Xinjiang China Travelog
Where is it that you going to again?
Xinjiang has been on top of my travel agenda from the day a seasoned traveler, Choy Khee, I met at Greg’s party painted in words what the Sunday Market is like. You know how something just clicks in your head and you know, you just know, you’ve got to do it.
With Will’s own travel intentions, the trip becomes a reality. Will lives in Shanghai, he ropes in 4 other friends on this trip. Their interest in Xinjiang is largely fueled by a restaurant they regularly go to in Shanghai. One of them, Genvieve is ‘dating’ the hottest waiter there. He hardly speaks Mandarin and no English. Being from Xinjiang, I will later learn that my friends speak far more superior Mandarin compared to the local population. So, not certain how long Gen will be seeing Ali given their communication challenges, the trip was put in gear so we can visit his family in his native village.
My Chinese friends in HK ask me why such interest in China’s ethnic minorities. ‘Why don’t you go to Xi’an?’ I can sense the tone of superiority. I attempt to explain that I want to meet people other than those I meet on a daily basis. And, travels are not about the sights, the dead, but about the living; the peoples and their culture.
Getting to Xinjiang is neither cheap nor easy. The price of the flight to Urumqi (capital of Xinjiang) could have taken me to London. I get up at 3am that morning, to make my way to Shenhzen (China’s closest city from HK) to get on the 9am flight to Urumqi. From the train station, I jump in a taxi with some Italian climbers, who are very likely to miss their flight, and the taxi driver is very determined to get them to the airport on time. There is a downpour of rain and the highway feels like a skating ring. My seatbelt bucket is busted and the taxi driver is doing 140km/h.
On the flight to Urumqi I’m seated next to an 18-year old bird and her 45-yr old sugar daddy from HK. He pulls out his phone to switch if off and a happy family picture of the wiffy & 2 kids flashes in from of him. There are no security instructions before we depart. Instead, 30min before we land, the stewardess re-appears to introduce us to a set of exercises to get the blood circulation going. Brilliant idea, combined with a Maoist disciplinary execution, I’m all in smiles. I turn back to see everybody in strict compliance, slapping their arms, rotating wrists, stretching and pounding.
I arrive Urumqi 6 hrs before the rest of the guys from Shanghai, so I hit the city on my own. It’s yet another 2nd-tier Chinese city with an urban architecture resembling many others Chinese city, read: modernity killed identity. What sets it apart are the people and the food. Picture a Turk and a Chinese having a kid, speaking a Turkish-sounding language. In fact, Xinjiang is called the Autonomous Region of China (same as Tibet). It is home to the proud, spirited Uygur people who are far different from the Chinese Han culture (what we know as being ‘Chinese’). They speak Uygur, a language in the Turkish language group, are of Caucasian roots and Muslim. The government has resettled many Chinese Han people to Xinjiang (involuntarily during Mao’s time), creating resentment and tension. Just take one aspect: the time zone. The province is asked to follow Beijing time, in spite of being 5 hrs flight east of the controlling capital. So officially, the sun sets here at 10pm, in reality, or ‘Xinjiang time’ at 8pm. We choose between the two time zones depending on our needs; when we get hungry, we say ‘oh it’s already 9pm, let’s have some lamb’, when it’s only 7pm local time. Or we say ‘man, it’s bloody early to get up, at 6am’ where it’s 8am Beijing time.
Urumqi gives me the first glance at what’s ahead for the next 10 days; rows of freshly baked bread; with cumin, onions, poppy seeds, round, oblong, flat, fluffy, donut-like; lamb, sheep head stew, wheat and egg noodles, dried fruits, nuts, home-made yogurt, sheep’s stomach and local ice cream. I’m fearless when it comes to trying things and end up having a 7-course lunch, but skip the sheep head stew.
Men look at me with great interest, they flirt and and radiate with cheeky smiles, but there is no sleaze in their tone.
Back at Urumqi airport, I meet the rest of the crew; Sabina, Genvieve, Yifat, Sandy and of course Will. Yifat is Israeli, the rest are Canadians, Gen is from Quebec. We drink fake and warm Carlsberg beer before catching our flight to Kashgar and get to know each other. We arrive Kashgar at 2am, in bed by 3am. It’s been an engaging 24 hrs.
But they slaughtered the sheep for us….
I like to travel alone, as the travel experience is far more intense and deeper than when you have companion(s). At the same time, since I’ve never traveled with people I do not know (except Will) and they will organize, fight it out, translate and rationalize all details of the trip, so I thought it to be worthwhile and adventurous.
