Turpan Jude

We are not in Kansas anymore Toto. We are now in Xinjiang province having left Gansu behind. It feels remarkably different, excitingly so. Although still in China it doesn’t feel like it due to the high population of the Uighur people. The Uighur are a Turkic-speaking people living almost exclusively in Xinjiang having been forced out of their Mongolian homelands in the mid-9th century by Kirghiz raiders. Ethnically they come from early nomadic Turkic tribes, looking far more Mediterranean than East Asian. Abandoning Shamanism they had brief flings with both Manichaeism and then Buddhism before finally converting to Islam in the 10th Century. Their music, textiles and cuisine have a Central Asian feel to it, most speak little Chinese. There is little love lost between the Uighur and the Chinese, the latter viewing the former as knife wielding barbarians and the Uighur thinking the Chinese despicable atheists or Buddhist heathens.

We are in the town of Turpan having traveled west from Dunhuang, via Liuyuan which was a toilet but that was the nearest train station, for about 14 hours by mini bus and sleeper train.  Turpan is 154 metres below sea level, making it the second lowest depression in the world, after the dead sea. It is an oasis in the middle of the desert, the highest temperature having been recorded at 49.6 degrees! You could be forgiven for momentarily thinking you were in Southern France as the white grape vineyards stretch as far as the eye can see. The guidebook strongly recommends to sample the Dry White, we make a note.

What I am loving more than anything is the Uighur sense of style. The men all sport dapper hats, be it a flat cap, trilby or what seems to be the local speciality which looks like a densely embroidered pill box. They love their big shades too, can’t say I blame them. The women have such flair, be they old or young. There is something almost Romany in their look, the key accessory being their headscarf. While this a requirement of their Muslim faith in preserving modesty, they have not let it hinder their style. I am dying to ask one of them how to do it, the scarf is wrapped around the head then twisted and tied in an almost 70‘s style turban worthy of a Prada Ad campaign or a Vogue spread. The ladies here are taking no back seat, they are seen and heard. Walking down the main street is a feast for the eyes in colour and fabric. 

We have only one day in Turpan, but what a peach of a day it turns out to be. We arrive early from the sleeper train and find a place for the night. One of the things that makes our day so lovely is that we have made some friends. Whilst in Dunhuang we started chatting to a chap following a similar route to us. Travis is a musician from New York. It was with a little caution that we started our relationship with him, and no doubt he was treading as carefully as we were. Let me briefly explain.  

It is a precarious thing starting conversations with fellow travellers, it could go one of two ways. Have you ever been on a long haul plane journey with a ‘chatty’ neighbour? I for one always seem to attract the drunks on the buses in Glasgow. Once engaged it can be quite impossible to rid yourself of your new ‘friend’. During our trip to the Terracotta Army in Xian we met a German chap on the bus. What started out as a casual chat and exchange of particulars went rapidly downhill as he talked AT us about, well, anything he could think of. We got a barrage of data, prices, times...everything in minute and exact detail of his day to day existence relayed as only a German could. It was a tiresome journey. We finally managed to give him the slip amongst the clay warriors, there are quite a few of them, feeling a wee bit guilty we had not endured  his inane chat and kept him company. 

Thankfully Travis turns out to be a kindred spirit and we find ourselves hoping we bump into him again along the way, not least because Rich needs a chum with whom to share his sheep’s head. We did not have to hope for long, as Travis’ sleeper bus was cancelled and he had to re-route following the same path as us. Meanwhile he had picked up some other new friends, the Maor family from Israel. Now wait for this, the Maor family have taken a year out to travel China, of which they are in month 10, with their 3 young children…….eldest 5 and ½ and youngest 2 and ½. That’s the truth. We thought we had taken on a challenge! Until I met the Maors I had indulged several moments of self pity at having to slog it out, schleping from place to place with heavy bags etc. Can you imagine doing all this with 3 wee people in tow? That they manage to check out of each hotel without leaving one of them behind is, I think, quite an achievement. Amazing. What is even better is that they seem to be having a blast, and no, they are not hippies, they are ordinary joes like you and I just keeping it real. 

After a lazy breakfast under the shade of some grapevines with our new bevy of chums, Travis, Rich and I set off to explore on our trusty steads, or single gear bikes. We head first to see the ruins of the Ancient city of Jiaohe, built during the Han dynasty. Our hopes are not set too high as we have been promised some amazing sights before in the guidebook, yet been disappointed by the ‘amusement park’ that has been built around often sacred sites. Instead we are pleasantly surprised by the lack of bells and whistles, what we find is breath taking. Once we shake off the bus loads of tour groups we spend a serene hour or two snaking our way through the giant maze that once was the garrison town of Jiaohe. It must have been pulsing with life back in the day and we find ourselves imagining what it would have been like to live here. There are 3 temples in the heart of the town and under close inspection it is possible to make out the remnants of the Buddhas at the centre of each temple. The ruins are in remarkable condition given their age and that they were constructed of mud and straw. We make a brief pit stop for an ice lolly and some shade from the mid day sun before jumping back on our bikes to see what we can see. 

We take the back roads to see what glimpses of real life we can steal, it is a blissful way to get from A to B. Wind in your hair and just the right pace to soak up the sights and smells without panes of glass to keep you safe and quarantined. We are stopped in our tracks, tempted by the lure of a watermelon seller, his truck weighed down by the most delicious and juicy fruit I have had in ages. Venturing further onwards and feeling like a childish trio from an Enid Blyton tale, we head towards the Emin minaret and adjoining mosque. Built in 1777 by Emin Hoja the Turpan ruler, the Afghan style minaret stands at 44m high and is really rather beautiful. One of the guidebooks also tells that a wander through the graveyard at the rear will have you stumbling across ancient sun bleached bones. I was gutted to find that most of these said bones have been dutifully tidied away, possibly in a grand spring clean before the 2008 Olympics. What a disappointment. We did find a few fragments after a rummage amongst the pebbles, but not quite what I was hoping for. Rich thinks I have a grizzly appetite for the macabre, I think my enthusiasm for the goat slaughter in Nepal had him shocked. This from the man that wants to eat a sheeps head…..

Many miles of cycle tourism had us parched and frankly ready for a sit down and a good old chin wag about our groovy day. What better way to enjoy the late sunset than tasting a glass or six of Turpans finest Dry White. And enjoy it we did, it was served ice cold and had a lovely golden colour and smelled rather like a desert wine, although it was not sweet. Three bottles later we can definitely report that should you happen to see a 3 for 2 offer in your local Tescos,  pop them in your basket, you wouldn’t be disappointed.