Echoes of Epic Journeys

Ancient trails deeply etched into the Gobi Desert far below converge on dry river beds which seem to wander aimlessly across hundreds of miles of otherwise featureless and barren terrain. We are looking down from a crowded blue and white Soviet made Chinese airliner, as it streaks westward through the crystal clear skies above north central China.

From our vantage point just south of the Chinese and Mongolian border we ponder the harsh conditions below, which is blazing hot in summer, bitter cold in winter. Many generations of people and animals have followed those ancient routes across the desert. Some came in peace, others in violent conquest.

CLICK HERE to view photos from the Silk Road.

Most of those who now glance upward in curiosity are as close as they will ever be to an airplane. We gaze down in silence and in anticipation of what we will discover when our flight from Beijing lands in northwest China.

Two hours later we are startled as the descending aircraft passes surprisingly close to snow covered mountains, in August, to land in Urumqi. Airport signs are written not in Chinese, appearing instead to be Turkish. Actually, it is Uygur, and this is our first taste of the influence of the Silk Road on this area's culture.

We are assured by our hosts that we are indeed still in China, in an area of many minorities, people whose ancestral roots spread throughout the Asian continent and beyond. This is a multinational, multi religious, multilingual area.

It is known as the Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region. Uygur (pronounced wee'gur) is the most prominent minority. Related to the Mongols, and tracing their origins to ancient nomadic herdsmen called Tolo, they are mostly Muslim and number six million. Other minorities such as the Kazaks, Tajiks and Uzbeks, lend distinct Russian and eastern Mediterranean flavors to the cultural mix.

The broad valleys and forested mountains could be mistaken for America's "old west," except for the two humped camels slowly wandering the plains amid the round animal skin homes, called yurts, of nomadic herders.

I am traveling with nine staff colleagues from the US. Congress. Sponsored by the U.S./Asia Institute in Washington, this is the first such visit to the extremes of China's far west.

Our first week in China had included extensive meetings in Beijing with government officials and with the US. Ambassador to China. We discussed trade policy, defense considerations, relations with Taiwan and various other economic and social issues of mutual concern. But although our time at the conference table had been productive and informative, the numbers and facts we studied could not have substituted for the sights we were to see, nor could it prepare us for the many unique experiences in the days to come.

We will trace a portion of the famous Asian trading route called the "silk road." In the very footsteps of Marco Polo, it will be our own brief exploration of China. Our first night in Urumqi, as a roasted lamb is wheeled into the room, head and all, I too begin to feel like an explorer taking nourishment for the following day's adventure.

We have begun to experience the stunning diversity of a huge, historic and sparsely populated area of this, the world's most populous nation. China's vivid faces take many forms. We will see many of them.

Day trips by bus to mountain lakes and across broad valleys, and late night walks through the stalls of bustling markets, acclimate us to the blistering hot, dry climate and to the people. They are friendly, and as curious about us as we are of them.

In Urumqi, passing children say a word or two in English to test our reaction, and are thrilled when we respond. There are no salesmen, no beggars. The people ask nothing of us. A sense of kinship builds easily and the time for our bus departure from this, the world's most landlocked city, comes all too quickly.

Three hours after leaving Urumqi our bus is winding its way down into the broad Turpan depression. A great, deep valley 150 meters below sea level, it is so dry here that nothing at all grows, save along the tiny streams of water from the mountains which quickly disappear into the desert sands.

It is hot on the valley floor, hot enough to crack rocks. In the summer, temperatures of 116 degrees are common. Ground temperatures hit 158 degrees and in 1974 reached 180 degrees! It is also hot enough that lids burst without warning from bottles of orange soda we carry along. Not that the bus lacks air conditioning, but its continual use, which we consider essential, slows the bus. Our driver, who appears totally unaffected by the heat, considers AC unessential and opts for the extra speed.

Turpan, an oasis city deep in the valley, is one hot town! At 7:00 P.M. the temperature is still 112 degrees. Shimmers of heat dance above the sands, rendering indistinct the glaciers atop distant 17,000 foot peaks.

The contrast is stark. Distances and altitudes are difficult to judge. So is the time of day. Still high in the sky, the sun will not set until after 10:00 P.M. For Beijing's convenience, all China is on a common time zone, even though Turpan is as far west of Beijing as Denver is from Washington, D.C.

Turpan's small, dusty trading market looks more Turkish than oriental. Like a Casaba, colorful silks are displayed in rickety stalls. Noodles boil in large, metal pots. Tubs and trays of raisins are everywhere in the bazaar.

The town survives because of underground water, the water that disappears into the sand miles away has been channeled beneath the city. The finite water supply limits this town to 240,000 people. Combined with the relentless summer sun and the sandy soil, the water produces melons and grapes of impressive quality and quantity. As we approach our hotel, we thirst for a cool glass of that water. Indeed, a welcoming ceremony awaits us there, as does fresh water, but it is in the form of tea. Hot tea! Cold water will be available six months later, in the form of ice during the long, cold winter.

