Shanghai

If Beijing can be likened to Washington, then Shanghai is New York, rather like an epicenter of global commerce than ancient history, to which Beijing lays its claim. The pitch of activity in Shanghai, not to mention its confluence of colonial and post-modern architecture, resonates a story of capitalism, not imperialism. With a bitter aftertaste, this tale summons a sad chapter in history when, content to its own devices, China was forcibly disrobed and placed upon a disagreeable global stage. But the Shanghai of today is a thriving masterpiece of Chinese advancement, and can hold its own in any short list of the world’s greatest urban civilizations.

Exploring the periphery of Shanghai uncovered a beaming ray of hope in my quest for embers of tradition in China, in Xīdì, Anhui province – an ancient city having preserved its heritage in an unusual degree of authenticity. Aside from minority establishments such as the ancient city of Lìjiāng in Yúnnán, there are few surviving outposts of old China among the Han. In Xīdì, peasant life perseveres along with its Song Dynasty architecture – nearly 1,000 years old – in a remarkable display of style and detail. What a shame that more places like Xīdì have not survived in China.



Here's a map of my final route through China:


View China route in a larger map

Beijing

Here's my mini photo essay from Beijing, less the essay.

Forbidden City

Tiananmen Square

Untitled

China's Silk Road

At last, my trip comes to a close as I inch eastward across China, in a longitudinal traverse from Kashgar to Shanghai, via Beijing. The bulk of my 4,300-mile overland route follows branches of the ancient Silk Road to Xī'ān, before continuing on to the eastern seaboard.

Kashgar is a culinary oasis of lamb kebabs, plov bowls, lagman noodles, and vibrant desert produce: melons, mangos, apples, bananas, apricots, plums, and pears. Returning to western China from the isolation of northern Pakistan, I relished this rehabilitation with a reluctance to leave. Continuing along the Southern Silk Road, the Uighur towns are culturally segregated, the Uighur side with its mosques and dusty bazaars, the bustling Chinese side with its steel reinforced, concrete mid-rises.

From the fringe outpost of Hotan, I veer north, crossing the heart of the Taklimakan Desert via the newly completed cross-desert toll road - six hours of rolling sand dunes and glittering tarmac. Flanking the road are grids of grass installed to keep the migrant dunes at bay, and the journey is effortless for an air conditioned sleeper bus with flatscreen TV's. In this manner, the Chinese have tamed their wildest desert, a place historically revered by trade caravans for its severity.

Ürümqi's cultural contrast

Back in Ürümqi – the world's most inland city - I boarded a 36-hour train to the ancient Chinese capital of Xī'ān, the Silk Road's terminus. Xī'ān, despite its growth and modernization, retains a charming character through historical features. The city's new, outer rings are a sprawl of flyovers, smokestacks, and construction cranes; but the old city is one of the few in China with a surviving city wall, along with its traditional sentry buildings and gate towers. Xī'ān is also home to the Qin Dynasty's Terracotta Army, whose significance for Chinese history eclipses the sight of the soldiers themselves, although the extent of their detail and individuality is astounding.

Not far from Xī'ān, I made a day trip to Hua Shan, one of China's five sacred Taoist mountains, and perhaps China's most precipitous set of peaks. Their impressive granite headwalls, bathed in orange smog at golden hour, are a geologic anomaly amidst indistinct surroundings. Of course, Chinese legend has it that Hua Shan ("flower mountain") consists of subdivided petals of a lotus flower. Climbing the mountain (i.e. riding up the gondola) is said to deliver wealth and happiness.

On China

Comparing China and India is a silly exercise, but insightful. On virtually any measure of development, China exceeds India: infrastructure, infant mortality, life expectancy, income, literacy, etc. In short, China has flushing toilets and Indians are still defecating in the street. But to make up for it, India is perhaps the richest cultural reservoir in the world, a place where traditional life thrives despite globalization and colonial history. Indian culture is unique and authentic, while China, tragically, has abandoned its ancient culture altogether. In China's headlong pursuit of modern greatness, creative thinking has been displaced by a generation of technicians trained not to question their ways. During my trip, this is the mainstream China that I've come to discover.

From the perspective of a tourist, 21st century China can be a rather sterile experience, and few places I've visited offer clues of its 5,000-year history, yet all embody the fervor of economic upheaval. The scope of transition in China is evident in its dazzling array of infrastructure, which has conquered even the country's most remote backwaters. What limited traditional culture remains, exists among its marginalized ethnic minorities, often in theme park fashion, showcased as artifacts of the past: STAND ON THE WHITE BOX, AND TAKE A PICTURE OF OUR CHINESE CULTURE.