Kashgar, the next morning. Time has stood still here. I could convert my photographs to black-and-white, put a date of 1914 and you won’t know. We explore the Old Town, it’s Saturday, a relaxed day here, as Fridays and Saturdays are observed as weekend days here. Carpets, linens, dry fruits, bags and bags of spices, more lamb skewers, cotton rolls and pressers, barbers, fresh veg and fruit stalls (OMG, it’s so organic! this is for Sarah W), copper pots and pans, kalif’s teapots, vases, more Turkish ornaments, more carpets, phones-for rent, and the always-present smell of fresh bread.
We find a place selling beers and get intoxicated in this merciless heat. The Id Kah Mosque is Kashgar is just behind us, so we decide to go and visit it, getting a teenager’s thrill out of going there intoxicated.
The soporific heat makes me wanna go for a massage by the evening. Genevieve gets a text message that her beau’s family is expecting us. Tonite. Can we do it tomorrow? “Well, they slaughtered the sheep for us”. The taxi ride is 45 minutes through some very remote land, the driver has to stop and reconfirm the directions multiple times. We find Ali’s house – the most elaborate house with the biggest gate in the village. Our arrival gets the village talking, we make Ali’s family proud of hosting far-away guests. We bring Abdul with us, he’s our translator from Uygur to English. We get ushered to a fully carpeted room that looks like a war-council room. No furniture, only carpets and koranic verses on the walls. The food starts arriving; fresh fruits, sweets, nuts, bread; the reverse of a Western dinner sequence. The main consists of chunks of boiled lamb. I read later it’s a way to honour guests. The taste is not particularly compelling, the water is later used for very eggy noodles which are rich and bland.
The family tells Gen that she’s on a video tape Ali sent them from Shanghai. She appears surprised, and to prove the point, they bring in the TV and borrow the neighbour’s VCD player. We watch the Shanghai restaurant’s party; the girl they thought to be Gen is not Gen, but they see all white people to look the same. I’m amazed how handsome Ali is – could pass for Antonio Bandera’s brother.
The tape and the music they play close the gap between us; dancing starts and Will gets asked by the men to join them. He typically dances only after 5 beers, and so today’s performance is special by many standards. We tell each other about the toilet ‘with a view. ‘Go!, it faces the vineyard’. It does, all right, as it also is a wooden structure on a hill with a full view of other people’s efforts.
The evening ends with the eldest women (Ali’s grandma) blessing us and leading a short muslim prayer. We are amazed, honoured and keep wondering how did Ali introduce Gen to his family, as the term ‘girlfriend’ does not exist here.
We get back at midnight and still make it for a massage, ending it at 2am, or at 12am Xinjiang time. I love whatever buys me time, and comfort.
Sunday. Sunday Market. This is why I came here.
The bargain hard, they insert fingers into the sheep’s vagina to determine its worth, they gesticulate and argue good-heartedly, over-dramatise each negotiation. Goods exchange hands swiftly. We start the day at the animal market where the trading practices have not changed for generations. It resembles a movie set from a medieval era. People appear rough, but are kind and very curious if given the chance to interact. They are very unmaterialistic people given the curiosity Sunday market creates around the world. They ignore us most of the time and go on about their trade. We wonder when the time will come when they learn to extort money, the way touristy places typically do.
The government has relocated the second part of the Sunday market to a ‘better location’, which is a permanent concrete building probably owned by the Chinese and rented out to the locals. It has lost its charm; the goods traded here are no different than those in Shanghai or Kowloon. Carpets sellers are sleek negotiators here, they don’t give in easily to Sabina’s bargaining charm and skills. I get a silk carpet; off-white, small and soft, feels like my cat Kimmy. Yifat is convinced that there must be another section, a real Sunday market which we have missed. We never find it. On the way back our taxi gets stopped by a Chinese policeman for supposedly doing something illegal. What would it be when the whole traffic is a mélange of donkey carts, stall pullers, cars, horses, motorcycles and cows. The racial tension is evident – the cop screams at our driver, drawing attention of 30 people who surround the car at once. We are in the middle of a traffic junction – that somehow does not worry the cop.