We are pleased to learn that this area lacks some of Beijing's stiff protocol. We are told that short sleeved shirts and open collars will be perfectly appropriate attire for our official welcoming banquet. We dine, reflecting occasionally on the air conditioners mercifully hard at work in our rooms. Later, we discover that the maid has thoughtfully opened the windows, flooding the rooms with fresh air. Very hot fresh air.

During the meal we are treated to a multitude of dishes, many prepared from sheep. It has been cooked in ways undreamed of back home. "Sheep dip" is not slang here! We are also about to learn that mutton is suited for more than evening fare. In fact, it is not to be avoided and shows up in nearly every meal. However, we have apparently shaken off the army of determined sea slugs that have tracked our travels to offer themselves as a delicacy, shimmering and quivering on a platter like Jell-O in a light sauce. We have no complaints. The food has been varied and tasty and we have eaten tons of it. But sea slugs, cleverly called "sea cucumbers" to obscure their true nature, have not topped our list of favorite treats. We sense that very soon, neither will mutton burgers.

The early morning sun beats down on the ancient town of Jiaohe, a 2000 year old Han military outpost standing between two river gorges near Turpan. Although formed mostly of mud and adobe, many of the buildings still exist. The shape and form of the town is clearly visible, even though far west of the defenses of the Great Wall, it was overrun in the 13th century by Mongolian hordes led by Genghis Khan. Mother Nature was more kind, sparing it from the rainfall that would have totally destroyed it centuries ago.

The dry heat of the desert had another affect on early residents of this unique valley; it "kept" them here long after they died. We walked the hot and rocky plain, amid small burial mounds, and descended into a tiny cavern to touch the leathery skin of people who passed this life a thousand years ago. Under the dim glow of a single light bulb, and even without artificial preservatives, a man and a woman appeared to be very recent departees.

Our arrival in Turpan is stimulating and exciting. But leaving it under the cloak of darkness is even more memorable. It begins with the 30 kilometer, hour long, midnight bus ride across washed out roads to the train station on the edge of the valley, brilliant moonlight and starlight highlighting the distant peaks. At the station, excitement builds as the 2:00 A.M. whistle stop nears. The platform grows more crowded and noisy, not only with boarding passengers but with vendors peddling food and drink in a multitude of forms. And watermelons. Thousands of muskmelons and watermelons. Just as the great Gobi caravans in ancient times carried melons for nourishment, so shall we.

The Beijing bound train arrives from the west on time, producing bedlam. Our group has been assigned to the only two sleeper cars, but they are on opposite ends of the train and it is not at all clear who is assigned to which car. With no time to make that determination, or to match people with their luggage, we simply toss it onto the train wherever it seems to fit and climb aboard. Only then, after our compartments have been located and the train begins to pull out into the silent and barren expanse of still hot desert, do we begin to absorb our unworldly surroundings.

The train is not merely crowded; it teems and overflows with people and their possessions. People sit, lean and flop in every available nook. The long, dark cars are filled far beyond seating capacity. Passengers sleep on the floors and on sacks of mail, at tables and between the cars, but most are awake. They cook, drink, smoke, talk and throw the ever present watermelon rinds and other trash from the wide open windows as the train snakes ever deeper in the vast desert. Their clothing is a sea of blue and green.

My berth is near the front of the train, just behind the engine, and I decide to visit my compatriots in the other sleeping car at the far end. The journey proves a daunting trek. I must transit nine passenger cars, a diner and a mail car. As I enter one of the smoke filled cars, two men are engaged in a heated argument. Jostled and startled onlookers peer through the dim light. But just as the combatants are about to land blows, people begin to notice ME, in tee shirt and short pants, the only "round eye." I tower over the lurching and shifting spectators. The jeering and cheering subsides. The combatants, too, grow silent. Their anger fades and turns to wonder as their eyes join a hundred others now focused on the tall, round eyed, oddly dressed apparition suddenly in their midst. I step ungracefully and self consciously over and between people, mutter uncomprehended apologies and slip from the aft end of the car.

Later, in our "soft class" compartments, we find the comforts of home. They include pull down berths, a fan and, surprisingly, a television. It is long past its working life and in any case is far beyond any broadcast signals. We enjoy the luxury, but feel guilty. Only yards away, people who will ride "hard class" not for 13 hours, but for days. They eat, slumber and chatter through the night.

I will never forget the vivid images, sounds and smells of that spectacular experience, of the almost mystical feeling as the train clacked slowly but steadily across the huge, flat desert, a continuous hailstorm of watermelon rinds flying from the windows. Surely the passengers had wondered aloud about the tall stranger in the short pants who suddenly appeared to unintentionally alter, at least in some minor way, the course of events as human emotions peaked late one hot night, deep in a desert of a faraway and astonishing place.

