A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar (32 page)

The animals – and indeed we – can only bear to travel at night as the daylight stages are simply too hot and so our rhythm is thus: we rise at three in the morning, travel until the sun has fully risen when we find shelter, usually a hovel or a native cave-home in the ground. I am astounded to discover that villagers here spend the daylight hours underground for protection from the heat at this time of the year. We eat, sleep through the hottest hours, then begin to walk again in the evening. We keep going until midnight, or later if we have the strength. In the hellish afternoon sleeps I dream terrible dreams: of my sister with great black feathers tied to her arms; of Kashgar on fire; of the mosque in flames; of Millicent, sitting in chains in a prison beneath the Magistrates’ Court; Lizzie, with the bright red ants one sees here crawling in her hair. I thought I would feel lighter as I move away from Millicent, but it is the converse: I am heavier, inside, and almost choked to death by this heat.

(Few days later) August. I have lost track of the days . . .

We picked up bread this morning from a baker who was baking in a cave-hovel in the ground, ten small loaves, each heavy with oil which helps to keep them fresher. Clearly the riots have not stopped traders. We have met carts from Aksu or Turfan before dawn, piled high with rugs and carpets, or dried fruits and raw cotton. They stop and talk to Mah and sometimes goods are bought. Yesterday we bought six cucumbers and ate them under a vineyard trellis of dead poplar wood. The stretches between the vendor stalls that set up at dusk and the lonely inns we pass are long and melancholy. I try to understand the exchange of news: talk of riots and trouble and uprisings in Herat, Tashkend, Samarkand, Turfan and Barkul. They point at me, stare at Ai-Lien, Mah says, ‘She comes from England, the other side of Hindustan,’ and they all nod, as if that explains my strangeness.

August

Ai-Lien’s bright eyes blink, she sucks her fists. Mah made a stew from some kind of desert rabbit. Like snakes, we sleep in holes. The hovels are usually buried into the bottom of the rolling hills, or dug into the cragged cliff-bases of the moraines. They have a thin walkway and the rest of the floor is taken up by a mud kang. The ceilings are a patchwork of hay and filthy grass; ventilation, if there is any, is simply a number of small holes. There are no windows, and when the door closes it is as close as possible to being buried alive. Mah, the carter, Ai-Lien and I share one room as an economy and each time the door closes over I have the same thoughts: will Mah and his carter kill me? Or worse? So far, though, Mah falls into a deep sleep, aided, I suspect, by a smoke of his opium pipe before coming in, and the two men snore loudly. It is like lying down in a coffin and each time I think I cannot bear it, then exhaustion overcomes me and Ai-Lien too. Surprisingly we sleep soundly in the cool black space and I concede that, as I slowly become accustomed to them, these hovels do provide exactly what is required: relief from the sun and protection from thieves.

August

We could not go to Aksu – too dangerous. We are on Nan Lu, the South Road. The merchants and travellers on Nan Lu tell us that blood flows in the streets of Aksu where there have been battles between the Hui and the Turkic men. This means we have not been able to replenish our supplies adequately and we have been forced to hunt out day-time accommodation in the primitive agricultural villages.

Although it barely seems possible, each day appears to be hotter than the last. Sometimes I carry Ai-Lien on my back, sometimes in the basket with the shade contraption erected. I check and re-check the map, I dream of Kucha, where I hope Mr Steyning is waiting. Because we couldn’t go down into the city we are forced to drink brackish water. I am making up Ai-Lien’s dried food with this same water, too.

Just as the day broke today, we witnessed an astonishing sight: a chain of camels, about fifty of them, being led by their Kirghiz driver riding a donkey at the front. They were crossing a dry stream bed, heading deep into the Takla. Even the carter stood to watch. The bells around their necks gave off a melancholy sound, evocative, I suppose, of the perils of loneliness and solitude. Without Ai-Lien I should feel unbearably alone, despite Mah and the carter. The camels moved slowly, attached to one another with decorated woollen tassels. I remember Millicent saying, ‘Too much mishandling of a camel and they lose the will to live and simply lie down to die.’