Monday Blues
We go though our own blues, spending 2 hours discussing how we will spend the next 8 days. There are many things to see and do and given our different interests and preferences for duress, it takes time to decide. I’m very easy going – I love the prospect of switching off, not organizing the way I usually do, letting others take charge and maybe responsibility. We finally agree on a plan, book cars, drivers, flights, hotels and lock in our imagination. It’s the German organizational skills with Israeli prudence (including financial) that bring things together (Will and Sabina are off German origin).
Sandstorms and hailstorms
They came together, in the space of 20 min from each other. We plan to stay overnite at the Karakul Lake. A romantic prospect of overnight stay at a yurt (Mongolian tent, round in shape, laid out with carpets, cushions, quilts and sometimes a fireplace in the middle). We hop on camels and go riding around the lake when the black clouds stretch over the horizon. The sandstorm starts soon after, the temperature drops to zero, the wind is unforgiving to our cameras and eyes. I spit out sand in spite of not having opened my mouth. Then the hail comes, probably the result of the sudden temperature drop. We escape to the only restaurant here, serving bland and boring Chinese food, with most things on the menus not available. Lousy food comes out 45min later, putting us all in a bad mood and the romantic idea of a night in a yurt dwindles away. Yifat and I have seen more dramatic landscapes, so the Karakul drive is filled with far less ‘wows’ per square mile for us. It’s pretty here but not amazing. We play word games on the way back and drink shots of my Polish vodka Zobrowka to cheer up.
Surfing the dunes
We head out to the dunes. This is the first time I see dunes, first time get to roll in them, attempt to surf them. We have beers wrapped in sleeping bags and we manage to keep them cold till we get there, which is a 5-hour ride from Kashgar. On the way, we stop by another a local market. Love the fact that people ignore us. We stock up on some dodgy tobacco, cigarette paper and smoke away. I break my promise taken in August 01.
I ate half a sheep
On day 4 I have a serious aversion to meat. We see fresh vegetables in the markets, but not in the restaurants. Getting a fresh salad is not easy. The local diet makes me develop eczema around my elbows, my body craving the nutrients it’s accustomed to. The local population lives on lamb, bread, yoghurt, wheat and egg noodles. I’m glad Brenda is not here, she would have suffered.
Married at 15
Will and I take out the bikes and cycle around Kashgar and beyond, exploring the local villages. We stop by a dilapidated mosque and a local grape farmer comes forth and very persuasively invites us to his house. His wife makes us tea and brings bread. They insist we must stay and eat dinner with them. I feel like we need to run before their give their lives away. They were married when she was 15, she’s now 33 but looks 40. He’s 34 and looks 45. It must be the harsh sun that carves out the wrinkles on their kind faces. Insisting that we must go back to meet our friends, she gives me her head scarf as a leaving present. Offering cash is an insult, so we stuff the money in their boy’s hand. I take many shots, sending them to this family will make the village talk.
Setting new benchmarks
Kashgar has set the lowest benchmark for a massage, wine and accommodation.
In spite of being assured that this is not a brothel, we walk into a room plastered with posters from big-booby-land and who-makes-out-like-this poses. It was already 1am Beijing time (and 11pm local time) when we got there, noticing that the place was getting ready for business. I surrender to whatever will come next and suffer the consequences. Worse massage ever, by a stupid and crude girl. This is why any massage session from now on will be a delightful experience.
The second benchmark is our accommodation – we got stuck for one night with little options but to take a mental hospital look-alike room in a basement of our hotel. Some of us developed asthma from the dust and fungal growth on the walls. It was a room to remember, and some funny photo shots of Will strapped in a ‘straitjacket’, and Yifat with a tag hanging off her foot like in a morgue. How else to reflect the moment?
Travelling with the Experts
My 5 friends all live in Shanghai, speak Mandarin at different levels, love China and the Chinese people, are curious and adventurous people. They do not ask the questions that every novice would; “why is it this way here?” “why can they not repair this and think like that?”. Applying our Western logic is useless and frustrating in China. Instead, we merge with the local environment and seize the moment. It works well for us. The locals love my friends who are bargain crazy, joke and tease them. I feel like a white barbarian, unable to connect the same way. Instead, I do my usual animation and it works to some extent.
What would I have done differently had I traveled alone? I would have done less of the car-sight-hotel travel and gotten away from civilization. I need to be taken away from my comfort zone to feel good, I need drastic changes to feel like I’m on a holiday, I need to push my mental and physical limits to feel good. You know, the usual Magda.
I’ve been a passenger on this trip, not the usual driver. Every girl needs to be taken on a Cadillac spin once in a while.