The following afternoon the train ground to a halt in the small, dusty town of Liuyuan. We were scheduled to transfer to two autos for the ride to Dunhuang, in Gansu Province. The cars were late so we ate a few more watermelons while we waited. It proved to be good preparation for the hot three hour drive ahead, especially for those of us in the car that lacked air conditioning.

We quickly concluded from the neon sign blazing atop the newest Dunhuang hotel that tourists are actively sought. There is not a lot of neon to be seen in this Communist country, but they do have it here. People do come, by the thousands, mostly from Japan and Australia, although 6,000 Americans did visit in 1986. They come from halfway around the world to see the stunning Mogao caves a short drive away.

There are 492 caves in all, dug by Buddhists who arrived in the first century A.D. Colorful paintings and statues of Buddhas cover the walls and ceilings. They are in excellent condition, unlike the 236 caves we had visited two days earlier at Kizil, in the Turpan valley's Flaming Mountains. There, images at the Thousand Buddha Grottoes were badly disfigured by Muslim iconoclasts who believed it was sinful to portray the human figure. Many of those works had been removed, looted, for display in various museums throughout the world. People who view these works of art in museums will surely consider them great treasures. But those who are lucky enough to view the remaining works in their original context will find the experience far more poignant.

Fortunately, in Dunhuang's Mogao caves most of the statues of Buddhas, some nearly 100 feet tall, are complete. Although in one of the world's more inaccessible places, they reveal impressive artistic talent. It is interesting to ponder that one could wander the desert for a lifetime and possibly never spot the entrances carved into the sandstone river bank where hundreds of years of human toil are invested, out here among the endless dunes.

The days that followed Dunhuang brought new scenes and new mysteries in new cities. Long days and short nights saw tours to farms and drives past oil refineries and delayed airline flights and banquets and facts and figures and projections of all kinds.

But those things could not match the impact of the places already visited. Even during our busy time in Lanzhou and Canton, my mind flashed back, locking onto the vivid and stunning scenes of Urumqi, Turpan and Dunhuang. It still does. It will always.

By the time we boarded our Hong Kong bound train in Canton, we had logged 86 hours in China aboard busses, nine hours on planes, 13 hours on the train and 40 minutes on camels. We asked thousands of questions and took as many pictures.

We know that while others will follow the route we followed and absorbing the same sights that stunned us, their experience will not be exactly the same. China is changing quickly. There is a great and growing public momentum for the rewards of free enterprise as China's government cautiously, and out of economic necessity, opens itself to the world.

Millions of people, with their own values and cultures, will flock in, adding new pages to this complex nation's story that has been 5,000 years in the making.

In the future, as my colleagues and I help in some small way to shape Congressional attitudes and policy toward China, our knowledge of the country will be balanced and fortified by the images we retain.

Indeed, we walked on the Great Wall, knowing of the hundreds of thousands of workers' bodies buried within. We saw, touched and felt the magnitude of that great wonder. We gingerly tasted duck tongue soup and other delicacies of long tradition.

We pondered the Chinese one child per family population control plan, and couldn't choke back amusement at the site of a watermelon truck accident, where thousands of melons littered the road and adjacent sand.

Although we didn't always agree with them, we felt a bond of kinship with our Chinese hosts and appreciated their candor. Friendships formed and strengthened, but we wondered if they would pass the test as contentious issues are debated in the years to come.

Although the physical diversity of the nation was stunning, the wonderfully diverse Chinese people, nearly a quarter of the world's population, provided my most moving memories.

In western China we met people who will live out their lives and die in near isolation. Yet, they expressed surprising interest and understanding of world events. People who have few possessions, earn little (about $450 per year), and endure great physical hardship will stop to greet strangers, never dreaming of asking for money or assistance.

The "face" of China is really a montage of more faces than one can assimilate into a single image. They are beautiful Uygur folk dancers at a desert inn, intense bicycle "commuters" in Beijing, weary travelers on a cramped desert train, farmers and merchants bearing heavy loads on their backs.

They are an optimistic people who express an almost blind hope that their government will lead them to greater democracy and prosperity. They are people offended by outsiders who feel they have any right to tell them how to live and what to value. To the Chinese, we are members of the world's minority peoples.

The face of the China I saw is a fascinating, mysterious, complex and haunting tapestry. I cannot accurately describe it, but I can assure and verify that it is, to me, totally mesmerizing.

It is a face heavy and deeply wrinkled with ancient burden and modern problems. It is a face bright with the cheerful optimism of youth. Its customs and traditions give it wisdom, and yet its introspection makes it naive.

The face of China will inspire me and yet weigh heavily on my conscience. It will draw me but repel me. It will inspire me and discourage me and somehow penetrate and guide my life, for it will be the image that comes to visit most often in the night.

Don Hardy