Arslanbob, KyrgyzstanI returned to Kyrgyzstan in a mad dash for the World Nomad Games up in the north of the country, but not without time for a couple of short but worthwhile stopovers: first for Kyrgyzstan’s independence day celebrations in Osh, and then a double-overnight in the walnut-forested hills of Arslanbob.
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Dushanbe, TajikistanAfter seeing nothing but humble villages and even the largest town (Khorog) with a little wear-and-tear out in eastern Tajikistan, it was jarring to see the roads improve rapidly and the level of development rise once we continued into the west and left the Tajikistan/Afghanistan border. The scenery changes into a generally more monotonous flat, hot, and dry valley, and I found myself missing the dramatic Wakhan and Pamir mountains pretty quickly.
There were exceptions though: aside from the fleeting glimpse of the ultra-blue Nurek Reservoir, take the clearly-reconstructed yet still very different sight of the Hulbuk Fortress, dating back to the 11th century. There was a wedding going on outside. Joined by Israelis Oren, Erit, and Ido on our ride with Munar to Dushanbe, Oren must now have cemented himself as a legendary figure who descended upon a wedding party, proceeded to dance circles around everyone, then disappeared as the police broke up the party before even getting to introduce himself. Heh.
Then a few hundred more kilometres and then bam, Dushanbe.
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Pamir Highway and Wakhan Valley, TajikistanTajikistan stands in contrast to its other ex-Soviet (Commonwealth of Independent States, CIS) neighbours. Where the others all speak Turkic languages and look anywhere between Eurasian and Mongol, Tajik people are Persian. The change in demographic is jarringly visible once encountered.
But never mind Tajik people for now: the Gorno-Badakhshan region on the country, comprising of the eastern half (almost 50% of Tajikistan) yet containing only 3% of its population, is nearly all Pamiri (also Persian) and Kyrgyz. Kyrgyz yurts dot the sparse landscape in the far east, and small, humble Pamiri villages are a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it occurence along the road. Detouring off the Pamir Highway leads you to the Wakhan Valley road, which traces the Panj River (the merged Pamir and Wakhan Rivers) that also marks the border of 
Afghanistan for over a thousand kilometres. The Pamir Highway itself, if you stay on it the whole time, goes from Kyrgyzstan through Tajikistan to Afghanistan via a shorter route.
Transport in such a region is very sparse, and so I joined up again with Tom (Ireland) and hopped into a 4×4 with Munar, the manager of the guesthouse we stayed at in Osh, who was also heading to Tajikistan for the first time. With a 1600 km route to Dushanbe and only 6 days to get there, we still managed to squeeze in more than enough stops.
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Osh, KyrgyzstanThe change from China to Kyrgyzstan isn’t sudden. Towns become villages become a simple row of houses, then back again in reverse. Kashgar is in a hot lowland; cross the beautiful Irkeshtam Pass demarcating the border, going up and down mountains and valleys, then descend to Osh, also in a hot lowland.
But take that away, and the differences are stark. Chinese is now replaced by Cyrillic script, used for both Kyrgyz and Russian, the two official languages of Kyrgyzstan. (In China, the Arabic alphabet is still used for Kyrgyz.) Various places are named after Joseph Lenin, who is also memorialised in Osh with a giant statue. Houses look like those from the West. Road signs are European-style. There’s no more communist or nationalistic messaging, though some blocky Soviet-era buildings and apartments still stand. Everything seems a lot more humble and rural.
As wonderful as China was, it was constant sensory overload and go-go-go everyday. Osh, on the other hand, seems to be in no rush. The second-largest city in Kyrgyzstan with a population of 300,000, it would be considered something less than a small town in China. There’s no glitzy buildings or giant malls or mass consumerism. Actually, there isn’t too much going on, but it’s a pleasant place to be — especially when waiting for a delayed visa.
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Karakul, Xinjiang, China قاراكۆلI made one last sidetrip from Kashgar before leaving China. Again, it didn’t feel like China. But it didn’t carry at all the Uyghur character of Kashgar either — this is Kyrgyz land.
