We are heading south. A surprisingly well-paved, two lane road connects us from Kashgar all the way to our final destination. Ever since 9/11, China has made a point of making sure its borders with Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Tajikistan, all within a few hours’ drive from here, are secure. To that end, this road has been paved and regularly cleared of falling rocks. On the way to Karakul, I see about a half dozen army trucks filled to the brim with stone faced, young People’s Liberation Army soldiers.
A few minutes out of Kashgar, the landscape opens up. Near the horizon stands the Pamir range, my destination. The road is lined with pencil thin poplar trees on either side. Parallel to the southbound lane is a narrow canal used for irrigation. It runs for miles.
We make a stop in the small village of Upal. The word “opal” comes from this place. Our van is the only passenger vehicle in town with an internal combustion engine. We park next to the taxi stand, which consists of three donkey carts.
It is a poor and simple community. I step out of the van in my blue and gold rugby shirt, shorts, and REI hiking boots. I stick out like a sore thumb. Our drivers disappear to buy provisions. I stand in the middle of the street and take in everything around me. Two competing bread vendors set up shop 30 feet away from each other. I buy three baked seasoned flatbreads. The baker made beautiful and alien geometric patterns on the breads by poking holes with a pin. Bagels, which are rumored to have been invented here, are also sold. Behind the vendors, about 20 men and boys sit, watching a television set. They had to pay an admission fee to watch it.
For about 25 minutes, I stand in the same spot in the middle of the street, watching. I was not in danger of errant cars running me down. No kid tried to sell me worthless trinkets. Everyone in town knows I am there, but I feel invisible.
We head toward the Ghez River canyon. As we approach, we see a dramatic sight. In one scene, there are three dramatically divergent climates: desert, a Mediterranean-like oasis , and alpine. I am speechless.
We stop at the Ghez checkpoint. Because we are entering a special border zone, I am technically supposed to have a special visa. I do not have one. In order to get through the checkpoint, I must get out of the van, enter a checkpoint shack reminiscent of Checkpoint Charlie, show my passport with my face expressionless, and continue to the exit. As I enter the shack, silent panic hits me. What if the guards realize that my grandfather fought against the Communists in the 1940s? His brother, after all, died in a re-education camp here in Xinjiang. His only crime was being my grandfather’s brother. I start freaking. Of course, the guard looks at my passport, checks my picture in it, and gestures me towards the exit. I’m free to go. I say good-bye to the Bactrian (two humps) camels loitering in the distance.
As the elevation rises, I start feeling lightheaded. My breaths become short and halting. I gasp. If it were not for the utter beauty of it all, I would have asked the driver to turn around.
We enter a high, wet plateau surrounded by sand dunes. Yaks are strewn everywhere. The scene is so foreign and outer space like, I think I am dreaming.
Images source: Maxichamp
