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.