China today, as in its imperial history, is a vast and diverse empire held in solution by an unchecked central government. In some respects, little has changed in China's modern political landscape. For much of China's recent history, its best and brightest have been harvested for service in the Communist Party, making it the most robust instrument of society. The Party's most devastating reign was during the Mao era, which oversaw the institutional demolition of China's cultural heritage and intellectual community. But while Mao's failed political campaigns, inspired by the illusion of communist utopia, were orchestrated by the Party, they were fortified by the Chinese masses, who provided the momentum for their own self-destruction.

China's Communist Party was elevated to fruition on the shoulders of the peasants, but today's peasants are growing largely disenfranchised by divergent socio-economics. Afterall, China's capitalist economic policies don't constitute a "free" market economy, but rather a two-tiered market economy, with the State having ownership, control, or otherwise material influence in every important industry. The central government's fixation on economic progress has made an afterthought of the basic social services it owes to its lower classes, who empowered the Party in the first place. If any potential exists for revolutionary political change in China, it lies in rural discontent, not in urban prosperity.

And finally, in fairness, I'll have to admit that the Han Chinese often remind me of my Western brethren  - in their warm nature, their quest for prosperity, their dreams of a better life, and their mistakes along the way. Family, work, house, car…

Shipton's Arch

As a short side trip from Kashgar, I went adventuring today with a German couple I met in Pakistan. We hired a Land Cruiser and set out for Shipton's Arch – a conglomerate desert feature rather reminiscent of southern Utah. Its namesake, Eric Shipton, was a British consulate to China in the 1940's, and a Himalayan mountaineer with an indomitable spirit of exploration. We rallied down fun dirt trails past Bactrian camel herds, and then scrambled up a tumbling riverbed to the arch, which soars 1,200 vertical feet. The rainy weather was ideal for trekking in the narrow, unstable slot canyon! Read more about Shipton's Arch in a National Geographic feature here .

Karakoram I

In the world’s register of adventurous road trips, Pamir and Karakoram are familiar names at the top of any list. As it occurred to me, there seemed no better plan than to tackle both, in succession. The first leg of the Karakoram Highway was conveniently seamless with (my version of) the Pamir Highway, which terminated in Kashgar, China. Driving southwest from Kashgar delivered more wild Xīnjiāng landscapes: parabolic alpine valleys, shaggy Bactrian camels, and icy summits splayed into tantalizing panoramas. (I’m beginning to feel jaded, if not snobbish, in light of such remarkable, unrelenting scenery, of late).

After a night in Tashkurgan, the final Chinese outpost on the trajectory to Pakistan, I piled into a minivan with three Pakistanis and their profuse assemblage of Chinese merchandise. Khunjerab Pass is decidedly the loneliest border post I’ve ever visited – after clearing Chinese immigration in Tashkurgan, we drove two hours by military escort to the actual border, and another three hours beyond to Sost, where Pakistani immigration procedures were conducted, for a total of five hours in no man’s land.

Immediately after taking Khunjerab Pass (4,800 meters) and leaving China behind, we spiraled into the constricting gorge of the Karakoram; ourselves steadily descending, its governing peaks precipitously rising skyward. Within Khunjerab National Park, we spotted several herds of Himalayan Ibex, each of several dozen individuals, including stately bucks with meter-long, arcing racks. To watch these creatures sail up such impossibly steep, crumbling slopes, with equal measure of strength and finesse, was a sight I’ll not soon forget. Meanwhile, my Pakistani co-passengers employed a vigorous habit of discarding various articles out the window (music cassettes, cardboard boxes, plastic bags, water bottles, etc.), allegedly undeterred by (yet) unspoiled surroundings.

Pamir Highway VI

Sary Tash – Irkeshtam - Kashgar; 300 km, 14 hours

The final leg of my magnificent journey along the Pamir Highway began with two fried eggs and a view of winter wonderland in Sary Tash. I pondered the fate of a long day ahead, paid my tab, and bundled up. Standing at the road junction amidst a swirling blizzard, I hailed the first commercial truck to pass through, and its Uzbec driver gladly took me aboard. What a ride! It was whiteout nearly the whole way to the Chinese border, and the truck cab took to the icy ruts like a bucking pony. After six rounds of Kyrgyz military inspections, we queued up for the Chinese side, with over a hundred rigs ahead of us. Thus, I engaged my two feet and bid farewell to my trusty friend, embarking on foot for China.

