The Silk Road - Kashgar Kaleidoscope

In my writings about our Silk Road adventure, I have often struggled to put my experiences, and what I saw, into words. The images remain with me forever. More so, the ambience of each place visited is in safekeeping with my memories. Allowing me to revisit and to appreciate those moments at any given time. The journey was a unique experience. One filled with emotions. 

The ancient city of Kashgar welcomed us with a sense of warmth and hospitality. Located at the foot of the Pamir Mountain Range, this unique oasis city served as a trading post on the Silk Road for over 2000 years. It is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world. On hearing this information, I was disbelieving once more, of the fact that so many of these places along the Silk Road still existed. Not only that, but that they continue to function day to day. Providing firm, unwavering bases on which people build their lives. Their reality. 

Kashgar lies nearly 4000 kilometres west of Beijing. We were a long way from home. But in every sense other than physical location, I felt as though I’d arrived home from distant journeys. Remnants from past lives, I wondered. Despite the environment being more foreign to my own than anywhere else before, almost alien in a sense, I was at ease. An intense feeling of belonging enveloped me, fuelling the desire to explore. And explore we did. Stepping into the various chapters written and created by those who passed along the route earlier.

For many hours we meandered through alleyways of bygone eras. The past, belonging to the Old City, beckoning us to walk that extra mile. To peek around the next corner. To simply sit on stone steps and watch everyday life in motion. Slow motion, for it was hot that day. There was no chaos. No rush in the Old City. The pace itself, drowsy with contentment and the security of routine. Imagining the hustle and bustle that once was, back in the time when Kashgar served as the main junction of routes, was almost impossible now. Traders, camels and anything or anyone else making the journey along the Silk Road was familiar with the Old City of Kashgar. Travellers from Russia, Afghanistan, India, Tibet and the Taklamakan Desert took refuge there. Creating a medley of life. Colourful and rich. Today Kashgar is the terminus of the Karakoram Highway, which makes its way along the China – Pakistan Economic Corridor.

As we wandered deeper into the Old City, threads of vibrant colours weaved their way through the darkness of times past. Illuminating past creations and traditions. Keeping each treasured one alive. To be used and cherished each day. Never to be forgotten. To enhance the new stories being created by Kashgar's people of today. 

The strong Turkish influence everywhere led us to question the history of Kashgar. However, after a long-drawn-out explanation, I was none the wiser and very much more confused. The history is fraught with complexity. It was turbulent. The Yuedzhi, Usun and Kushan tribes battled it out in the area. In later centuries, Turkic tribes, Chinese troops, the Karakhanids, the Mongols and the Tamerlane troops continued the  vicious battles. At this stage of the explanation, Mom and I quietly disappeared around the corner to purchase fresh Naan bread. Hoping in our absence that the explanation would reach an end. Or make any sense.  On our return, the speaker continued. We bit huge chunks of the piping hot flatbread, with its traditional mix of black onion seeds, sesame seeds and chopped garlic, losing all focus on the complex explanations delivered by our guide, as the flavours mingled to fill our bellies. 

In short, I gathered that in the eighteenth century, Chinese troops captured East Turkestan and annexed it to the Chinese Empire. The Uyghurs  fought  for their independence from China. In 1864 the Yakub-Beg Rebellion took place in Kashgar. For thirteen years Kashgar was independent from China. In 1877 Yakub-Beg, the Muslim adventurer, passed away and Kashgar once more belonged to China. With a population of over 700 000, the streets of Kashgar are a melting pot of nationalities. Russians, Tajik, Xibo, Daur, Kirghiz, Hui, Uyghur, Kazak, Tatar, Uzbek and Mongolians eke out an existence, side by side.

The flatbread did wonders for my appetite. However, as I walked deeper into the alleyways, lingering aromas filled the air. My theory is that when exploring a new culture, one needs to eat the local foods. I have absolutely no problem with this philosophy. Here and there, nestled in between the vegetable sellers, was a vast array of friendly hawkers. Their baskets lying in simplicity on the ground. Abundant health and goodness spilling out. The colourful selection of  goods included huge juicy olives, freshly baked-bread, honey and of course, raisins. The seller of dates was perched on a bench quietly in the background. His pride and joy on display before him. Tiny in stature, the lady selling her eggs negotiated her best price.  Freshly roasted mutton wafted through the air. I found myself in heaven. Needless to say, fully embracing the culture … 

This splendid meal on the street was completed with a Matang. Grapes are boiled with sugar until the mixture resembles a thick syrup. Crushed walnuts are then added to the sticky delight. The decadent mixture then cools down and is served in squares. There is nothing quite like a Matang to round off a meal on the streets in Kashgar.

The streets of the Old City of Kashgar held us captivated. A photographer’s paradise indeed. Once more, the people stole my heart. Their faces, always interesting. Being tall and blonde, I created a fair amount of interest too. The fact that Yvonne was with me and clearly we have a loving bond, appealed to them. The Uyghurs have a deep respect for the elderly. We were showered with the gentle nodding of heads, the odd thumbs-up and of course, endless smiles from the women. I, in turn, found it hard to take my eyes off certain gentlemen who I found to be that extra bit fascinating. One in particular, melted my heart there and then. After all, those etched lines, that wicked smile, those dark eyes …

Uyghur men sit around and drink tea. They often gather in a Mashrap – a small group in which somebody often plays a musical instrument. Yvonne and I visited many intriguing shops in which knives were sold alongside exquisite musical instruments. Through all my years of living in China, I have come to love and respect both the sounds of Xinjiang musical instruments and the haunting voices of the men when singing. There is almost an eerie shrill at certain points in the song. Giving rise to deeply embedded emotions suddenly resurfacing. Bringing with them a certain vulnerability.

