hailed our second cab within minutes (first one didn't want to take us so we had to settle with a chain smoker that thought infusing his air-conditioned car was the best way to keep the doctors away daily).
My mind drifted momentarily to a few hours before we tucked our sleepy eyes to the last pages of bed time reading and still couldn't believe the fashion we ended our "last night in town". Together with our Japanese friend, Sayaka-san, we left the hostel to walk towards a jungle of a People's Park that had seen better grass trimming days. The night markets were not in their usual level, what not I reckoned most of the stalls were manned by Chinese looking fellows, with the few exceptions of a few Uighurs that probably had to bribe their way to be allowed to open their stalls tonight... and a lot of doing-nothing uniformed men bearing the badge "public security" sitting around typing away their sms messages.
As we settled into our dinner, the table next to us were a curious crew of three Han Chinese men and an anorexic Chinese lady. All looked with healthy attention at hubby and finally the usual spew of questions came along. "Hey Mei Nue, where is he from?", "Does he speak Chinese?", "Can I cheers with him?", "Can I take a photograph with him?", "Oh, they have Chinese in Malaysia?", and so on until a few beer glasses later, we were invited to sit with the Urumqi-born Hans and they insisted to "no drunk no go home" policy and that I must interpret it into Cantonese for both hubby and Sayaka-san. I did so in English too.
Between cheeky conversations of age, the best cigarette brand in China, how did we like Urumqi, that it's fate that brought us together (now we're getting sentimental) and more beer bottles later, the three of us were trying our best to politely decline the further assault of alcohol. A few WC trips thrown into the picture, I was continuing playing the role of international relations translator and many incessant rounds of returning their gracious wishes on my part of due Chinese manners.
"Oh no, it is my honour tonight..."
"No, no, no (hic), it is our honour, come let us cheers.... how do you say bottoms up in English" they asked in Mandarin.
"Here, we cheers to friends forever"
(Teary eyed and all, I swore there was a slight trembling on their chins) "It is truly our destiny to meet, you must call our contact in Kashgar, they will take care of you"
"Oh no, I can't trouble you..."
"No, no, no (hic, hic) you must!"
"No, really, it's too much trouble" (notice the second refusal?)
"You must, you must" (more cheers)
"I am truly touched, thank you, it will not be necessary"
They shoved a badly written piece of torn paper with their telephone numbers. "You must return to Urumqi and call us, we must treat you to more Bai Jiu"
We walked back in the cold of midnight, in disbelief at the fun we had encountered so unexpectedly, and as so when we left for Kashgar this morning, still quite in disbelief. Some times it's one thing meeting one layer of the people, it's another bumping into complete drunk strangers who just were equally as fascinated by you (or in this case, my superstar hubby) because you're just so - different.
Plus they took a lot of photographs with us, insisting that we posed with them with the "V" for victory finger sign. That is a piece of document that I must hide from the world!
My mind drifted momentarily to a few hours before we tucked our sleepy eyes to the last pages of bed time reading and still couldn't believe the fashion we ended our "last night in town". Together with our Japanese friend, Sayaka-san, we left the hostel to walk towards a jungle of a People's Park that had seen better grass trimming days. The night markets were not in their usual level, what not I reckoned most of the stalls were manned by Chinese looking fellows, with the few exceptions of a few Uighurs that probably had to bribe their way to be allowed to open their stalls tonight... and a lot of doing-nothing uniformed men bearing the badge "public security" sitting around typing away their sms messages.
As we settled into our dinner, the table next to us were a curious crew of three Han Chinese men and an anorexic Chinese lady. All looked with healthy attention at hubby and finally the usual spew of questions came along. "Hey Mei Nue, where is he from?", "Does he speak Chinese?", "Can I cheers with him?", "Can I take a photograph with him?", "Oh, they have Chinese in Malaysia?", and so on until a few beer glasses later, we were invited to sit with the Urumqi-born Hans and they insisted to "no drunk no go home" policy and that I must interpret it into Cantonese for both hubby and Sayaka-san. I did so in English too.