There being no evidence of passenger traffic at the border but myself, the Chinese authorities spared no exertion in their due diligence of my situation, which culminated in a 10-minute immigration interview. Of particular interest to them was a souvenir newspaper from Myanmar,
which they scrutinized as if to understand English, and my Lonely Planet guide for China, which I noted as being for sale in the PRC itself.

Leaving the border behind, I hopped on a bus, and we dived into exciting Xīnjiāng scenery: contortions of corrugated desert, flaming river gorges rising into snowy ridges, and a winding river basin peppered with herds of Bactrian camels. And lots of second-hand smoke, as if to welcome me back to China. So, with that, I've arrived at last in Kashgar, to marinate for a few days and reflect on an amazing Pamiri adventure, and memories for a lifetime.

Ürümqi

In China’s far northwest, Ürümqi (“ooroom’chee”) is the capital of Xīnjiāng, China’s second largest province accounting for 17% of the country’s land mass. For many years this has been on my list to visit, on account of its extraordinary surroundings. Xīnjiāng itself contains the Taklamakan Desert and, skirting it, the various routes of the ancient silk road that once linked China with the Roman Empire. Converging on Xīnjiāng from the east are some formidable neighbors: Pakistan’s Karakoram Range and K2, the world’s second highest summit; Tajikistan’s Pamir Range; and a span of Asian borders including India, Pakistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Russia, and Mongolia. To me this is the most intriguing area of China.

In addition to Taiwan and Tibet, Xīnjiāng is one of three territories that Beijing struggles to contain. Thirteen ethnic minorities nearly constitute a majority in Xīnjiāng, the predominant one being the Uighers (“wee’ger”) who total eight million. Uigher-Han relations have a turbulent history and continue to be tenuous today. Following the most recent uprisings last year, the government has yet to restore internet access to the province. Tensions in Ürümqi are not so subtle, either, and its streets are patrolled by armed riot police.

Beijing is desperate to harness Xīnjiāng for its oil and gas reserves. Similar to Tibet, a twofold strategy is employed: inject Han immigrants in the workforce and communities, and install infrastructure bearing the Beijing thumbprint. The former strategy is particularly clever, as it establishes a cultural undermine: young ethnic minorities are learning Mandarin in school, and often perceive it to be their link to the outside world: movies, music, video games, work opportunities, etc.

Considering its history, it’s less difficult to imagine Xīnjiāng as an autonomous Central Asian republic, which it actually once was. For several years in the late 1940’s, Xīnjiāng gained a window of independence and was self-governed as the East Turkestan Republic. But in 1949, en route to a diplomatic meeting in Beijing, its leaders went mysteriously missing, and shortly thereafter Xīnjiāng was regained by the People’s Liberation Army.

Chéngdū

Why preserve natural habitat for the Pandas when you can just put them in a zoo and generate a profit center?? My one goal for Chéngdū was to see these Panda bears everyone's talking about. I'll have to admit, they're mighty cute. Kawaii! Kawaii! the Japanese tour groups exclaimed... The Panda cubs are quite clumsy, and it was fun to watch them stumble around and fall from tree branches. Their hand dexterity is remarkable, and some of them even peel the bamboo stalks before eating them. Well worth the visit to see these amazing creatures...

Down the Hill

My dreams of thru-traveling the STH from Sìchuān into Qīnghǎi and Xīnjiāng crumbled under Yùshù's devastating earthquake. As of yesterday, my plan was to be in Yùshù today (Friday the 16th), meaning I missed the earthquake's near-epicenter by two days. As an agnostic, I'm not sure whom, if anyone, I have to thank for this good fortune.

Today, from Dege, I made it as far as Manigange, cresting Tro La Pass at 5,050 meters (16,568 feet) en route - the scenery was stunning. In Manigange I sat at a highway intersection hoping to materialize a ride further on – anywhere, as it turned out. A steady stream of government vehicles hummed past at an urgent pace - in aggregate several hundred Land Cruisers, ambulances, and satellite telecom rigs. This route from Chengdu (the STH) is busy funneling police, medical, and rescue personnel, while supplies are being trucked in from Xīníng to the north. The spirited relief effort was uplifting and reminded me of home. At the same time, I cringed to consider how ill-prepared India would be in responding to such a crisis, God forbid. The Han, they get it done.

