Afternoon in Kashgar

Kashgar Afternoon

by Armando Ortiz

On my first visit to Kashgar, which is in the Xinjiang Province of China back in the summer of 2002, I was taken to a restaurant by a local foreigner whom I had met that week that had experience living in Western China. He’d been staying next door to me, and the Joni Mitchell music he kept playing he piqued my interest. My year long study program in Seoul, South Korea at Yonsei University was over and I wanted to visit China again before returning home. I was there just being a tourist, wandering, the winds of interest and curiosity had settled me on this western ground. I was told we were going to have a local specialty, a roasted chicken. Never once was I able to have that dish ever again. The dish had been prepared in the kitchen, of course, and cooked in a tandori like oven. It was delicious along with some local nan, a huge tortilla like bread. The chicken was crispy to the bit and the salty oiliness mixed well with the nan. We might have had tea to drink but at this point I no longer remember. When I do remember from that lunch was the spectacle that we were about to encounter on leaving the restaurant.

We talked about travels throughout the country and other adventures. Nonetheless, it was time to go and we paid our bill. Hardly a cent was laid on the table and we walked out full and content. As we were walking to the door something like a buzz or a hum could be heard. A small crowd was gathering near the restaurant we had just exited. It was sunny outside so the transition from the small diner to the outside was like going into a different world. All of a sudden I could hear the strumming of what sounded like the plucking of a rockabilly bass, but not as low and heavy as that. It was very fast, and gentle, almost reminding me of the song that John Travolta and Emma Thurman danced in the middle of the diner. 

The musician playing was sunweathered. His clothes were mostly a western styled suit, which might have been a faded black or a used blue. He’d been doing this for years, it appeared. He looked as if he could have been sipping coffee under the noon light, maybe smoking a stogie somewhere in the middle of the American southwest waiting for the sun to set. He wore a square cap, with simple brocade loops that seemed to house fine Turkic lettering, his face looked calm, shoulders were square not round like the city folk in LA. Could he have been staring off into space? Could he have been the sitting model for a buddha statue back in the day when Buddhism spread throughout the Tarim Basin, with half closed eyes staring at the crowd? Maybe he’d smoked some hash before this impromptu performance? 

The music, the rhythmic strumming and twang that I heard immediately took us to the ground of people that surrounded the aged man. It felt like the crowd parted as we approached the bard. He just kept at it, his fingers long, wrinkled and dexterous, kept dancing and jumping from the top of the next of the banjo like instruments to the middle of the neck. It was almost like a dream, and maybe it was because I didn’t take a photo, and I didn't ask who the person putting on the street show was, but I still remember the music and the scene.

It might have lasted 10-15 minutes at most, but it is still a memory that sorta floats around when I think of my travels to that distant province and to its edge and fringe where 8-track players, and old Motorola phones were being sold. Despite the steady reach of technology, people here still circled around a troubadour, listened, admired and enjoyed some live music. Even though, sometimes we believe that we are different from others, in reality we all love some good live music, whether it be by someone performing for donations or playing at a sold out concert at the Hollywood Bowl. The band could be playing in front of a church audience or at a speakeasy. We all enjoy good live music, but what is most surprising is how music seems to have this hypnotic effect on people wherever they may be on this earth.

On My Way to Tashkurgan

On My Way to Tashkurgan

by Armando Ortiz

On my second trip to Xinjiang, China, back in 2005, I found myself in a taxi on my way to Tashkurgan, the farthest western point I’d ever reached in China. Finding a bus ticket that morning was tough, so I decided to split the ride with some locals and take a taxi. There were three of us that sat in that car that day: a Uyghur lady sitting front passenger, on her way to visit her boyfriend who was stationed in a military garrison, and a Tajik man man in the back next to me, returning home after studying agriculture in Shanghai. He was a long way from school, but nearing his hometown. 

As we all piled into the taxi, there was enough space for everyone, and the music playing felt exotic than familiar to me. I couldn’t help but notice that the road, supposed to be the Karakoram highway, was a two lane road at that time. A few years ago it had only been a single lane road, showcasing China’s transformation even in its frontiers. The road stretched like electric tape on the surface the high altitude desert land, located at the edge of the Himalayan range on the Pamir plateau.This part of China seemed devoid of life, and yet it is the origins of water for many civilizations of Asia, with some streams flowing south to India and others north to China. 

After a few hours of riding, we suddenly approached a scene that now feels strangely familiar, reminiscent of experiences I would later have in the States. It looked like a bus had pulled over, maybe it was picking up passengers. The taxi started to slow down, shifting gears, and the zoom of the engine reverberated through the seats of the vehicle. We pulled to the opposite side of the road, coming to a stop parallel to the bus, creating a cloud of dust. Everyone quickly poured out of the car, as we all thought that there was damage to the back axle of the bus. Replacements were still a few days or hours away, leaving the middle aged men, the driver, and their assistant with no choice but to wait.

As I scanned the desolate landscape, I initially mistook discarded pieces of watermelon for slices of pizza on the ground. Only the cheese appeared to have been consumed, leaving behind layers of tomato sauce and crust. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was watermelon. As the taxi driver engaged in small talk with the bus driver,  he pulled out two watermelons from the bus and naan bread. His assistant, pulling a knife he had concealed from his back, skillfully began cutting into the fruit, passing slices of fleshy red meat to everyone. 

Meanwhile, the taxi driver reached into a green grocery bag and pulled out a few wheels of bread and broke off big chunks of dried pita-like bread, handing a piece to each of us. They showed me how to enjoy this snack combination: taking a bite of the bread first, followed by a bite of the fruit. It felt like participating in a traditional ceremony of generosity. Amidst the stranded bus workers on this high in the mesa, we shared the snacks, and the combination of dry naan with crunchy juicy melon revitalized our spirits. Both satisfaction and a refreshing feeling washed over me. The guys waiting for the spare part to arrive would be fine. The taxi driver signaled for us to hop back into the car and continue our journey. 

Our next stop was a military checkpoint. Once we stopped, the Uyghur lady disembarked and walked towards a tall, burly man wearing military fatigues. Like a traditional Mongolian wrestler, he met her half way and welcomed her. She kept walking, and he nimbly placed his arm around her neck, guiding her towards the shaded office. Next, it was the Tajik man’s turn. Wearing jeans and a blue cotton jacket, he spoke Mandarin with a slight foreign accent, yet his fluency was on point. With his reddish hair and unconventional appearance, he stood out among the masses of China. Yet he was Chinese too, and his tribe has been living in those mountains for millennia. He bid us farewell at the outskirts of town before we entered the town center, where I ended up staying the night.