Between cheeky conversations of age, the best cigarette brand in China, how did we like Urumqi, that it's fate that brought us together (now we're getting sentimental) and more beer bottles later, the three of us were trying our best to politely decline the further assault of alcohol. A few WC trips thrown into the picture, I was continuing playing the role of international relations translator and many incessant rounds of returning their gracious wishes on my part of due Chinese manners.
"Oh no, it is my honour tonight..."
"No, no, no (hic), it is our honour, come let us cheers.... how do you say bottoms up in English" they asked in Mandarin.
"Here, we cheers to friends forever"
(Teary eyed and all, I swore there was a slight trembling on their chins) "It is truly our destiny to meet, you must call our contact in Kashgar, they will take care of you"
"Oh no, I can't trouble you..."
"No, no, no (hic, hic) you must!"
"No, really, it's too much trouble" (notice the second refusal?)
"You must, you must" (more cheers)
"I am truly touched, thank you, it will not be necessary"
They shoved a badly written piece of torn paper with their telephone numbers. "You must return to Urumqi and call us, we must treat you to more Bai Jiu"
We walked back in the cold of midnight, in disbelief at the fun we had encountered so unexpectedly, and as so when we left for Kashgar this morning, still quite in disbelief. Some times it's one thing meeting one layer of the people, it's another bumping into complete drunk strangers who just were equally as fascinated by you (or in this case, my superstar hubby) because you're just so - different.
Plus they took a lot of photographs with us, insisting that we posed with them with the "V" for victory finger sign. That is a piece of document that I must hide from the world!
Anyway, here we are, in a part of China that isn't really Beijing-China. Catch my drift? Think about walking in a field one day and you stumble upon a hole. Now that you slowly descend into the hole because curiosity got the better hold of you, traces of lamb and spice surge up. You decide to crawl in further, in the dark you can't figure out much but just enough in the faint light to register that the ground above is still the same field that you are on moments ago but it's a completely different world down here. Still with me? Finally, getting on firm ground, you wander along and meet some dwellers in this special world. They speak a tongue you don't understand, they move and act in a much more assertive manner. You still get a bowl of watered tea to quench your thirst but you sense that it'll be a darn long time and a lot of work before you earn their respect and trust.
Not exactly the best analogy in the world (no pun) but welcome to Kashgar, the ancient gateway of the silk route and melting pot of cultures. The first impression you get from this city is a strong, independent spirit that permeates the running traffic, honks and bazaars. Sandy beige and old 1960s Russian splatters of colours, it felt like turning a dusty page on a first edition of Robinson Crusoe's maps. Our little misadventure, to start with, took us to look for the Idkah Mosque - our central landmark for our hostel. Now if you're a fan of his, you will begin to feel from this moment that you've been casted as one of the extras in the making of a Dalrymple book on old Delhi. Aside of the mandatory PSB and police stations, this town is the most un-Han inhabited city in the kingdom of China. We were led into a maze of unpronounceable streets by a hair-chested Uighur (whom we later suspected just wanted to lead us to his hostel!) that eventually led to nowhere but the wrong way from our hostel, yet it proved to be better than any Lonely Planet guide book you'll have. Point is that we were sure he wasn't leading us into the local ghetto but we saw loads of alleys and streets, madrasah and stalls that just exploded with the potential screaming "photography material"!
Many a gentlemen asked hubby if we needed help (after we ditched our "helpful" Harry) and we came back out onto the right direction after passing by carpenters, butchers, women in purdah. This is a city that I have to adjust my interaction. Note to self: this may be technically "China" but the culture is a world apart. Of no fault of their own, I approached albeit politely asking in Chinese regarding directions, a local Uighur man passing by and I think I must have pissed him off. First, unless he was a thousand years old and a grandfather, even my feeble attempt at Asalamualaikum and broken phrases of Arabic couldn't get me a nod of approval. Second, it was just too "brash" for me to approach them in my "Western" politeness. My bet. Lesson learnt. I love travelling!