Xinjiang has been on top of my travel agenda from the day a seasoned traveler, Choy Khee, I met at Greg’s party painted in words what the Sunday Market is like. You know how something just clicks in your head and you know, you just know, you’ve got to do it.
With Will’s own travel intentions, the trip becomes a reality. Will lives in Shanghai, he ropes in 4 other friends on this trip. Their interest in Xinjiang is largely fueled by a restaurant they regularly go to in Shanghai. One of them, Genvieve is ‘dating’ the hottest waiter there. He hardly speaks Mandarin and no English. Being from Xinjiang, I will later learn that my friends speak far more superior Mandarin compared to the local population. So, not certain how long Gen will be seeing Ali given their communication challenges, the trip was put in gear so we can visit his family in his native village.
My Chinese friends in HK ask me why such interest in China’s ethnic minorities. ‘Why don’t you go to Xi’an?’ I can sense the tone of superiority. I attempt to explain that I want to meet people other than those I meet on a daily basis. And, travels are not about the sights, the dead, but about the living; the peoples and their culture.
Getting to Xinjiang is neither cheap nor easy. The price of the flight to Urumqi (capital of Xinjiang) could have taken me to London. I get up at 3am that morning, to make my way to Shenhzen (China’s closest city from HK) to get on the 9am flight to Urumqi. From the train station, I jump in a taxi with some Italian climbers, who are very likely to miss their flight, and the taxi driver is very determined to get them to the airport on time. There is a downpour of rain and the highway feels like a skating ring. My seatbelt bucket is busted and the taxi driver is doing 140km/h.
On the flight to Urumqi I’m seated next to an 18-year old bird and her 45-yr old sugar daddy from HK. He pulls out his phone to switch if off and a happy family picture of the wiffy & 2 kids flashes in from of him. There are no security instructions before we depart. Instead, 30min before we land, the stewardess re-appears to introduce us to a set of exercises to get the blood circulation going. Brilliant idea, combined with a Maoist disciplinary execution, I’m all in smiles. I turn back to see everybody in strict compliance, slapping their arms, rotating wrists, stretching and pounding.
I arrive Urumqi 6 hrs before the rest of the guys from Shanghai, so I hit the city on my own. It’s yet another 2nd-tier Chinese city with an urban architecture resembling many others Chinese city, read: modernity killed identity. What sets it apart are the people and the food. Picture a Turk and a Chinese having a kid, speaking a Turkish-sounding language. In fact, Xinjiang is called the Autonomous Region of China (same as Tibet). It is home to the proud, spirited Uygur people who are far different from the Chinese Han culture (what we know as being ‘Chinese’). They speak Uygur, a language in the Turkish language group, are of Caucasian roots and Muslim. The government has resettled many Chinese Han people to Xinjiang (involuntarily during Mao’s time), creating resentment and tension. Just take one aspect: the time zone. The province is asked to follow Beijing time, in spite of being 5 hrs flight east of the controlling capital. So officially, the sun sets here at 10pm, in reality, or ‘Xinjiang time’ at 8pm. We choose between the two time zones depending on our needs; when we get hungry, we say ‘oh it’s already 9pm, let’s have some lamb’, when it’s only 7pm local time. Or we say ‘man, it’s bloody early to get up, at 6am’ where it’s 8am Beijing time.
Urumqi gives me the first glance at what’s ahead for the next 10 days; rows of freshly baked bread; with cumin, onions, poppy seeds, round, oblong, flat, fluffy, donut-like; lamb, sheep head stew, wheat and egg noodles, dried fruits, nuts, home-made yogurt, sheep’s stomach and local ice cream. I’m fearless when it comes to trying things and end up having a 7-course lunch, but skip the sheep head stew.
Men look at me with great interest, they flirt and and radiate with cheeky smiles, but there is no sleaze in their tone.
Back at Urumqi airport, I meet the rest of the crew; Sabina, Genvieve, Yifat, Sandy and of course Will. Yifat is Israeli, the rest are Canadians, Gen is from Quebec. We drink fake and warm Carlsberg beer before catching our flight to Kashgar and get to know each other. We arrive Kashgar at 2am, in bed by 3am. It’s been an engaging 24 hrs.
But they slaughtered the sheep for us….
I like to travel alone, as the travel experience is far more intense and deeper than when you have companion(s). At the same time, since I’ve never traveled with people I do not know (except Will) and they will organize, fight it out, translate and rationalize all details of the trip, so I thought it to be worthwhile and adventurous.