Outside the door of a carpenter’s shop, a man was selling copper kettles. His pride in his goods evident in the way he buffed each item. Stopping only to chat to a friend. To share a cigarette. The various craftsmen  in the Old City each had an insignificant space in which they put their age-old traditions and creativity into practice. Tiny spaces producing enormous beauty. The pace of life within those spaces, calm and nurturing. Their faces, conveying a sense of pride and of serenity, which they obviously derive from the many hours spent working on their chosen projects.

I was astounded by the selection of tools used by the craftsmen. Of basic metals and design. Relatively crude. They created wonders though. Man and his tools. Hours spent together, hunched over in unison. In the same space with only themselves as company. Friends did stop by. Chatting, no doubt, about the sales of the day, their wives or other domestic concerns. Or about the tall blonde smiling at them. Once or twice, a friend from the next work space was called upon to take a look at the foreigners. Smiles were exchanged. Goods were held up to be admired. Accompanied by long explanations in local dialect. Each one of these encounters providing a deeper insight into life in Kashgar. What I learnt that day provided me with a wealth of knowledge. A deeper understanding and acceptance of others. And more importantly, gratitude for my life.

Our ambling through narrow alleyways immersed me in an aura of calm. It was beautiful. That feeling. I felt as though we were glancing through the pages of someone’s personal diary. And we were. With respect of course.  However, it was a most welcoming record of events. We felt honoured to witness life there. For now, many Uyghurs live in modern houses and apartments. The mud-brick homes in the Old City are cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Most are interconnected with central courtyards. Sadly we did not enter a home, but I believe they are decorated with carpets and paintings. 

My fascination with doors began in Zanzibar. I think I photographed every possible door in sight. Exquisite they were. However, the doors in the Old City of Kashgar earned regal status in my book. Ever so often we would pass a brightly coloured door. Giving testament to the joys in life. I stood in silence gazing at one certain door when it suddenly opened and from behind it, appeared the most exquisite child. She was clearly intrigued by us. She was shy. Words were not necessary at that moment. Our modern world and her ancient world became one during those few precious moments. That beautiful girl simply smiled at us as we walked on. I felt as though the past had truly presented itself to us. Through the presence of that young girl.

Our guide, Muhammed, had told us to meet at the Kashgar Grand Bazaar. Easy enough, I thought. Being totally immersed in the past, I did not have a clue as to our whereabouts at one stage. People were incredibly friendly but the language barrier presented a problem. One can always rely on hand gestures and facial expressions. However, the thought of acting out an object on sale in the Grand Bazaar, alarmed me. That was until I remembered the carpets on sale there. The camel-hair carpets in particular. “One hump, two humps. Four legs. Huge body.” Using different tones and gestures, I finally acted out walking along a flat carpet. Getting my message across to a local taxi driver proved amusing. Until I pointed to his carpet – the one hugging the interior of his ‘taxi.’ Adding a lavish touch of luxury.

Kashgar Grand Bazaar. One of the largest markets in Asia, with almost 200 000 people visiting each Sunday. With a choice of 5000 stalls heaving with pots, pans, musical instruments, pashminas, furs, clothing, spices, knives and everything else imaginable, Dabazha, as it’s known locally, is a trading centre of mammoth proportions. The carpet section screamed out at me. Beckoning me to take a closer look. Silk Kashgari and camel-hair carpets were strewn across tables and floors in abundance. Their sheer magnificence overwhelming. Each one, a masterpiece,  glared at me whilst begging to live in my home. What was I to do? We wandered up and down the aisles. In awe of everything and everyone. The array of colours and textures adding to the already striking expanse of merchandise.

As we retraced the footsteps of ancient traders along the alleyways of the Old City, the sad reality of Kashgar is that each month, a new skyscraper is built. The past slowly losing its powerful grip. Fading away as modernity replaces history. A tragic occurrence. But unavoidable. However, the potency of traditions is what keeps life along The Silk Road a treasured and beautiful experience.

After long periods of tormenting decision-making regarding choices, we headed out of Kashgar, laden with my selection of camel-hair carpets, to visit the Apak Hoja Mausoleum. Muhammad Yusuf Khoja was a seventeenth-century Naqshbandi Sufi leader, active in spreading Sufism. He and seventy two members of his family were buried in tombs within the incredible complex.

Following Islamic style, this magnificent tomb was built in 1640 AD. She stands proud and elegant. Breathtakingly beautiful. The outer walls are covered in exquisite mosaic tiles of green, yellow and blue. We walked through the complex in silence, for fear of disturbing something sacred. Impressive wooden beams, decorated in superb detail, supported four prayer halls. What stories they could share, I wondered, having witnessed so much of life in the past. 

Our day spent wandering through the streets of ancient Kashgar came to an end in the warmth of a local home. Accompanying us, memories and unique experiences captured. We sat with our group on huge cushions on the floor. In a state of exhausted elation. Joyful activity buzzed around us. Local Uyghur music looped its path between friends. The ambience was almost surreal. Surrounded by love and a desire to share, in the heart of a Uyghur family, we sipped the welcome local beers. The head of the family gingerly presented Mom with a birthday cake. In Turkic, the language spoken by Uyghurs, below the flowers of icing, was written, Happy 80th Birthday.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room as we settled down to devour the meal of succulent lamb. Huge bowls of delicious raisins adorned the low tables. Trays of thick yoghurt drizzled in honey were presented. A simple meal, but one of delectable flavours and quality. The extraordinary dinner came to an end when Edwin, our tour leader and angel of note, sang to Mom in the local dialect. It was at that exact moment that I knew Yvonne had celebrated her milestone birthday in a manner she so deserved.

To be continued …