But boy oh boy, hubby would put Rajnikanth Superstar to shame with his machismo beard. The Hans love it. The Uighurs approve of it. He became my mascot to oil the wheel of direction-asking when the map turned out to be a dud. In the end we checked into our hostel, a lovely place smacked in the heart of the main area where the mosque lays and the lanes of old bazaars selling something of everything. Think old double-storey carved buildings with tea verandas, think the freshest tomatoes, watermelons and honeydews being sold, think mountain-high piles of naan and think old mugs of slow-boiled mutton soup. This place rocks.
If you come expecting it to be a pluck out of a polished, glossy Vogue magazine on travel, then you may be disappointed. Kashgar is in perpetual rebuilding. The breaking and patching up of things around you, intermixing with a carpet stall there, some old men hanging about chatting in heavy Arabic accents, while veiled beautifully cladded women walked about the main square occupied by roses and pigeons, are a sign of the coming of age of this place. It's a long road and Kashgar is old. But it pulsates with a certain sense of sublimity that only so subtle that you have to stay long enough to discover her magic. Tune in to "local" time, which is two hours behind Beijing's. Walk about. Observe a new society going about its life as it has in years.
I guarantee you that there will be more to come. This ain't like any other place you'll see... Just over the Tian Shan Range and there it is.
Not exactly the best analogy in the world (no pun) but welcome to Kashgar, the ancient gateway of the silk route and melting pot of cultures. The first impression you get from this city is a strong, independent spirit that permeates the running traffic, honks and bazaars. Sandy beige and old 1960s Russian splatters of colours, it felt like turning a dusty page on a first edition of Robinson Crusoe's maps. Our little misadventure, to start with, took us to look for the Idkah Mosque - our central landmark for our hostel. Now if you're a fan of his, you will begin to feel from this moment that you've been casted as one of the extras in the making of a Dalrymple book on old Delhi. Aside of the mandatory PSB and police stations, this town is the most un-Han inhabited city in the kingdom of China. We were led into a maze of unpronounceable streets by a hair-chested Uighur (whom we later suspected just wanted to lead us to his hostel!) that eventually led to nowhere but the wrong way from our hostel, yet it proved to be better than any Lonely Planet guide book you'll have. Point is that we were sure he wasn't leading us into the local ghetto but we saw loads of alleys and streets, madrasah and stalls that just exploded with the potential screaming "photography material"!
Many a gentlemen asked hubby if we needed help (after we ditched our "helpful" Harry) and we came back out onto the right direction after passing by carpenters, butchers, women in purdah. This is a city that I have to adjust my interaction. Note to self: this may be technically "China" but the culture is a world apart. Of no fault of their own, I approached albeit politely asking in Chinese regarding directions, a local Uighur man passing by and I think I must have pissed him off. First, unless he was a thousand years old and a grandfather, even my feeble attempt at Asalamualaikum and broken phrases of Arabic couldn't get me a nod of approval. Second, it was just too "brash" for me to approach them in my "Western" politeness. My bet. Lesson learnt. I love travelling!
But boy oh boy, hubby would put Rajnikanth Superstar to shame with his machismo beard. The Hans love it. The Uighurs approve of it. He became my mascot to oil the wheel of direction-asking when the map turned out to be a dud. In the end we checked into our hostel, a lovely place smacked in the heart of the main area where the mosque lays and the lanes of old bazaars selling something of everything. Think old double-storey carved buildings with tea verandas, think the freshest tomatoes, watermelons and honeydews being sold, think mountain-high piles of naan and think old mugs of slow-boiled mutton soup. This place rocks.
If you come expecting it to be a pluck out of a polished, glossy Vogue magazine on travel, then you may be disappointed. Kashgar is in perpetual rebuilding. The breaking and patching up of things around you, intermixing with a carpet stall there, some old men hanging about chatting in heavy Arabic accents, while veiled beautifully cladded women walked about the main square occupied by roses and pigeons, are a sign of the coming of age of this place. It's a long road and Kashgar is old. But it pulsates with a certain sense of sublimity that only so subtle that you have to stay long enough to discover her magic. Tune in to "local" time, which is two hours behind Beijing's. Walk about. Observe a new society going about its life as it has in years.
I guarantee you that there will be more to come. This ain't like any other place you'll see... Just over the Tian Shan Range and there it is.