Kashgar, the next morning. Time has stood still here. I could convert my photographs to black-and-white, put a date of 1914 and you won’t know. We explore the Old Town, it’s Saturday, a relaxed day here, as Fridays and Saturdays are observed as weekend days here. Carpets, linens, dry fruits, bags and bags of spices, more lamb skewers, cotton rolls and pressers, barbers, fresh veg and fruit stalls (OMG, it’s so organic! this is for Sarah W), copper pots and pans, kalif’s teapots, vases, more Turkish ornaments, more carpets, phones-for rent, and the always-present smell of fresh bread.
We find a place selling beers and get intoxicated in this merciless heat. The Id Kah Mosque is Kashgar is just behind us, so we decide to go and visit it, getting a teenager’s thrill out of going there intoxicated.
The soporific heat makes me wanna go for a massage by the evening. Genevieve gets a text message that her beau’s family is expecting us. Tonite. Can we do it tomorrow? “Well, they slaughtered the sheep for us”. The taxi ride is 45 minutes through some very remote land, the driver has to stop and reconfirm the directions multiple times. We find Ali’s house – the most elaborate house with the biggest gate in the village. Our arrival gets the village talking, we make Ali’s family proud of hosting far-away guests. We bring Abdul with us, he’s our translator from Uygur to English. We get ushered to a fully carpeted room that looks like a war-council room. No furniture, only carpets and koranic verses on the walls. The food starts arriving; fresh fruits, sweets, nuts, bread; the reverse of a Western dinner sequence. The main consists of chunks of boiled lamb. I read later it’s a way to honour guests. The taste is not particularly compelling, the water is later used for very eggy noodles which are rich and bland.
The family tells Gen that she’s on a video tape Ali sent them from Shanghai. She appears surprised, and to prove the point, they bring in the TV and borrow the neighbour’s VCD player. We watch the Shanghai restaurant’s party; the girl they thought to be Gen is not Gen, but they see all white people to look the same. I’m amazed how handsome Ali is – could pass for Antonio Bandera’s brother.
The tape and the music they play close the gap between us; dancing starts and Will gets asked by the men to join them. He typically dances only after 5 beers, and so today’s performance is special by many standards. We tell each other about the toilet ‘with a view. ‘Go!, it faces the vineyard’. It does, all right, as it also is a wooden structure on a hill with a full view of other people’s efforts.
The evening ends with the eldest women (Ali’s grandma) blessing us and leading a short muslim prayer. We are amazed, honoured and keep wondering how did Ali introduce Gen to his family, as the term ‘girlfriend’ does not exist here.
We get back at midnight and still make it for a massage, ending it at 2am, or at 12am Xinjiang time. I love whatever buys me time, and comfort.
Sunday. Sunday Market. This is why I came here.
The bargain hard, they insert fingers into the sheep’s vagina to determine its worth, they gesticulate and argue good-heartedly, over-dramatise each negotiation. Goods exchange hands swiftly. We start the day at the animal market where the trading practices have not changed for generations. It resembles a movie set from a medieval era. People appear rough, but are kind and very curious if given the chance to interact. They are very unmaterialistic people given the curiosity Sunday market creates around the world. They ignore us most of the time and go on about their trade. We wonder when the time will come when they learn to extort money, the way touristy places typically do.
The government has relocated the second part of the Sunday market to a ‘better location’, which is a permanent concrete building probably owned by the Chinese and rented out to the locals. It has lost its charm; the goods traded here are no different than those in Shanghai or Kowloon. Carpets sellers are sleek negotiators here, they don’t give in easily to Sabina’s bargaining charm and skills. I get a silk carpet; off-white, small and soft, feels like my cat Kimmy. Yifat is convinced that there must be another section, a real Sunday market which we have missed. We never find it. On the way back our taxi gets stopped by a Chinese policeman for supposedly doing something illegal. What would it be when the whole traffic is a mélange of donkey carts, stall pullers, cars, horses, motorcycles and cows. The racial tension is evident – the cop screams at our driver, drawing attention of 30 people who surround the car at once. We are in the middle of a traffic junction – that somehow does not worry the cop.
Monday Blues
We go though our own blues, spending 2 hours discussing how we will spend the next 8 days. There are many things to see and do and given our different interests and preferences for duress, it takes time to decide. I’m very easy going – I love the prospect of switching off, not organizing the way I usually do, letting others take charge and maybe responsibility. We finally agree on a plan, book cars, drivers, flights, hotels and lock in our imagination. It’s the German organizational skills with Israeli prudence (including financial) that bring things together (Will and Sabina are off German origin).