August

Mah remains silent for stretches of time, then when he does talk, slowly and sonorous-toned, I understand nothing. It is lonely, to be alongside a person who is an unfathomable distance away. I am inconsistent in my regard of him. I both want him to acknowledge me more – I suppose protect me – and am grateful of his distance. The way he spits his bones out appals me. This last part of the journey has been terrible: tents pitched in lonely plains, a series of abandoned villages now waterless and invaded by sand. The wind brings with it an almost unbearable sense of desolation and Ai-Lien is sore, uncomfortable and difficult to console. The skin on my cheeks is burned and peels and my feet are in agonies. I dare not even look at them.

The carter is an irritating presence, demanding this and that, to stop here, to speed up or slow down, always in a state of agitation like a small puppy and this does not help my nerves. I have begun hallucinating. Occasionally, a streak of wind is laced with my sister’s voice and often-times I see Millicent, standing with her hair in its tight bun, just the one or two curls moved outwards, next to a boulder, with a hunting pistol in her hand, looking away. Mr Hatchett, in full dinner dress, waves at me from behind the tamarisk tree mounds and today, amongst the light-shimmers, I saw the entire promenade of Southsea, complete with Clarence pier and the memorial and the bright smell of salt and light, rotting seaweed.

? August

I am a fool.

I conveyed to Mr Mah that I must sleep on an upright kang, not one down under the ground. I must have a proper meal and I must bathe Ai-Lien who, I noticed, had black ridges of dirt behind her ears, and her hair was sticking to her head. I could not stand it one more moment. So, we made a small detour off the Nan Lu to a Moslem village where we took rooms at the Inn of Celestial Friendship. The village, like most Mohammedan towns, was surrounded with a protective wall. The gatekeepers were not friendly. Moreover, they were hostile, and I should have realised that it would be unwise to enter. Through one doorway I saw an elegant, long-stemmed blue iris.

Our room was hot, but clean, and I paid extra for water to bathe myself and Ai-Lien. The cushions and the tea and bread, the glimpses of the colourfully covered women in their bright dresses and white and coloured veils, were restful and it was a relief to be away from Mah who was having tea and smoking with the innkeeper. After I had taken advantage of the peace, and the water, and had settled Ai-Lien, Mah knocked on the door and summoned me. Two military soldiers were arguing with the elderly innkeeper.

At our request, the innkeeper had not informed the authorities of our arrival, and as a result was now being confronted by angry military personnel who had been alerted to our presence. The only way we could calm the situation was to bribe both the innkeeper and the soldiers. I gave Mah half of the money that Rami had given me and told him it was all I had. It was idiocy to have come out of the safety of the wilder part of the desert as my passport is not up-to-date and I do not have the official paperwork that allows me to travel through this region. We were forced to leave immediately, very much lighter of pocket.

Back to the hovels and the road then; and what a turn in my mind, what a mix, with the sun taking off layer after layer of my skin, rinsing it through, sending it off. To make matters worse, the next day, or the day after – I don’t know now where we are – led us to an even more sorrowful part of the desert; stony waves crossed an empty plateau. The wind blew constantly, raging my face and I kept Ai-Lien tight against me, wrapped in silk and cotton cloths, but she grumbled and wriggled. In between each raised ridge of rubble and stone and boulder I noticed a raised square, covered with bones. As we passed, I saw that they weren’t just cattle bones but also horse skulls. I think these must have been troughs for nomadic animals to feed. I pointed at them, Mah said, ‘snow’. The animals must have been caught in sudden snowdrifts, buried at their troughs, where they perished from hunger, or froze to death, I suppose. It is impossible to imagine snow in this dreadful heat. If the weather holds, it is one day to Kucha, the Buddhist city, where I pray Mr Steyning awaits us.

August

Disappointment: he is not here. Instead, a Cingalese servant meets us at the city gates with a message: Mr Steyning is unable to reach Kucha, instead he will be at Korla, the next stage. He will arrange payments with guides when there. We will prepare to cross the mountain pass to Karashahr which will lead us on our way across the Thian-Shan mountains to his home in Urumtsi. It is such an interminable distance. I hold on to sweet Ai-Lien, thankful for the supply of dried food.