As the afternoon progressed, it was evident that my continuing upcountry to Yùshù was neither feasible nor appropriate. After four hours of lingering, I finally hitched a ride back to Gānsù in an empty supply truck, one of the relief vehicles sponsored by Bank of China. It was one of the few trucks heading back from Yùshù, to re-supply, and I got a roughly translated (and condensed) version of the driver's report: 'Yùshù is destroyed… no homes, no food, no water.'

status

en route to Yùshù as planned, despite current events and assuming I can get there. I was fortunate to miss the earthquake.

Here's where I am (DegeXian):


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Dege

The highlight of Dege (aka Derge) is its 280-year-old printing temple, the largest collection of Tibetan woodblocks in the world and a reservoir of Tibetan culture. The process remains traditional today and it was fun to observe the manual steps of block printing, authentication, and binding of the scripture. The temple stores an immense collection of Tibetan and Buddhist literature, some of which are the only remaining versions in the world.

Yak Herdsmen

Mid-April is producing the earliest hints of spring, and the grasslands look to be a week or so from popping. One day I trekked into the hinterlands with a backpack of provisions, less food and water - go figure. A herd of yaks in the distance was skirting a steep hillside with a backdrop of frosted peaks. It took me an hour to reach the herd, which was driven by a welcoming couple. They were both around 70 years old, but you'd have no idea from the skip in their step at 13,000 feet. I subsequently spent two days with them, following the herd upriver to a grazing basin. The couple had their own provisions stashed in a small cave on a bluff, and they tended an open fire with yak dung to prepare flatbread and Tibetan tea. When it started snowing at 4:00pm, the old man invited me to stay the night in their home, but I opted to traverse the river valley to a road, from where I could try my luck at hitchhiking back to town.

Sìchuān-Tibet Highway

The STH is a hair-raising adventure through the Chinese Himalaya and the eastern Tibetan Plateau. As one of the highest roads in the world, much of it clams in excess of 4,000 meters of elevation, and the section I traveled topped 5,000 meters. This remote corner of China is part of the Kham region of eastern Tibet, and home to some of the best-preserved Tibetan culture accessible to foreigners anywhere. Thus, Tibet, drama-free.

By bus the terrain is negotiated at a measured pace, crawling at times along a faint outline of road submerged in ice. Occasionally we'd take a bend in the tundra and the roof would lift off, unveiling jagged ribbons of 6,000-meter Himalayan canines. Elsewhere, the landscape was steppe-like with an impressive scale. It's big sky country, presented in a pallet of simple pastels.

When the pavement ended, the going got rough, and the road regressed to a denuded state of moonscape. The most precarious sections were deeply rutted, thawing mud, well suited for swallowing up rear axles. I witnessed half a dozen trucks fallen prey - laying sideways or capsized on the shoulder, the drivers asleep inside guarding their freight.

How do people live up here?? At 6:30am the quiet world was still asleep. Yak herds sat motionless, awaiting the sun's encouragement to begin nibbling at permafrost. Tibetan outposts were neatly laid out in boxes of stones, with colorfully decorated wooden window frames punched through. The Tibetans themselves, many of them cowboys in their own Wild West, could be mistaken for Native Americans insofar as their Mongoloid features and long, cinder-black hair. It's not an easy life they lead, but there's certainly no shortage of cultural and scenic wealth.

the k146

Heading north into Sìchuān province, I rode the hard sleeper from Kūnmíng to Xīchāng. What a pleasure Chinese trains are. The worst trains I've ever ridden were in Bolivia and Myanmar. Bolivia takes last place because one of my trains actually derailed, but Burmese trains are equally poor otherwise. The best trains of course are in Japan, and nothing tops the shinkansen. China takes second place – they're smooth, professionally staffed, and clean as a whistle. Classical music chimes away in the background – the opening song after we pulled out of Kunming, to my amazement, was a rendition of the United States national anthem, if I've ever heard it. A public execution will likely be held in the near future concerning this not insignificant oversight on the part of a railway employee.

Smoke & Phlegm

What puzzled me initially about the Chinese and their phlegm throwing was why such voluminous quantities of phlegm were manufactured in the first place. The explanation of course is chain smoking. The Chinese are passionate tobacco smokers, and society imposes little impediment on its connoisseurs. In fact, few men don't smoke, and everyone smokes second-hand, for no place is exempt – not the office, not restaurants, not even an aircon bus with inoperable windows. A few years ago I recall reading a funny article about smoking in China, the gist of which was that if you live in China, you may as well take up smoking, and the good stuff at that, because there's no escaping it. Now I get the point. (As pictured above, Hani men are commonly seen clutching their water bong, a clever innovation for enhancing the smoking experience.)