Sandstorms and hailstorms
They came together, in the space of 20 min from each other. We plan to stay overnite at the Karakul Lake. A romantic prospect of overnight stay at a yurt (Mongolian tent, round in shape, laid out with carpets, cushions, quilts and sometimes a fireplace in the middle). We hop on camels and go riding around the lake when the black clouds stretch over the horizon. The sandstorm starts soon after, the temperature drops to zero, the wind is unforgiving to our cameras and eyes. I spit out sand in spite of not having opened my mouth. Then the hail comes, probably the result of the sudden temperature drop. We escape to the only restaurant here, serving bland and boring Chinese food, with most things on the menus not available. Lousy food comes out 45min later, putting us all in a bad mood and the romantic idea of a night in a yurt dwindles away. Yifat and I have seen more dramatic landscapes, so the Karakul drive is filled with far less ‘wows’ per square mile for us. It’s pretty here but not amazing. We play word games on the way back and drink shots of my Polish vodka Zobrowka to cheer up.
Surfing the dunes
We head out to the dunes. This is the first time I see dunes, first time get to roll in them, attempt to surf them. We have beers wrapped in sleeping bags and we manage to keep them cold till we get there, which is a 5-hour ride from Kashgar. On the way, we stop by another a local market. Love the fact that people ignore us. We stock up on some dodgy tobacco, cigarette paper and smoke away. I break my promise taken in August 01.
I ate half a sheep
On day 4 I have a serious aversion to meat. We see fresh vegetables in the markets, but not in the restaurants. Getting a fresh salad is not easy. The local diet makes me develop eczema around my elbows, my body craving the nutrients it’s accustomed to. The local population lives on lamb, bread, yoghurt, wheat and egg noodles. I’m glad Brenda is not here, she would have suffered.
Married at 15
Will and I take out the bikes and cycle around Kashgar and beyond, exploring the local villages. We stop by a dilapidated mosque and a local grape farmer comes forth and very persuasively invites us to his house. His wife makes us tea and brings bread. They insist we must stay and eat dinner with them. I feel like we need to run before their give their lives away. They were married when she was 15, she’s now 33 but looks 40. He’s 34 and looks 45. It must be the harsh sun that carves out the wrinkles on their kind faces. Insisting that we must go back to meet our friends, she gives me her head scarf as a leaving present. Offering cash is an insult, so we stuff the money in their boy’s hand. I take many shots, sending them to this family will make the village talk.
Setting new benchmarks
Kashgar has set the lowest benchmark for a massage, wine and accommodation.
In spite of being assured that this is not a brothel, we walk into a room plastered with posters from big-booby-land and who-makes-out-like-this poses. It was already 1am Beijing time (and 11pm local time) when we got there, noticing that the place was getting ready for business. I surrender to whatever will come next and suffer the consequences. Worse massage ever, by a stupid and crude girl. This is why any massage session from now on will be a delightful experience.
The second benchmark is our accommodation – we got stuck for one night with little options but to take a mental hospital look-alike room in a basement of our hotel. Some of us developed asthma from the dust and fungal growth on the walls. It was a room to remember, and some funny photo shots of Will strapped in a ‘straitjacket’, and Yifat with a tag hanging off her foot like in a morgue. How else to reflect the moment?
Travelling with the Experts
My 5 friends all live in Shanghai, speak Mandarin at different levels, love China and the Chinese people, are curious and adventurous people. They do not ask the questions that every novice would; “why is it this way here?” “why can they not repair this and think like that?”. Applying our Western logic is useless and frustrating in China. Instead, we merge with the local environment and seize the moment. It works well for us. The locals love my friends who are bargain crazy, joke and tease them. I feel like a white barbarian, unable to connect the same way. Instead, I do my usual animation and it works to some extent.
What would I have done differently had I traveled alone? I would have done less of the car-sight-hotel travel and gotten away from civilization. I need to be taken away from my comfort zone to feel good, I need drastic changes to feel like I’m on a holiday, I need to push my mental and physical limits to feel good. You know, the usual Magda.
I’ve been a passenger on this trip, not the usual driver. Every girl needs to be taken on a Cadillac spin once in a while.
posted by Magdalena Wszelaki @ 6:44 PM
2 comments
