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.

Autumn Leaves in Beijing

Autumn Leaves in Beijing

by Armando Ortiz

Two shadows were following me last night, giving the body a shivering fright. I turned around to see who was behind, but it was the street lights casting two shadows in the night. Walking home, and hearing noises scattering from the sides, the breeze sweeping the autumn leaves on the floor, but out of sight.

At a distance a black cat ran, crossing my path looking for cover, becoming a discarded newspaper twisting, scattering, and making my thoughts stutter. Discarded rubbish blown along, like dark ocean waves, became black tarantulas that crawled on the ground.

Later, I woke up in a cold sweat to the clanging of the metal door- late October, when winds shake pots and pans past the midnight hour. Traffic lights and flag poles shaking and resonating like a lone drumstick that lands on a snare drum.

On that crisp and starry night, I was afraid that death would soon take hold, and blind me with nightmare dreams while locked inside an endless dawn. Even if living on an island I would not be at peace, because something was haunting, but the mind remained clueless to what that could be.

In Beijing, amongst retired folk that woke up early to do their morning taichi is where I lived, frosty breaths blending with dawn’s flowing air. They seemed unfazed with nature’s change that was in the air, and moved their arms as if spinning and mixing clay-wares.

It was like being in a Bergman film, where I was supposed to see my body stiff, but then the next day the heater came on, and the warmth of my home, became a shelter of safety from the cold crawling into every corner of the city.

The last days of autumn, when the warm colors that trees wear fall to the ground, and brown dead leaves 

announce the blistering winter’s arrival, who with sweeping broom sounds, rakes away all that has passed, 

bringing a stiffening cold season that will refuse to move fast.

Beijing Winters

Beijing Winters 

by Armando Ortiz

Winter evenings in Beijing are frigid, and nights bring freezing winds.

Though at noon the skies are clear and sunny, you don’t want to be outside for too long.

Peddlers abound during this time, selling crab apple sticks that are sealed fresh inside, and hardened with caramel sugar or offer piping hot yams warmed inside coal heated barrels.

Seasonal preparations for the New Year begin, bringing red pasted banners and signs on the sides of doors welcoming another prosperous year, because to live is to see the magic of life unfold.

Though the eye is blind during these months the flavors that season the soul are many, and are an excuse to engage in endless conversations over hot black tea.

Handmade noodles made to order are at hand and served on steaming white bowls that are topped with thin slices of beef and for an extra five cents topped with a fried egg.

Who knows if it’s still there, but when I was there you could feast on street huoguo on random corners, where you sat on tiny chairs and miniature tables.

It’s also the time when one takes liberal servings of dumplings of all kinds; cabbage and pork,

pork and chives, mutton and onions or the veggie and egg kind.

Artificial lakes become frozen, and children along with students rent ice skates, and glide over these ancient bodies of waters that were once meant for the Emperor’s pleasure.

It’s during the night that the dry steppe air of the North passes through the city, which is further depleted of its humidity by the centralized heating.

Miles of hot tubes connect to a network of pipes that pump hot oil and water from a coal furnace that keeps blocks and blocks of people warm and with severely dry throats.

When those nights of lonesomeness get intertwined with nightmares it’s as if one were being choked by the devil’s hand and one awakens desperately reaching for water.

Yet in the mornings you stand huddled beside the radiator, thinking twice of walking to the bathroom and showering your sleep away.

Winters in Beijing also bring into focus the celebration of the Winter Solstice, which I did once, outside a pub, while eating grilled chicken wings and drinking Yanjing.

This is the celebration of the longest night and the conception of spring, when the worst has already passed, and preparations for Chunjie begin to appear.

People bundled up in layers and layers of thick cotton and synthetic wool slowly start to go back to their hometowns, and the looooooong lines at train stations become the norm.

It’s the sign of optimism that we all have survived the terrible winter and begin to celebrate, buying rolls and rolls of firecrackers and rockets, and stocking up on food.

For a week, fireworks will light up the midnight sky, and all the ghosts that crept into our lives and are fast asleep, will awaken and are scared to go back to where they belong.

For days on end, streets are closed and food stalls appear, with caramel artisans making ancient Chinese mythical characters,

And tamed birds fly high in the sky at a whistle or with the waving of a dollar bill come to you and with their tiny beaks take hold of your money and fly back to their master.

We triumphantly declare to spring to open up and begin forth the colors of life and the blossoms of spring.

The first snowfall that blanketed benches, and topped the pine trees melt from the memory as the changing jet stream shifts from Northwesterly to Southeasterly direction

Winters in Beijing are long, but now they seem short and distant, like an old recurring dream that disappears with every waking moment.