August

A group of priests and beggars came along the track towards us today making me think of Lizzie and how she would have liked to photograph them. I was confused; I thought that they meant trouble, but Mah stood talking intensely with one of them, who momentarily pulled back his robes to reveal the usual trousers and it occurred to me that they were scouts, or spies undercover. They invited us to a nearby village, telling us that it was safe. What could I do but trust Mah’s judgement? We travelled down and for the first time I saw for myself the evidence that some of the bandits that we have heard of have passed through on the way to Aksu and Kashgar: farmhouses burned down, leaving just scalded timbers; an entire village ransacked, apart from the blacksmith who had been forced to shoe horses and repair endless carts. All bread and resources had been forced over. Mah seems to know everyone on this road but this does not make me feel safer; the opposite in fact, I feel as though I am being marched to meet my maker. Frequently, now, we encounter straggles of weary-looking men and boys, some very young, deserters from the press-gangs. Each day, now, we see one or two of them hiding in the grass. I preferred the isolated stretches.

August – perhaps September?

Mr Steyning was at the camp outside Korla.

My relief was like a plunge into water. We reached him yesterday night at a camp with Kirghiz tents, fresh water and food. The first thing he did was to take Mah and the carter aside and the payment negotiations went on for a good few hours. I attempted to contribute what I could but Mr Steyning refused. I promised to repay him in the future, but he shook his head. When the sum was finalised and handed over, Mah simply mounted his donkey and left, without looking round or saying goodbye. The carter, still grumbling and skipping about like a puppy, demanded a meal.

I attended to Ai-Lien who was in a great need of a proper bath and change of blankets and clothes. Mr Steyning had thought of this and had brought with him clean bedding which I gratefully wrapped around the baby. He also arrived with a generous supply of cow’s milk and some bread and Russian jam. Once Ai-Lien was clean and settled we talked.

‘Where’s your sister?’

I told him. He stood with his Bible in one hand and his other hand on my arm and said sincerely, ‘My dear, I am so sorry.’

He elaborated on the situation which I try, despite everything, to understand for my Guide: a defected Chinese General is leading a Moslem uprising and they in turn are being pursued by a Chinese army. Both the Moslem Brigands and the Chinamen are press-ganging local boys into their ranks, attacking villages for supplies and the all-round menace from both sides provokes terror in everyone.

‘The main problem,’ Mr Steyning said, ‘is that they keep poisoning and choking the oasis wells.’

‘The scouts I have spoken to suggest that they are moving towards the Gobi,’ he said. ‘Our route will be across the Celestial Mountains. Once over the pass, we will be safe from all of this trouble.’

I was exhausted and overwrought. Kindly, he wrapped a blanket around me and I even leaned against his shoulder, I was so tired. I fell asleep with my head resting on him. When I awoke this morning I was lying down on a thin mattress and nicely covered; he must have done so himself, gently, without waking me.

September?

After a two-day rest, we are making preparations to go across the Celestial Mountains pass. The mountains stand up in front of us like monumental cathedrals. It cannot be possible to go beyond them; they are of such enormity that there simply cannot be a ‘beyond’. I am thus stalled in my preparations. I want to sleep for seven years.

–

Riding horseback with two of Mr Steyning’s servants, a Cingelese and a Kirghiz, and I have left my bicycle. It is not feasible to take it up through the mountains, though I cannot imagine motion without it. I remember that Lizzie and Millicent just laughed when I first raised the idea of bringing a bicycle on our journey. Then, when they realised I was serious, Millicent stipulated that I would personally pay any additional expenses for the bicycle.

‘Why do you want to bring it?’ Lizzie asked, but I don’t think I answered her. I did not tell her that it was my shield and my method of escape; or that since the first time I pedalled and felt the freedom of cycling, I’ve known that it is the closest one can get to flying. It will be left to rust in the desert, then, to become bones, and I am bereft.

–

Ten hours along a terribly narrow path on horseback. The weather, Mr Steyning says, is a blessing – cloudless skies. We have created a sleeping bag from a sack for Ai-Lien and sometimes she is carried on my back, sometimes on one of the servants. As our horses grind on, I become stiff and aching, and to keep my attention from the steep cliffs along one side of the road he tells me the love story of the Tieman Pass: a story from ancient times, of a princess and a commoner who meet and fall in love. The king opposes the union and so the two lovers leap to their death in the Kongque He, the Peacock River. I tried to listen, but I am worried. As we climb higher, Ai-Lien is listless, less rigid in her limbs than usual, and is not really looking around in her bright way. I am trying to make sure that she drinks and drinks, but it is difficult. Holding her limbs up, she seems rather weak.