Yuányáng, Yúnnán

The Hani of Yuányáng have carved vast networks of terraces into their hillsides in southern Yúnnán province, converting entire mountains into shimmering labyrinths. The terrace berms are just wide enough to walk across, and as tall as 15 feet on the downhill side. Their primary use is for rice cultivation, but they also stock fish, and some are filled in for buffalo grazing. At work in the maze are mostly Hani women, adorned with elaborate traditional dress despite their men sporting western wear.

Kūnmíng, Yúnnán

To begin the China chapter I took a circuitous flight from Calcutta to Kūnmíng, via Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur, which saved me money but certainly not time. Kūnmíng is very much a first world city with its state-of-the-art infrastructure: elevated expressways, landscaped medians, glass curtain wall office and apartment towers, and sprawling suburban master-plans. (Who cares how many people died building the stuff; what's important is that it was completed ahead of schedule and below budget!) Despite the phlegm-throwing, Kūnmíng's streets are immaculate - an enormous relief following three months in India. In its progressive urban ambiance, Kūnmíng bears resemblance to Tokyo, or at least a blossoming version thereof. And the cool, overcast weather hinted at what awaits in western Sìchuān, but first a visit to Yuányáng in southern Yúnnán for some obligatory rice terrace scenery.

It's funny, in advance of coming to China, people continually inquired of my language skills, suggesting it may present an issue. No problem! Fulfilling your basic needs as a traveler is not rocket surgery. That being said... the few days I spent in Kūnmíng were terribly frustrating. Virtually nobody speaks English. What's more, there's typically no recognition of even the most elementary English words like 'bus' or 'yes'. Elsewhere in the world, people who "don't speak English" understand some English that they've absorbed through media or schooling. If Kūnmíng is any indication, getting along in China sans Mandarin proficiency will be a steep uphill battle.

Southwest China

(see more pics)
My short trip to China was phenomenal and far exceeded expectations - the warm people, stunning landscapes, and depth of culture. Being my maiden trip to China, it was also an introduction to several Chinese staples (some unique to the region): rice noodles for breakfast; rice noodles for lunch; spitting; Chenglish; tour group megaphones; ubiquitous, blaring folk music; traffic laws (there are none); the hard sleeper train; and the morning tai chi / shouting routine.

Guângxī Province
The misty Li River winds its way through Guilin and Yangshuo amongst endless limestone cliffs and rice fields, offering otherworldly topography that trumps Rio de Janeiro's vistas on a meager day. Meandering through the surrounding villages on bicycle feels more like an interactive painting than planet Earth. Generally I was received by village folks with mixed reviews - some expressing curiosity while others impatience.

Guilin is a fun town with many markets, but is most useful as a jumping point to other places. Locals eagerly befriend Westerners to practice their English, and pitch any number of services offered by their cousin's friend's brother: "authentic" Chinese tea; massages (a loosely used term as elsewhere in Asia); river cruises; trips to Dragon's Back. The river cruise from Guilin to Yangshuo exposes awesome views of the myriad cliffs stacked on one another. I travelled here with four Chinese tourists from Kunming which was a rewarding insight into Chinese culture, albeit not the local one.

Yúnnán Province
Next we boarded a sleeper train from Guilin to Kunming, which was meant to be an 18-hour journey but, due to flooding from a rain storm, slowly grew to 22.5 hours. Luckily, TsingTao beers were sold on the train for 5 yuan, or about 75 cents. My Chinese friends were not keen to much drinking, but an Austrian fellow and a British couple were conveniently in company. In Kunming I joined Tony's wife and family for dinner, and some enjoyable bar-hopping ensued with Sky, Ray, Victor, and their respective wives.

From Kunming I flew to Lijiang and whiled away about a week. The thousand-year-old "old town", a World Heritage site, is home to the NaXi people (aka Nakhi), a Chinese ethnic group that originated in Tibet. Their native language (today the only living pictographic script), dress, and food were fun to discover. Water canals maze the city which once supplied drinking water and are utilized to flood and clean the city's cobblestone walkways. Towering above Lijiang is the 5,596-meter Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, regarded as one of the premier scenic sites in all of China. Its reflection in Black Dragon Pool is extraordinary.