Karakul means “black lake” in a variety of Turkic languages, and there are multiple places carrying that name in Central Asia. The one in China (Kalakuli Lake 喀拉庫勒湖) is within a Kyrgyz (Ji’erjisi 吉爾吉斯/Ke’erkezi 柯爾克孜) autonomous prefecture, and it’s got two very small settlements around it.
Taking a shared car heading for Tashkurgan, a town in the neighbouring Tajik autonomous prefecture and along the China-Pakistan Karakoram Highway (whew, all these different groups), we passed the gorgeous and touristy White Sand Lake 白沙湖 before I hopped off at Karakul. But the weather quickly turned — we weren’t in the desert lowlands anymore, but rather at an altitude of 3800 m, in the Pamir Mountains. Things were fine at White Sand Lake, and only a mere 35 km down the road… uh oh.
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Kashgar, Xinjiang, China قەشقەرKashgar — the name itself already evokes the Silk Road. (The Chinese name, Kashi 喀什, not so much.) At the furthest western end of China, it’s closer to Iran and even eastern Turkey geographically than it is to Beijing and feels nothing like China. Well, at least when you’re in the areas of interest: there’s a new downtown that’s Han-dominated and looks just like every other major city in China. But the rest of the city? The ethnic mix is nothing like I’ve ever seen before, and a big dose of culture shock.
Xinjiang is China’s largest province (Tibet is number two), its bland name (literally “new frontier”) masking its heavy diversity. While officially a Uyghur autonomous region, the Uyghurs (Chinese: Weiwu’er 维吾爾) also constitute the largest ethnic group in the province… at less than 50%. Other significant groups, some with their own autonomous prefectures inside the province, include Kazakhs, Kyrgyz, Russians, Tajiks, and Mongols.
And on Sundays, the busiest day at Kashgar’s Grand Bazaar, that’s basically who you’re seeing. No one’s speaking Mandarin, unless they see me or another tourist and they want our business. Despite the large variance in physical features within the Uyghur population, it’s very clear that there are other ethnic groups present, buying and selling at one of Central Asia’s largest markets. Sure, there’s the Uyghurs: men with their traditional caps — circular-fitting, square-topped, and pyramid-like if viewed from the front — and their thick eyebrows and thick moustaches that Chinese men can never possibly grow; women with colourful silk scarves tied around their hair, thick white makeup with exaggerated eyes, fashionable unibrows (real or drawn-on), and even moustaches! But there’s also people with blonde hair (Russian?), people with very dark complexions (Pakistani?), and men and women wearing distinctly different headgear than the traditional Uyghur ones, like tall white hats for men (Kyrgyz for sure) or ornately decorated red ones for women (Tajik?). While Uyghur, Kazakh, and Kyrgyz are similar, mutually-intelligible Turkic languages, the others are not, and hearing them within the crowds does make it all the more overwhelmingly not Chinese.
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Turpan, Xinjiang, China تۇرپانOh man, it’s way too hot outside.
Turpan (Chinese: Tulufan 吐鲁番) is located 200 km southeast of Ürümqi (Wulumuqi 烏魯木齊), the capital of Xinjiang province 新疆. Ürümqi is already the most landlocked city in the world — it’s far from every ocean. If this lack of water isn’t already enough, Turpan is located in a depression that’s the one of the lowest places in the world. (Though not quite as low as Ethiopia’s Danakil Depression or Israel/Palestine/Jordan’s Dead Sea.) That makes it pretty darn hot, and the low-altitude Ayding Lake has pretty much dried up. Oh, and it’s also surrounded by desert, though Turpan itself is an oasis city. Now why’d I decide to come in August?!
Also, if you’re not familiar with this area of the world and you’re wondering about these names: Xinjiang is officially a Uyghur autonomous province. Uyghur people have far more in common with everything west of China than China itself: they speak a Turkic language like neighbouring Kazakhstan and Kyrgystan and far-away Turkey, and the people look… not Chinese: imagine a mix of everyone between Turkey, Pakistan, and Russia. Not only is that geographically true of Central Asia, it does sort of explain the physical traits of the population.