Beijing Summer: A Poem

Beijing Summer

By Armando Ortiz

She is the song that reminds him of other songs, the first scent of a blooming rose.

He closes his eyes and remembers the purple plums they ate under the tree, beside the man-made lake.

Her heat and the sun’s rays made that hazy summer bearable.

His head lay on her thighs and her sandalwood fingers felt its contours.

Those eyes open, while sitting on a chair on the balcony, and traffic passes bye.

The melody that they heard with the scents that were felt are now only traces, but that mind still carries the moment within.

Beijing Winters

Beijing Winters

by Armando Ortiz

Winter evenings in Beijing are frigid

Nights bring freezing winds

And though at noon the skies are clear and sunny

You don’t want to be outside for too long.

Red is everywhere during this time

And sticks with crab apples sealed fresh

Inside hardened caramel sugar abound

And seasonal preparation for the New Year begins

Bringing red pasted banners and signs on the sides of doors.

Though the eye is blind during these months

The flavors that season the soul are many.

Handmade noodles made to order are at hand

Which are served on steaming white bowls

Topped with thin slices of beef

And a fried egg on top for an extra 5 mao.

A stew of mutton innards quickly warms up the body

I don’t know if it still exists, but when I was there

One could feast on instant huoguo on a side street

Where I ate it on tiny chairs and miniature tables.

It’s also the time when one takes liberal servings

Of dumplings of all kinds; cabbage and pork

Pork and chives, mutton and onions and the veggie and egg kind.

It’s during the night that the dry steppe air of the north passes through the city

And which is further squeezed of its humidity by the centralized heating

With its miles of hot tubes, that connect to a network of pipes

That pumps hot oil and water from a coal furnace that keeps blocks and blocks of people warm

And with severely dry throats.

When those nights of lonesomeness get intertwined with nightmares

It’s as if one were being choked by the devil’s hand

And one awakens desperately reaching for water.

Winters in Beijing also bring into focus

The celebration of the longest night

Which I did once outside a pub, while eating

Grilled chicken wings and drinking Yanjing beer.

The celebration of the longest night and the birth of spring.

When preparations for Chunjie begin to appear.

People bundled up in layers and layers of thick cotton and synthetic wool

Prepare to go back to their hometowns,

And the long lines at the train station are common.

It’s the sign of optimism that we all have survived the terrible winter

And begin to celebrate by buying rolls and rolls of firecrackers and rockets

That for a week will light up the midnight sky, and all the ghosts

That are fast asleep will awaken and be sent back to where they belong,

And we triumphantly declare to spring to open herself and begin forth

The colors of life and the blossoms of spring.

Winters in Beijing are long,

But now they seem short and distant,

Like an old recurring dream that disappears with every waking moment.

The first snowfall that blanketed the school benches,

And topped the pine trees melt from the memory

As the changing jet stream shifts from Northwesterly to Southeasterly direction.

Tianchi, China: Heaven's Lake: Travels

Tianchi, China: Heaven's Lake

by Armando Ortiz

          The screech of the hawk woke me up. It was the first time I’d heard a sound like that. I stepped out of the yurt and was able to see the hawk gliding over the lake. That small body of water, resembling a mirror, reflected the hawk‘s glide. It looked as if a giant fish was inside the water freely swimming. Both the bird of prey and its reflection were moving at a synchronized pace. The morning was clear, and the air crisp, but a bit chilly to the body. At the distance I could hear the sounds of yak and sheep mingling and disappearing into the pine forest. At the time I didn’t think of my good fortune for being there, but now its like a dream.

           The hawk continued to screech, and naturally the water kept replicating its movements. I walked up a few feet up the canyon. After a slight turn I found the two planks that stood above the hole. I took a piss, and peered inside the pit. Steam was coming off my piss. On my way back to the yurt where I slept that night I passed other yurts that also had traveling visitors from other parts of China and other parts of the world. The hawk kept making circles over the lake, gliding and gliding. The surface of the contained water veiled a serene calmness to the morning. Inside was dark and majestic. I couldn’t quite tell what was more blue the sky or that natural dam.

          Memories, that is what flashed past me as I looked outside the balcony a few years after visiting that place. The weather was cool outside and the cityscape of L.A. was sharp and clear, like it always is after an Autumn rain. Cars passing bye, humming motors and honking horns can be heard. The neighbor’s television blasting the football game through the speakers. I reflected on the past and thought that it all seemed like a dream. Maybe I had been part of an ancient tribe and actually lived beside the lake.