So it was really weird to get off of a train from Dunhuang and immediately be surrounded by people looking nothing like Chinese people, many following Islamic dress, speaking something that sounds like Turkish, with signs written in the Arabic alphabet. Is this really China? The only giveaways are the bilingual signs and the fact that my only able means of communication here is Mandarin. Even the way people measure time is different: despite being in the same timezone as Beijing, people use “Xinjiang time” (-2 hours) unofficially, due to how far west it is. The sun sets around 10 pm Beijing time!
It’s over 40°C (100°F) outside, the hottest place in China. Can I go inside for some air conditioning now?
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Dunhuang, Gansu, China 敦煌After a month in the highlands and mountains of Greater Tibet, arriving in hot, hot Dunhuang was jarring both visually and physically. The green, rolling hills are replaced by the largely flat and featureless Gobi Desert, dominating my train ride throughout Gansu province 甘肅, and the comfortably cool weather replaced by an oppressive (but thankfully dry) heat reaching over 40°C (104°F) on my arrival. No more Tibetan bilingual signs, although that already stopped in Xining, an ethnically-mixed city. Practically every restaurant is halal 清真, and dopis and hijabs are far more visible than before, even amongst the massive numbers of Han tourists: this is a Hui heartland.
Despite the current demographic, this is a significant site of the Silk Road, an area which saw products hailing from faraway Central Asian lands pass through, holding a reputation as a gateway to Xi’an and the rest of China. Its former grandeur as Shazhou 沙洲, the city of sand (and now a non-descript district of the small city of Dunhuang), may have been lost through time and the central government’s previous attitude of cultural neglect and lack of preservation, but plenty of evidence still exists, primarily as an entry point of Buddhism into China.
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Xining, Qinghai, China 西宁For more context, please first read the previous entry.
Continuing from Yushu, I was again received by church members in Xining (西寧, Tibetan: Ziling), home of the head office of the same ministry. Being an office, there wasn’t much field work to see, and so the pastor here organised for me a whirlwind week of visiting Xining’s surrounds, famous across China for its particularly unique geographical offerings — and oh my, there is a *lot* to see.
Yet in between it all, I still got to learn and see the fruits of their church network’s labour, and learn about their works with Muslim Hui minority communities, aiding the impoverished and building genuine, lasting relationships.
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Yushu, Qinghai, China 玉树My visit to Greater Tibet was extended to twice as much as I had originally planned for, in anticipation of the Tibetan horse racing festival in Yushu. It’s hilarious (and a little disappointing, but mostly just hilarious) then that I went for five days and missed all of the horse racing, due to the lack of a written schedule and multiple venues. No regrets though! That Garzê detour would not have happened otherwise.
I was received in Yushu (trad. 玉樹, Tibetan: Jyekundo) and Xining by pastors and members of a loose affiliation of churches whose ministry my dad supports through Partners International. (For my previous entry on ministry in Xi’an, click here.) This group of unsanctioned, “underground” churches, based primarily in Qinghai province 青海, supports mostly ethnic minorities of China, although their reach has now widened to virtually all corners of China along with parts of Nepal and northern India. Given that most of Qinghai is considered the Amdo region of Greater Tibet, it’s no surprise that Tibetans are by far the largest group they support, although they also have outreach to Hui people and the majority Han. Their mission is simply to bring the church to areas it hasn’t been, pointedly picking empty-looking places on a map where no churches exist.
But this brings to question: given Tibet’s history of forced cultural change and repression at the hands of the Chinese government, having suffered irreparable harm, where does Christianity fit in? And given that Tibetans (Buddhist) and Hui (Muslim) are both ethnoreligious groups (like Jewish people, you could sort of say), how could you possible spread a different faith to them? Despite what you often see in the United States, Christianity considers itself counter-cultural. I’d say never more so than in this case.
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